New England makes you work for summer, but it is truly glorious here. People come here to summer. My husband and I usually plan a trip away with our children somewhere fun in the world we’ve never been. But this year, it just didn’t happen. It’s not that we had plans, or that we don’t want to go anywhere or that we are scared about the world; it just didn’t happen. There was no energy behind it.
This summer hasn’t been the most energetic in general. The house needs a lot of maintenance and upkeep. The driveway got destroyed this winter and had to be partially rebuilt. Holes emerged. Asphalt crumbled. I tried not to see it as a sign of my own decline as I inch closer to fifty. My hip pain turns out to be arthritis and there I nothing sexy about that.
The bears came early and often. For the first time in four years of living in this house, the bears got so aggressive they ripped the trash shed apart over and over, until we had to buy a new one. The trash was spilled out into the woods. The bears came daily for a while. One afternoon I sat in the kitchen working when my dogs went crazy and I looked up to see a black bear in the window. He turned away with a sheepish expression, like he was actually a man in the bear suit embarrassed by his costume.
Because I’m a Pisces and wannabe witch, of course I went to my Animal Medicine book. Black bear medicine is about introspection, solitude, self-protection, and standing one’s ground. Their hibernation signals a turn inward, to heal and reflect. Bear energy also contains the female receptive energy of mystics and visionaries. The Bear symbolizes intuition, the need to go in and seek answers.
When this bear business began, I was in a class with my writing teacher Molly, trying to rally some enthusiasm for the digital onslaught of social media I will have to embrace to market my novel.
But the truth is, I don’t want to market myself. My body literally recoils from putting myself online, though I spend too much time on Instagram as it is. Molly gently suggested I take ninety day social media detox, and the relief I felt at this suggestion brought tears to my eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of that? (Also, I heard this podcast which freed me of the pressure to become an influencer. Thank God & sonny Jesus!)
I went off socials in early June, except for two very small Instagram moments. (Full disclosure!). I went inward. I practiced meditation more frequently. I journaled and worked on my edits. I had a lot more time and space in my day.
The world is brighter without Instagram and Twitter. I had literally no idea what was happening unless it was on the Apple News App (Boy, I had forgotten how much the mainstream media SUCKS). I had no idea how chained I’d been to Instagram, which I already knew was essentially a women’s magazine, the kind I gave up reading a dozen years ago. Everything is being sold and everyone is selling; a course, a supplement, an idea, a book, a skin cream. A lifestyle brand. People are now brands.
Just by deleting the app, I freed myself from endless comparisons, the author branding bullshit and marketing posts, the workouts I am not doing, the endless food content and wellness trends. From focusing on my non-existent brand. I just want to write and be in community. I want to send thoughtful words and stories into the universe.
I realized how trapped I’d become. I hesitate to use the word addict, though I did buy this device earlier this year which was a godsend when I had a deadline. But wiping Instagram and Twitter off my phone illustrated how I numbed myself. Yes, time was wasted, but more than that– my experience of myself was hijacked. I remember a friend of mine who stopped drinking heavily, got sober, and bam! He was hospitalized with major depression. I’m not in a major depression, but certainly in the midst of a perimenopausal shift, a life moment. Things are changing in me, and in the world, and instead of ignoring or fighting it, I’m making space for it. Bear energy, bitches!
I no longer made myself available for images of rock hard abs, ads for peptides, AI slop, and the newest face serum. What did I actually miss about this? Being constantly told I am either: haggard and suffering, or beautiful and perfect and using modern tools means I’m undercutting my body and a tool of Big Pharma? For God’s sake, is there a yes/and in there somewhere? Any nuance? Of course not. Nuance doesn’t generate clicks.
And yet, I still hesitate to say Instagram (or Twitter, or even yes, Substack!) is evil or bad. I have met some phenomenal people (like my coach and friend Tara!) through Instagram. It’s really not the thing itself, but my relationship to the thing.
How we are with one thing is how we are with everything. So yes, I tend to lose myself, give over to whatever version of happy people are telling me to adopt. Whatever version of ideal fits the bill is where you will find me. I am constantly chasing better, happier, the answer. I’m a true romantic and I love drama.
I like to leave myself. I want approval. I want to have people love me and tell me I’m a good person. Mostly I want to see myself and my life as good and right and sometimes flawlessly imperfect. Then I won’t be hurt, abandoned, accountable or implicated. But neither will I be really living in my own skin.
Of course this is a trauma pattern for me. My inner abandoned little girl is always peeking out from behind the curtain, seeking out places of danger, disconnection, rejection and abandonment. If I am not careful, this is what I find, but only always.
But what she’s actually looking for is approval, safety and love anywhere she can. (And where it usually can’t ever be found.)
So I do what’s necessary to heal this. To give her unconditional love over and over. To give my body what it needs and wants. To trust myself. I do the work.
Social media is addictive for me because I post things that make me feel perfect, good enough, loved. The curated stuff I post isn’t necessarily bullshit, but it is me curating me and that’s no good for anyone. And let’s be honest—most of what people post isn’t for others, it’s for ourselves. It’s a way of presenting ourselves to the world in a way that pleases us.
The other thing I learned over the summer is that I really don’t care anymore what other people do or don’t do, or eat or don’t eat. You do you. Is there anything more boring than what someone eats in a day?
My dear friend Nina and I went on a walk the other day. We lamented the dearth of interesting content online and how boring it’s all become, especially the food talk. (Perhaps the use of GLP-1s has people less interested in food in general?)
She told me, “If I want to know about interesting things in the world, I look at paintings, art, books, music or theater. Not influencers.”
She’s right. (I also wish theater was better but that is a different Substack.)
Here is what I’ve been up to since being off socials:
Reading this book. Madly in love with this content and it’s sending me down a rabbit hole! I’m reading her second book. As a confirmed Episcoplian who grew up in cold, stone, boring churches, who loves The WOO, I am HUNGRY for this content right now. Mary Magdalene for me feels like a giant piece of a spiritual puzzle I didn’t even know I was missing.
Perhaps I’m into MM because I’m perimenopausal? Speaking of which, being off IG allowed me to tune into my body for real. I took off my Oura Ring (do I really need a device to tell me I slept badly or am tired? REALLY?). I stopped weighing myself, tracking protein, tracking carbs and fats. I even stopped getting my steps in. I started doing the things that I know my body loves and that brings me pleasure.
I’m finally ready to listen and love my body fully–-not conditionally. Not if I just lose ten more pounds or have thinner thighs or thicker hair. I’m no longer obsessed with health and wellness in a way that just serves to control my body, to steal pleasure and purpose and joy. I write I love you in my journal every morning. (Literally I write: Good morning. I love you! Go ahead and try it.)
The internet is full of menopause experts and coaches now. Some of them are even helpful. I like understanding this shift—menopause means our bodies’ wisdom is no longer bleeding out from us, but held inside, and that we are the source of our own wisdom now. We are nourished from within. This is Mama Bear energy. But these so-called experts don’t know shit about my body. I do.
I love Robyn’s Substack. I worked with her wayyyyyy back in the day when I was a burgeoning health and wellness coach and I love her pivot, her candor, and her vibe.
I am eating whatever I want, that I know my body wants. This includes a lot of meat, eggs, fish, skyr, and golden kiwis (how did I not know these existed before now?). And lots of farmer’s market tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, and my fresh garden basil. I am not measuring, macro-ing, stressing or restricting. I’m not worried about glyophosate or tannins or heavy metals. Yes, this is possible. Especially if you get off Instagram and its constant food porn, fear mongering, and meal plans. GOD IT FEELS GOOD TO JUST LISTEN.
I got so sick of incessant wellness podcasts, this podcast is my new guilty pleasure. I don’t always agree with Maureen, but man, I love indulging in celebrity and mainstream media bashing. Guilty as charged! Call me a troublemaker! When you see behind the curtain of bullshit, it’s when life gets good. (A Substack on this forthcoming.)
This is my favorite water bottle of all time. It’s light and not annoying and goes in the car cup holder which is where I spend a lot of time.
Speaking of time in the car, I have returned to hot yoga, which is thirty minutes away and worth it. I used to do hot yoga back in 2019-2020 until the world shut down and it was a lifeline then and it’s a lifeline now. It’s the thing I’m always resisting doing, and therefore probably the thing I need to do the most.
I love Claude AI and I am on the fence about consulting it, but also I really think it’s fascinating and cool and weird and scary. YES/AND. All of the above. What a time to be alive.
There were a few crazy days of wildfire smoke from Canada. I was very very glad I have this air purifier!
I’m getting back into Ziva Meditations, which I loved way back in the day and fell off of. I’m back and it’s wonderful. Who knew a mantra was so helpful? (Hahaha. Only millions.)
So that’s it. I’m rediscovering my own brain, my own creativity, my own nourishment. I’m feeling all the feels and sleeping and playing tennis and writing. My kids are the best humans I can imagine. My husband makes me laugh every day and keeps me grounded and challenges me. My body shows up for me with all its trillions of cells working for me day and night, wishing for my success. So how can I waste it?
Until next time,
Lilah
PS. My debut novel Rich Soil is arriving Feb. 9th. Subscribe to stay informed!
PPS. I’m now back on IG (UGH), but with caveats and a sense of humor. Find me @lilah.wise.writes.