I Am a Safe Burrito.

And other thoughts on mental health.

I want to talk about mental health.

I don’t just mean here, today, in this newsletter. I mean in general. Across the board. All the time.

Over the last two years, every human being has been through nothing less than a global crisis. Anxiety, depression, and exhaustion have risen exponentially. Every other meme is about some form of burnout. Friends complain they can’t see a therapist because all of them are fully booked. And yet, we keep on going. Showing up as best we can.

Mental health — our emotional, psychological, and social well-being — is a part of everyday life, inextricable from the state of being human. But for something that permeates every part of our existence, it’s rarely addressed until it becomes an issue. In the United States, our approach is neither holistic nor inclusive — treatment is often expensive, rarely covered by insurance, hard to find, and difficult to access.

Mental healthcare is a privilege, but having a mind is universal.

The pandemic brought all sorts of challenges to the forefront, and my experience was no different. Life consisted of shuffling from bed to desk, from little screen to big screen and back again. As any semblance of balance went out the window, so did my curated array of coping mechanisms.

When I wasn’t working, I often resorted to a practice I call “safe burrito,” where I roll myself into a blanket on the living room floor, close my eyes, and imagine I exist inside a void where nothing can harm me.

Eventually, my boyfriend would wander by and discover me there.

“Are you… asleep?”

“No, I’m a safe burrito.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone about that.”

We had some version of this conversation at least a dozen times before I finally did.

Like this, but me.

“So, what brings you to therapy?”

“I’ve been a bit… blue.” A very long pause. “It feels like my entire life was swallowed by the ground. I don’t recognize any part of it anymore. And I don’t really want to participate. And I don’t know where that leaves me.”

This was not my first time at the therapy rodeo. But the prospect still felt daunting, especially when I imagined it unfolding entirely over a screen.

As the clouds eventually lifted, I was surprised to discover that the landscape they’d been obscuring looked different than I remembered.

Becoming an active, meaningful participant in my mental health has helped shape my present, which in turn shapes the future. But what I didn’t expect was the way it’s also shaped my past. I’ve uncovered patterns and tendencies (and made some surprising discoveries — stories for another day), which offered a new framework for old struggles.

The more I live, the more it feels like keeping up with your mental health is akin to meeting yourself over and over. Sometimes, you may find you don’t have much to catch up on. Other times, you may barely recognize this person you thought you knew so well. It’s the process of asking, “How are you today?” and listening for the answer, without judgment, as you would for a friend.

We all have our own ways of processing the world, our own methods of engaging as we move through time and space. I’ve often wished I could experience what it was like to slip inside someone else’s existence for a day, to see the world as they do, feel the shape of their thoughts. But short of that, how could anyone ever speak to the scenery inside someone else’s mind?

With all due respect to modern psychology, it is an imperfect science. We do our best to describe, encapsulate, name, diagnose, categorize, and treat a person’s internal experience, something another being could never hope to fully understand. None of it is one-size-fits-all, and determining what works for you is a process of trial and error.

As with all things, our words matter. There is a vast difference between saying “I am anxious” vs. “I feel anxious.” Or “I am depressed” vs. “I have depression.” Not only in terms of meaning, but in how it feels.

This is the sky. And so are you.

Whenever I hit a snag (or approach a full-on meltdown) I always think of these words from Pema Chödron: “You are the sky. Everything else is just the weather.”

We all exist inside our own personal ecosystems. We may have patterns — storm fronts or climates unique to our landscapes — but they do not define us.

The umbrella of mental health doesn’t just encompass therapy, medication, mindfulness, or self-care.

It’s doom scrolling. It’s the Oscars. It’s the small surge of panic you feel before you glance at your inbox. It’s the abysmal support this country offers to parents and caregivers, and the far-reaching effects it has on families’ well-being.

It’s the morning coffee ritual. The hug held for longer than five seconds. Your favorite show at the end of a long day. The text from a friend who understands.

It is everything we see and breathe and feel. So why aren’t we talking about this, a whole lot more, and louder?

As I was in the process of writing this, I stumbled across these eerily fitting words (I love when that happens), from the updated edition of Full Catastrophe Living, by Jon Kabat-Zinn:

“We all accept that no one controls the weather. Good sailors learn to read it carefully and respect its power. They will avoid storms if possible, but when caught in one, they know when to take down the sails, batten down the hatches, drop anchor, and ride things out, controlling what is controllable and letting go of the rest.”

And so, I approach each day like a trained meteorologist. Knowing I can observe the weather, respect it, do everything in my power to accommodate it. But it is not my job to control it. Nor is it my obligation to face it alone.

It’s been a stormy season, but I can see a glimpse of spring.

As for today, I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m hopeful. I’m pensive.

I’m well, all things considered.

How are you?

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Smith-Waite Centennial Tarot (left) and Best Tarot Deck (right)

Technically, the cards above show the same scene. On the left, we have an iconic image as painted by artist Pamela Colman Smith. On the right, we have a reproduction from Best Tarot, a deck that never fails to make me smile.

In order to bring this project to life, creator Mike Costaney had 40 people — a mix of professional artists, amateur doodlers, and people that hadn’t drawn since grade school — study a tarot card for one minute. Afterward, they were given a marker and a sheet of paper and asked to reproduce it from memory.

The results range from hilarious to impressive to slightly confounding — the tarot as seen through the fascinating filter of human memory.

If your brain can have a revisionist field day recalling the details of a tarot card, just imagine what it can do with past events.

The Six of Cups is often regarded as a card of nostalgia. It speaks to the times we conjure fond memories, particularly those that inspire feelings of warmth, gratitude, and comfort.

Anaïs Nin wrote, “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” We all see, hear, smell, touch, taste — and interpret — the world differently. This is as true for past events as it is for current ones.

The mind has an incredible ability to retain, edit, and embellish. While distance can grant us perspective, it may also obscure our recollections. No matter how crystal clear a remembrance may seem, psychology guarantees that the past did not look the way you think.

The other day, I came across an old photo and immediately became lost in a former time. I missed my old apartment and everything that came along with it. The friends who lived nearby, all of whom have since left the city. The local haunts, many of which have closed. The life we shared before COVID, filled with everyday moments we easily took for granted.

Of course, my memories didn’t reflect the full scope of reality. My snapshots of that apartment did not feature the perpetually screaming radiator, nor the screaming neighbors. They didn’t include the lonely nights or the bank account that frequently crept close to empty.

The Six of Cups understands that sometimes, our memory casts the past in a rosy glow. When we reminisce about the good times, we can get stuck on how life felt easier, safer, shinier, more exciting. We don’t often remember the less-than-desirable parts, the things we longed for, the information we didn’t yet have.

One of the messages of this card is that while we can look to the past for many things — lessons, nostalgia, joy, inspiration — we must avoid living inside of it.

Sometimes, it’s only natural to wish that time moved backward. To long to return to other, simpler, more pleasant days. But life can only move forward. (Or at least, the way we experience it does.)

The Six of Cups believes in the process. It reminds us that progress comes with time, even when it isn’t linear or simple. Nature has its course, moving through growth and renewal with each passing season, and we are no different.

If ever we become fixated on the rear view mirror, this card provides a gentle reminder that the most compelling outlook is always what’s ahead. Every moment is a memory in the making, and this chapter is no different. The best we can offer it is our presence.

The Six of Cups urges us forward, promising that our best memories will always be a part of us. But for now, there is more to try, more to know, more to experience. Trust in the good that is yet to come.

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