I Am Not My Bio

And neither are you.

One night when I was twenty-four years old, I made a discovery that would change my life.

I was mourning the end of a relationship—more specifically, the news that my ex already had another girlfriend—and decided to embrace my insomnia by baking brownies.

It was well past midnight. The batter was mixed, the pan was greased, but I’d forgotten to preheat the oven. As I turned the (ancient, temperamental) knob, it broke off in my hand. I stood there, blinking, as the stove clicked on, unleashing a fiery belch. It was heating alright, but now I could not turn it off.

I had no choice but to call the super, a perpetually unamused fellow named Glen, who arrived a few minutes later, face bleary with sleep. He took a long look around—at me in my chocolate-splattered sweats, at the ingredients strewn all over the counter—and landed halfway between laughter and pity.

“I’ll have to turn off the gas,” he mumbled. “Someone will come take a look in the morning.” Then he left me alone with my batter.

That was the night I discovered blogs.

This may not seem like a big deal. Who hasn’t seen a blog before? Some writing, some photos, a nice way to pass the time. But on this night some fifteen years ago, in a not-quite-kitchen in Lower Manhattan, a search for how to store brownie batter led to a rabbit hole that would alter the course of my life.

At the time, I lived in a tiny studio with a lofted bed—a mattress on a platform accessible via ladder. It had just enough clearance that I could run my fingertips along the ceiling from a supine position. I spent countless hours up there, poring over the pages of Domino magazine, imagining my future life. But whenever I closed my eyes, specificity evaded me.

Blogs—Cup of Jo, Orangette, SFGirlByBay­—gave me something resembling hope. Part aspirational, part confessional, they afforded glimpses of lives that didn’t resemble mine, yet felt curiously familiar. They offered something that felt like friendship, a mix of encouragement and commiseration. Their voices kept me company, forming a chorus with my own.

I always liked writing. But up until that point, I had only ever written term papers or fiction—stories confined to notebooks and Word docs, never to be shared with anyone. Now I’d discovered a new way of writing that was unlike anything I’d encountered. Sure, Nora Ephron wrote personal essays, but not online, in real time. This was a revelation.

Life was one big unanswered question, and I hungrily searched not just for answers, but for the people who seemed like they’d found them. As I did, a new dream began to take shape: Maybe I could be one of them, too.

The biggest thing I stumbled across that night was a glimpse of the future. (For my career, but also our culture.) Bloggers were precursors to what would eventually be expected of all of us—a public facing persona.

I frequently marvel at how often I am required to provide a self-summary.

Instagram bios. Dating profiles. LinkedIn. Professional bios on resumes and company websites. Taglines on a newsletter.

Even if it’s composed entirely of emojis—a message in itself—we’re encapsulating some facet of our personality, our communication style, our (forgive me for typing this) personal brand.

The world wants us to be “figured out.” Easily summarized in a tiny square. But there is only so much we can fit. What do we include? What do we prioritize? What gets left on the cutting room floor?

It’s me. But also not.

Some of my least favorite words are, “What do you do?” Whenever I’m asked this, I freeze.

I can finally report, “I’m a writer,” without feeling the need to bookend it between air quotes. But I haven’t mastered what comes next.

“What do you write?” This is the part where I mumble and fumble.

I write this newsletter. I’m currently working on a novel. I’ll sometimes write about beauty, fashion, home, and relationships for lifestyle sites. I’ve penned more personal essays than I can count. I’ve authored three middle-grade novels. I’ve ghostwritten several memoirs. I also freelance edit! I read tarot! I spin plates! And I really need to sharpen my elevator pitch.

Specificity is good, they tell us, especially when it comes to branding. See also: The Spice Girls. The Care Bears. The X-Men. We know exactly what everyone’s deal is. There is little room for doubt.

But these are characters—personas, not people. And once they leave the stage (or step away from the blog) they’re different, too.

I’ve often wondered if I’d be more successful had I fit myself into a tidy package. Where might I be if I’d picked a lane and stayed there, foot pressed steadily on the gas? Would I have an easier time answering that dreaded question? Would the answer feel more or less true?

But I like driving all over the place, forever a fan of the scenic route. In the rearview mirror, my career looks like someone who kept cutting bangs over and over. Was it a crisis, an attempt at reinvention, a lack of self-knowledge? Or perhaps just a poor short-term memory that fails to recall how those in-between growth periods can really suck.

Whenever I can, I like to ask people why they do what they do. (When someone is administering a needle, or trimming my hair, or making a latte, you can be sure I am inquiring after their path. I’ll even, with some degree of difficulty, broach this topic with my dental hygienist.) How did they find their way? Of course, each story is as varied as can be, with its own depth and dilemmas and triumph. A bio could never do it justice.

“Name: Highway 212. Age: 97. About me: Paved. Seen my fair share of ups and downs. Dislikes trucks. Friend to travelers and trees.”

I couldn’t have predicted it that night, but five years and as many jobs later, I went to work for my favorite blog. In the decade since, I have become a person who both enjoys and struggles with our culture’s obsession with sharing.

Would my life be different if the oven hadn’t broken and I’d made my brownies and gone to sleep? It’s possible I would’ve stumbled onto the same sites, the same realizations at another time, in another mood. But would it have made as big of an impression? Would I have subconsciously steered my life in another direction? The answer is fiction.

But I can attest to what I know to be true: Those with public-facing personas are not the characters they portray. There is always more outside the frame, more beneath the surface.

The world will ask us to pitch ourselves, over and over, in various ways, whether we’re looking to do so or not. Sometimes, it may feel apt. Often, it may feel lacking. But at the end of the day, we’re all people—human shaped and evading definition. And that’s more than okay.

There is an exercise that asks us to reframe our personal dilemmas as though we were advising a beloved child. What would you tell them if they were in your position? How would you frame it for their young eyes?

It’s incredible how the advice changes when we are no longer pointing it at ourselves—how empathetic it becomes, how expansive, how kind.

If a child came to me concerned because her life didn’t fit squarely within the lines, or because her timeline felt off, or because she had a hard time encapsulating her existence, or because her bio didn’t sound as neat or impressive as her peers, I would gently lead her back to the truth.

I would remind her of all the things she is, and all she can still be. All she can experience. All she has to share.

I’d tell her it’s fine not to be a Carrie or a Miranda or a Ross or a Chandler (or whoever else is on the quiz) because they aren’t real people.

I’d tell her nuance is real and it’s okay to have your own take on things, and also to change your mind.

I’d tell her that certainty is sometimes a myth, like all the other legends of adulthood. If you know what you want and you go for it, great. But there is also much to be learned from the dabblers, the searchers, the wanderers. The slow burners who, after years or decades, still hope to become an overnight success.

Above all, I’d tell her this: Don’t box yourself in. You are so much more than your bio. You are more than the info. you choose to share. The Earth cannot be seen from a single vantage point, cannot be captured by a single image. And neither can 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 Fountain Tarot, with art by Jonathan Saiz, book by Jason Gruhl, and design by Andi Todaro

My friend recently sent me a video of her baby in the bath. I have never seen anyone so excited about anything. She ran her hands through the water, over and over, kicking and screeching in pure delight.

The Six of Cups wants you to feel that way, too. I know. It’s a tall order in a world full of reasons not to.

It’s likely been years, potentially decades, since you stopped to consider the magic of water. Or the wonder inherent in the vastness of the sky or the shape of a tree or the smell of grass…or any of the thousands of miracles we encounter in a day. (This screen, for starters.) But water is pretty cool if you think about it.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

The Six of Cups calls for recess—whatever that means in your adult life. It asks us to embrace play, and to make that a priority in our week, the same way we might with work. It’s time to consider what brings us happiness, excitement, a sense of flow. What brings us back to ourselves?

This card wants to know: Where did you once find joy? Where can you find it again? It could be some form of movement or an intramural sport. It could be art or baking or a craft. It could be coloring books or puzzles or board games. (The Six of Cups is a very big fan of wholesome activities.) It doesn’t matter where you seek play, all that matters is that you do.

There is a fair amount of nostalgia inherent in this card, but it is less about remembrance or regression and more about a return to self.

Who are you, in your purest form? What parts of yourself have you let fall away because they weren’t accepted, recognized, or celebrated? What do you wish to reclaim?

The Six of Cups knows there will be times when we feel depleted, exhausted, and uninspired. (Perhaps that is the case right now.) It knows there will be moments when stress and responsibilities feel all-encompassing, and wonder is all but dormant. But we are not powerless.

Buy a box of crayons if you have to—it’s time to reclaim your sense of novelty, innovation, and fun. Create whatever your heart desires. Color outside the lines. The world will still be there, in all its reality, whenever you’re through. And you will be all the better for it.