Moving to Napa

On taking breaks.

Like any good menace, it arrived in the middle of the night. A pins-and-needles sensation, like when your foot falls asleep, but angrier. It started in my shoulder, sparks shooting down my right arm, sending angry little currents to my fingertips. I wiggled my fingers. Made a fist and released. Waited for the feeling to pass. It didn’t.

When I reached for my phone the next morning, it slipped out of my grasp. The tingling had left, but so had all feeling.

“Huh,” said my doctor, a syllable devoid of confidence and reassurance.  

The imaging was unremarkable. It wasn’t any of the usual suspects. He was baffled. Me? Not so much.

For months, I’d felt like I needed to rest, the tension overtaking my brain, my back, my spirit. I’d ignored it because there were deadlines—and expectations—to meet. Now, my dominant hand was on strike. A break was not optional but mandatory. It was frightening and inconvenient.

It was also a relief.

It took a few weeks (and a whole-box-of-spaghetti-thrown-at-the-wall’s worth of various remedies), but the feeling gradually returned. What helped the most? Not sitting hunched like a prawn over my laptop for hours on end, breaking only to pee. Daily walks. Permission to inhabit my creaturehood. Remembering I am not a machine like the subject of some Daft Punk song, but a person, woven with fallibility and softness.

It’s been two years since then. Two years of being discerning. Two years of reduced income but greater well-being. Two years of employing that delicious syllable—no.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t go back. But—you know where this is going!—old habits die hard. Last week, I felt the faint hint of numbness returning. Like repeating the steps from an emergency drill, I stepped away from the laptop and went for a walk.

It’s no coincidence that this newsletter is also (almost) two years old, as it was partially an antidote to the years that came before it: a place to exercise my voice, write whatever moved me, create without needing to jump through the hoops of crafting pitches or chasing payments.

For the most part, this has been wonderful. I love this space and wouldn’t trade it! But in committing to writing this newsletter, I created another, largely unpaid job for myself, something that comes with consequences I like to ignore. 

I tell myself, “I’ll rest when…” and fill in the second half of the sentence with some subjective goalpost. When I reach a certain number. When it’s “working,” whatever that means. When I can afford to. When the moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligns with Mars.

The result is that it’s been almost two years since I’ve taken a weekend. I say this not as a humblebrag about my ironclad work ethic (ha), but as the admission that I am my worst boss. I deeply value rest and space and balance, but I suck at prioritizing these things for myself.

I had last Sunday’s newsletter all planned out—I’d outlined a topic, chosen and photographed the card. But my nervous system had other plans. It didn’t want to be profound or reflective. It didn’t even want to string together coherent sentences or format a letter to put them in. It wanted to eat stuff, stare at things, and not type. So that’s what I did.

A few of you emailed to see if I was okay. (Thank you again!) A couple friends texted to check that their letter hadn’t gotten lost or eaten by a spam filter. But a funny thing happened. Not only was no one annoyed, a few offered congratulations, words of commiseration, or support.

“Honestly, that makes me feel better.”  
“Good for you! I fully support taking breaks.”
“I feel like this is giving me permission to rest.”

As it appears many of us are looking for permission to stop, breathe, rest, idle, say no, go slow, savor, manage, enjoy, or appreciate—please consider this your permission slip to take care of yourself, whatever shape that may take for the season you currently inhabit.

It has also recently come to my attention, in the way of obvious things that become profound when they land at just the right moment, that taking a “break” but spending it stressing about what you’re not doing does not count as rest.

As I was throwing my hands up in the air, one friend reminded me that even though things may feel stressful and insurmountable in the moment, it’s ultimately about the long game. Taking a rest does not derail the whole train. It doesn’t negate everything you’ve already done. It’s not just about the balls in the air at this exact moment, but about the fact that you’ve juggled—and will continue to juggle—for years. Sometimes, it might be time to quit. Other times, you might just need a vacation.

Then she quoted that line from Sex and the City, delivered by Carrie to Big over a box of pizza: “If you’re tired, you take a Nap-a, you don’t move to Napa.”

“I’ll make that the title,” I joked. And then I did.

As this weekend is the Labor Day holiday, there will be no regular newsletter on Sunday, September 3rd. However, paid subscribers will still receive the weekly card reading along with the midweek letter.  

If you’re in the mood for something to read, may I suggest some favorites:

on feeling stuck
on doing hard things
on living with robots
on the places that save us

As a reminder, paid subscribers have access to the full archives with over 100 issues (along with my extreme gratitude). So please feel free to browse whenever you wish.