The Mess Behind the Screen

I am a hypocrite.

There’s been a lot of noise about the Andrew Huberman situation, a conversation I have zero interest in joining. But it got me thinking about the disconnect between public personas and private people — the mismatched creatures lurking on either side of the same screen.

After years spent working in various sectors of the media (at a talent agency, as a book editor, on staff at various publications, as a celebrity ghostwriter…) I have a hard time trusting what I read — not the words themselves, which are easy enough to take at face value, but the voices from whence they emanate. Many are the times I’ve met a beloved figure whose work I stanned only to discover the human behind the art was different than advertised.

In numerous cases, I’ve also observed an inverse relationship between one’s area of focus and their lived experience. If someone extolls the virtues of work-life balance, say, there is a decent chance they spend all their waking moments glued to their computer.

While I’d love to regale you with specific tales of shocking behavior, that would be very much beside the point. Because the point is this:

It is everyone.

The public-private disconnect isn’t limited to famous folks, or public personas, or even randos who grab the mic. The nature of sharing our lives online, in any way, is that one can only present a slice at a time. Even the most well-meaning, authentic tell-all can only cover so much.

The more I live, the more I am forced to conclude that the world is full of hypocrites. Do I count myself among them? Absolutely.

*

I’d like to think that if you spent a day with me, you wouldn’t encounter a wildly different person than the glimpses you see here. But while I try to present an honest account, I am human — with hang-ups and projections and not-entirely-objective views of my being. I asked my partner, Teddy, to weigh in on how reality might not match what you read. “Well, for one thing, people probably perceive that you sit down and the ideas flow and suddenly you’ve got an essay,” he said. “But I know the reality is very different.”

So, in an effort to be transparent (and also entertaining), today’s newsletter comes to you in collaboration with my spouse, who (bless him) witnesses my process every week.

Fictional Ideal
(How a Sunday Letter happens, in my dreams)

I’m out on a run when an idea drops, fully formed, from the ether. Never one to toy with a transient gift of the Muses, I jot it down in my Notes App. After a shower, I land at my desk, where my fingers tippy-tap the essay with relative ease. It takes an hour, maybe two. Once the draft is complete, I step away for a moment to sip a hot beverage and gaze wistfully out the window at an idyllic city scene. I return to the essay with fresh eyes, adjusting some words so the language flows and pops exactly as I wish. I schedule it to publish on Sunday evening, a time still in the future.

Reality
(How it really goes, 200 letters and counting)

It’s Sunday morning. This is the day I send my newsletter, but the newsletter does not yet exist.

This is not abnormal. It’s also not entirely fair. It does exist, sort of. I’ve been working on it for days, if not weeks. There are notes scribbled in a notebook. Other thoughts written on my phone. A Word document full of paragraphs that don’t yet connect in any meaningful way.

(Teddy adds, “You always start the day muttering, ‘I have nothing! I have nothing.’”)

I’m not yet sure what the point is — the thesis, the conclusion, the heart. This typically unfolds as I’m writing, which is annoying because I have to suspend my disbelief and keep going without a guarantee. It’s like driving with a GPS system that thinks it’s funny to withhold how much farther you have to go.

Teddy is in his office, working at the computer. I appear in the doorway.

“Okay. This is what I’m thinking.” I rattle off the gist of what I have so far. “That sounds interesting,” he says, half paying attention, which is just as well. This is only the first appearance. There will be many more.

The mug says “write.” LIKE IT’S EASY.

I’d like to tell you what transpires over the next, oh, I don’t know, ten hours or so, but it’s akin to falling down the rabbit hole. There is much typing, some copy-and-paste shifting of things. Pacing. Copious amounts of lip biting.

From Teddy’s vantage point, I walk by approximately seventeen to eighty times. Sometimes, my wandering appears to have a point — to procure a glass of water, to greet the dog. Other times, it seems I am lost in my own home.

Some frequent exclamations, delivered to no one in particular:
“I don’t like it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I scrapped the whole thing and started over.”  

May not look productive, but is, in fact, very productive.

“Okay,” I say, materializing in the doorway. “I’m going to share what I have. But it’s pretty sketchy and potentially weird.”

I begin to read out loud.

(“Then you edit it live and I can’t follow,” adds Teddy. “But I try to be encouraging, because it’s getting late and there is no time for a new essay. If I have mild panic, I keep it to myself. But I’ve seen this so many times that I know you’ll get it done.”)  

I retreat back to my writing cave and move the paragraphs around. It is somehow worse than before. I briefly question all my life choices up to this point.

Snack break.

Evening is approaching, yet the point of the essay remains elusive. I know it’s out there — I glimpsed it once, in the shower, but it slipped away before I could write it down.

On the street outside my window, a car alarm is blaring. Someone yells a curse. The dog plays with a stuffed radish, which jingles like a bell. Across the apartment, Teddy is learning to play the ukulele. (“That only happened once. Maybe twice.”) I cannot hear my own thoughts.

WHAT ARE WORDS, I think. WHAT ARE SENTENCES. WHAT DOES ANY OF IT MEAN.

Visit number thirty-two.

I appear, wild-eyed, laptop in hand. “I’ve lost perspective. None of this makes sense.”

Teddy blinks in my direction. “Should we start thinking about what to eat for dinner?” he asks, his tone like a placid sea. HAS HE NO SENSE OF URGENCY? Dinner means evening and evening means newsletter and this is the final stretch in which I may or may not make that a reality. I retreat back to my desk, reading through the draft for the millionth time.

And then it comes to me. The point, the heart, the sentence-that-binds. It was in there after all, hiding between the lines. I give it one final pass before deciding it’s ready to go.

(“What? No.” Teddy disagrees. “You skipped the entire proofreading stage, where you say it’s done and I read it, but you continue to edit while I’m reading. Then you go back to your desk and add even more stuff and press send. And then you say, ‘I hope there aren’t any typos!’” This is accurate.)

Before I publish, I cycle through the same series of questions. Is it relevant? Does it make sense? Do you think it will resonate? Is it worth sending?…Are you sure?

The post goes live when I press send. I’ve never scheduled a letter beforehand, and if the last few years are any indication, it’s possible that I never will. But tomorrow is a new day.

(“You didn’t even talk about the picture of the card!” Teddy says, which I did not mention because it seemed like such a non-issue. “Every week it’s the same. You take the photo, you show it to me, and you say, ‘Does it look okay to you? Does this part look weird? Does this look crooked? Is this crop okay?’ Sometimes I think I can’t see what you see, because it always looks fine to me.”)

And there you have it. The very chill process of a person who spends a great deal of time writing about mindfulness, intuition, and not caring what other people think.

*

It is 4pm on Sunday and I find myself grappling with The Point.

What’s the reason behind this, besides hopefully bringing a bit of truth and levity to your day?

I think back on the days I tried to write something uplifting because I was struggling behind the scenes. Or the times I tried to be upbeat and enthusiastic at work while my troubled mind was tangled up someplace else. I reflect on how, even if we never venture into the public eye, society often demands a performance.

There is value in showing up honestly, so others may know they are not alone and feel empowered to do the same. And there is value in offering each other grace, with the knowledge that behind the screen, behind the mask, behind the scenes, we’re all grown children fumbling and stumbling and doing the best we can.

We contain multitudes. But some cannot be seen.

---

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.

The Lioness Oracle Tarot by Alejandra Luisa León

There are those moments that divide everything into Before and After. A meeting. A phone call. An acceptance. A rejection. A triumph. A diagnosis. A loss.

Why does it often take a big event to shift our perspectives? To illuminate what we have — and what we’ve taken for granted? To shed light on what matters and how we wish to spend our days?

Never one to shy away from big feelings, Judgment poses these questions — today and every day. It wants to know what matters to you, for the simple reason that it wants to make sure you know it, too.

This card carries the message that every day is its own judgment day — in that each day you wake up is a chance to greet yourself anew. Despite its name, this card has no interest in being judgmental. In fact, it’s far more invested in forgiveness.

Can you forgive yourself for whatever you’ve been holding onto? Can you acknowledge the ways you judge yourself, and soften your focus?

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

This card often features angelic beings sounding a trumpet, blaring a divine message for the souls on Earth. Indeed, there is a message for all of us, but you needn’t wait for anyone to trumpet it. The words are already inside you, wanting to be known.

When I gave a reading for

Alex Dobrenko`

, he related this card to standup comedy, in which the angel is performing for an audience, looking for validation, a hilarious and apt interpretation I will never unsee. It hits on one of the universal truths behind this card: We are both the judge and the judged.

Judgment reminds us that we don’t need to be perfect. We don’t need to be exceptional, or celebrated, or even understood. Can we accept (the inevitable) mistakes when they happen? Can we be proud of the efforts we’ve made?

Today’s card asks us two questions.

The first is: What do we need to hear? Is it some permission? A word of encouragement? Might we offer it to ourselves?

The second is: What do we need to say? What truth, what goodness, what anger, what beauty, what joy? What is the message we have to share?

Stop and take a look around — at the space you’re in, the shape of your life, the way you feel. What are you proud of? What do you wish to cultivate? What would you miss if it were to disappear?

Judgment calls us to live with purpose, funneling our life force toward what we hold dear. You are not beholden to your story. You are not beholden to your past.

What do we release? What do we accept? What do we forgive?

The road is unfurling before you. Where would you like to go?