Trusting the Process
It's a nice idea, but how do we actually do it?
In the very first installment of this newsletter, I wrote about a character I call Balcony Jack. Though we’ve never met face-to-face, he’s become a neighborhood touchstone:
My desk is situated near a window with a view of a towering apartment building. It’s a blocky concrete monolith, a visual gift from the 1970s so solid no bird or aircraft could possibly miss it. Each unit is outfitted with a little balcony, maybe five paces wide. No one ever sets foot on them. Except for one.
Every afternoon, a figure appears on a high floor. He wears navy blue trunks a la Jack LaLanne, nothing else save for the occasional hat. Over the course of the following hour, he makes his way through a series of exercises — walking back and forth, followed by a chaser of arm lifts and crunches. He’s out there as I write this, on a sunny autumn day, but I can attest that he keeps to the same routine — and the same outfit — in the dead of winter.
In the months since, I’ve built a lore around him. Real life might say otherwise, but Balcony Jack is a steadfast character. He’s not after a six pack or a suntan or some misguided image of eternal youth. He shows up, day after day, because he’s committed to his practice. He’s after the process, not the results.
It’s a nice idea, trusting the process. One I wholly subscribe to, at least in theory. But in our achievement oriented, results-driven society, savoring the journey is no easy feat. We’re encouraged to jump to the next level, the next chapter, the next thing, like some bounding avatar in a video game. And if we fail? Remembering all the hard work and growth we encountered along the way can feel like cold comfort.
Even for the most steadfast among us, there comes a time when showing up is deeply unsexy. Some know this as the second act sag or the sophomore slump. Between the excitement of the beginning and the triumph of the ending we find… most of the story.
This is the part where you question the why. Where you ponder the difference between repetition as an act of faith or commitment and one of foolishness. The part where you cry, “This isn’t working!” and succumb to an ad that promises a quick solution. Where you romanticize another path, another way.
Like pretty much any person who’s embarked on a long-term project or spent years (or decades) in the same job, relationship, or routine, I sometimes wonder what the hell I’m doing. I become disenchanted, question everything, want to change direction. Quitting has its time and place (a lesson I wish I could give my younger self, who loved to overstay her tenure), but I’m talking about those times when you’re still invested, you’re enjoying the ride, but you can’t quite see where it’s headed. You want to keep going, but your only fuel is faith, not yet results.
There are dozens of quotes that say “stay the course,” in encouraging and forceful ways, but the advice stops there. “What if the course doesn’t lead anywhere?” I want to shout.
The only thing that ever works for me — even more than envisioning the end goal — is remembering why I started.
Somewhere along the way, Balcony Jack disappeared. I struggled to remember the last time I’d seen him — certainly months, possibly over a year. I feared something had happened. Perhaps he moved away. Perhaps he’d fallen ill. Or maybe he’d just given up on the process.
When life presents the inevitable dumpster fire, I pour the bouquet of my emotions into running. The biggest gift running has given me has nothing to do with physical fitness or mental health, though those are worthy aims — it’s unexpected lessons about life.
In my work and personal lives, I’ve sometimes had to repeat the same mistake an embarrassing number of times before I got the message and changed my approach. But when it comes to running, literally no one cares how I fare, and it has no effect on my finances nor future. Because the stakes are lower, I can view it more objectively and connect the dots faster.
Running has taught me that, much like my balcony pacing buddy, I actually enjoy the process (training for a race) more than the main event. Having a goal offers a sense of direction — but the striving is actually the fun part. Still, despite knowing this, I struggle to apply it elsewhere… particularly when it comes to writing.
I write because whenever I do it, I discover things I didn’t know before. I started a newsletter because I wanted a community, a place to consistently show up, week after week. But over 100 posts later, I’ll admit I sometimes become a bit distracted (okay, fine, consumed) with results. Metrics, engagement, retention, revenue, and all the other numbers I see when I log in with the intention of sharing my words with you.
If you have a Substack newsletter (and thus a recently changed homepage!) you likely know the feeling. And if you don’t, well, I’ll bet you still know the feeling.
Whenever I find myself drawn into some form of comparison, I remind myself that it’s easy to fixate on things we can quantify — the rubric for modern personhood that is likes and votes and accolades. It’s harder to measure the intangibles, like the impact we might have on another human being. But at the end of the day, isn’t that what matters?
Earlier this week, after a particularly trying day, I went to the window to get a glimpse of the sunset when something caught my eye. There he was, walking methodical laps across the length of the balcony. I watched, several blocks and many stories between us, as he performed a series of calisthenics and disappeared through the sliding glass door.
“Balcony Jack is back!” I called. The members of my household did not care. But it was the sign I needed.
He’s still there. Still pacing. Still rocking the navy-blue trunks.
Still showing up, day after day.
And so will I.
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.
Love — the word, the concept, the ideal — has been given the advertising treatment. It’s been marketed as adoration, affection, romance. It’s been twisted into aspiration. It’s been used to sell us everything from diamond rings to Hollywood stories to all manner of paraphernalia.
The Lovers, experts on the matter, find this all a bit curious. (If not downright sad.) It’s not that there’s anything wrong with romantic love, it’s that it only skims the surface. Much like condensing the physical, mental, and spiritual practices of yoga into “stretches,” without examining the larger history and philosophy. You can still reap the benefits. But oh, there is so much more.
Love, this card tells us, is a birthright. Whether we’re talking partnership, platonic, familial, or goodwill toward our fellow man, to love is among the most marvelous and mysterious facets of being human.
One of the greatest examinations I’ve encountered is in bell hooks’ All About Love, which demolished every previous notion I’d been handed. But for today’s purposes, let us focus on the most-quoted line:
"The word 'love' is most often defined as a noun, yet we would all love better if we used it as a verb.”
The Lovers use love as a verb. They love.
They love one another and themselves. They love the world around them. They love life, in all its tumult and surprise and uncertainty. They love other people — those they know, those they’ve never met, those they could never hope to understand.
The Lovers invite us to do the same — to create more love in our days, by releasing more love through our actions. For a handful of us, this might mean downloading a dating app or “putting ourselves out there,” but for the great many, it means trying on a new perspective.
One of the greatest travesties of the modern age is the idea that love is something we must seek — something we must work at, or worst of all, something we must earn. It would have us believe that love is a gift bestowed upon the lucky, a lofty ideal to strive for, fight over, and protect.
This week’s card respectfully points out that this is a crock of shit. Love is inherent within us, waiting to be made manifest.
Love is something we do.
Love can mean service.
Love can mean picking up the phone.
Love can mean offering someone the very thing you feel you are lacking — kindness, attention, a compliment, support.
Love can mean providing safety, comfort, becoming a harbor for someone who needs it.
Love can mean deciding you are whole, you are enough, you are more than worth betting on.
In the days ahead, this card invites us all to practice love in action.
Love as a noun makes for great ad copy. Love as a verb moves the world.
P.S. I was thrilled to be included in this roundup of career advice alongside lots of people I admire. (And to be quoted twice!) ❤️ If you’re interested, please give it a read!
P.P.S. If you’d like to hear me read this issue aloud, like a one woman show that I made just for you, the audio version is available here. 🎧
Well, we are grateful you show up week after week. I look forward to your newsletters every Sunday 😃 They entertain, inspire, console. In an age where people get "clicks" for catchy images or viral videos...words are a tough sell. The recipient has to do some work (i.e READ), but when we do, i think the reward is so much greater than a reel or a tik tok.
I was really into knitting about a decade ago, and there was often the question of "are you a process knitter, or a product knitter?" and I decided I was firmly product. I wanted the finished sweater/hat/tea cozy. But then, the more I did it, the more the product didn't matter, and I started to like the making more. Maybe this example doesn't hold up, since I haven't knitted anything in years. But I do think about it when I'm resisting going back in to a story or essay, because I know it's a mess still, and I wish it was just done already. Maybe the problem isn't that I'm a "product" writer now, but that I still haven't done it long enough to really truly trust and enjoy the process.