If you’re reading this on December 1, today is my 40th birthday. I’ve had numerous feelings about this birthday. I’ve cried many tears about it because I’m not at all where I thought I’d be at this age. I don’t have anything society told me I “should” have at 40 as a cis-het woman: I’m single, childless, and don’t own a home.
When I mentioned this to my sister, she said, “Yeah but those are normie milestones,” which put things into perspective because when have I ever been normal? (The answer: never.) I may not have the things society told me I “should” have, but there are other milestones that I’m proud of. I’ve been in recovery from an eating disorder for 15 years. It’s been so long that in the novel I’m writing about a bulimic, I completely forgot the main character would say mean things about her body on a daily basis. I’m so removed from that version of myself it literally didn’t occur to me that my character’s inner dialogue would be fatphobic and berating.
Speaking of writing, I’ve written three books – a memoir, a romantic comedy, and the current heroine’s journey novel about belonging and recovery from an eating disorder. When I wrote the romantic comedy, I said over and over again, “I don’t think I can write 50,000 words” because I never had. And I used to joke around that I couldn’t write fiction to save my life. Here I am with two novels under my belt.
Another milestone: My business, rebekahmoan.com, isn’t a part of the statistic about most businesses failing within the first five years. It’s been five years and it’s still going strong. It doesn’t look the way it did when I started but that to me shows I’m adaptable. I can change. Related, it’s harder to measure but I have done so much healing work. I’ve learned to soothe my inner child, be my own secure loving parent, feel my feelings, set boundaries, and communicate my needs. Years ago, I was an anxious, people-pleasing, scaredy cat terrified of standing up for herself. Through some incredibly difficult circumstances, that all changed.
Me with my niece, Mira. I’m grateful for her and all the people in my life.
I’ve worked hard for this version of myself and I’m proud of that. Of me. I’ve been in the trenches of my body, mind, and soul learning how to be the best version of myself and I can honestly say I’m healthier than I was at 30 in every possible way. (In large part that’s because my sleep disorder finally got sorted in 2018.) That’s amazing and worth celebrating.
This post is about me but I’m sharing it with you because I bet you also have milestones that society wouldn’t necessarily notice or celebrate like keeping a plant alive for three years, meditating every day for a month, or finally having friends when for so long you were alone.
Celebrating these unconventional milestones reminds me we are all unique incarnations of the Divine Beloved. The central tenet of my spiritual practice is the universe is coming to know itself through me and you. We are the human expression of divinity. We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, but spiritual beings having a human experience, to quote Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.
Other people who speak to this idea eloquently are Brian Swimme and Mary Evelyn Pope who write in their book Journey of the Universe, “[J]ust as the Milky Way is the universe in the form of a galaxy, and an orchid is the universe in the form of a flower, we are the universe in the form of a human. And every time we are drawn to look up into the night sky and reflect on the awesome beauty of the universe, we are actually the universe reflecting on itself. And this changes everything.”
We are the universe reflecting on itself and just as the Cosmos is vast, so are the experiences of human life. We’re not all meant to follow a neat and orderly direction or accomplish all the same things. We’re meant to be wholly ourselves and that means making new milestones.
I dream of a world where we’re proud of ourselves for the things we’ve accomplished even if no one else is. A world where we understand we’re all unique expressions of the Divine Beloved and that means we all express ourselves in different ways. A world where instead of comparing ourselves to other people, we make our own milestones.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
My social media feed is serving up some pretty horrific things lately. There seem to be endless ways that people are cruel to one another and I know many people are worried that the recent U.S. elections will embolden more of that kind of behavior. But people aren’t only cruel, they’re also kind.
What follows are two examples that remind me people do still care about one another. I’m organizing a retreat for my spiritual community and the retreat site doesn’t have strong wifi throughout, which is a problem because our retreat will be a hybrid one. We need to borrow a wifi booster/extender and instead of buying a new one to use for literally five days, I emailed my tech friends. Wouldn’t you know it – one of them has an extender I can borrow.
You might be saying to yourself, “So? That’s such a small thing. And you asked a friend for help. That’s what friends do.” True. But also this weekend a Substack I subscribe to opened up the comments for people to “take one/leave one,” meaning ask for something they need like a beta reader and offer something like critiquing a query letter. There, too, people are supporting one another, not friends – strangers.
We are still kind to one another. Photo by Dominik Lange on Unsplash
These small things give me hope because this is always how the world works. We lean on one another for support and care. Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés wrote:
“Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. Any small, calm thing that one soul can do to help another soul, to assist some portion of this poor suffering world, will help immensely. It is not given to us to know which acts or by whom, will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good.
“What is needed for dramatic change is an accumulation of acts, adding, adding to, adding more, continuing. We know that it does not take everyone on Earth to bring justice and peace, but only a small, determined group who will not give up during the first, second, or hundredth gale.”
Her sentiment echoes the famous Margaret Mead quote: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” And don’t doubt that you are that citizen. The small things we do every day – lending wifi routers, offering to babysit someone’s children, bringing someone soup – these are the things that remind our brains and bodies that we aren’t alone. That people are still good and kind and helpful. That matters.
In times when it seems like people are hellbent on tearing one another down mentally, emotionally, and physically, these small acts of kindness are huge. They let us know despite the barrage of negativity, we still have each other. And that makes all the difference.
I dream of a world where we continue to show up for one another. A world where we give and receive what we can. A world where we focus on our circles of influence and help those around us. A world where we don’t let negativity drag us down because we remember that we still have each other.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I do that thing you’re not supposed to do and take many things personally. If someone doesn’t call me back, my mind assumes it’s because they don’t want to be friends anymore. If a new person in my life doesn’t respond to a text message, it’s because they secretly hate me. As I chatted about this with one of my soul sisters she said, “Even if someone hates you, it’s not personal.”
Um, excuse me? She reminded me that people are a complex mix of preferences, past experiences, and trauma such that even something that feels intensely personal like hatred isn’t actually personal. When she said that my brain short-circuited a little so I asked her to repeat it, which she did.
I’m someone who learns by example, even if it’s through language. An example that came to mind was blanket hatred. For instance, if someone says they hate dogs, is that really something personal? How can they hate all dogs? Is it because they were bitten as a child? Did they live next door to a dog that barked incessantly? With this example, it’s obvious the hatred of dogs isn’t personal because the person isn’t bothering to see each dog as an individual. They’re extrapolating from past experiences.
Look at this face! How could hatred be personal? Photo by Justin Veenema on Unsplash
It’s a little harder for me to apply this principle to humans but the questions are similar. If someone hates me, do I remind them of their mother, with whom they have a terrible relationship? Am I too similar to their older brother who was a bully? That’s not really about me then, is it? It’s about the other person and their previous relationships. This is exactly what Don Miguel Ruiz writes about in his book The Four Agreements, a book about personal freedom. The second agreement is, “Don’t take anything personally” and he says:
“Whatever happens around you, don’t take it personally … Nothing other people do is because of you. It is because of themselves. All people live in their own dream, in their own mind; they are in a completely different world from the one we live in. When we take something personally, we make the assumption that they know what is in our world, and we try to impose our world on their world.
“Even when a situation seems so personal, even if others insult you directly, it has nothing to do with you. What they say, what they do, and the opinions they give are according to the agreements they have in their own minds.”
We are all interfacing with the world in our own minds. Information is coming into each mind but it’s not filtering in the same way. Essentially, we all live in our own little worlds. I don’t know what’s going on for someone else because they’re living in their world and I’m living in mine. I like to pretend I know what’s happening in someone else’s world by making assumptions and taking things personally, but I know only a smidgen of what’s going on for them.
Have I suddenly stopped taking things personally after one conversation with one friend? Of course not but I feel a little better now. I’m more at peace with other people maybe not wanting to be friends or secretly hating me because instead of jumping to make it about me, I’m pausing. I’m reminding myself it’s not about me. It’s not personal even when it feels personal. And that, I think, is progress.
I dream of a world where we remember we’re all living inside our own minds, creating stories and characters. A world where we understand people are complex and come with their own histories that we often know nothing about. A world where we realize even if something feels personal, it’s not.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
As I made plans with friends the other day, I said, “I know my nap schedule makes meals and things harder to work with.” I’m a spoonie and don’t have a lot of health privilege. I have some but require a daily nap and don’t bounce back easily from stress. When I flew home from Chicago the other week, I slept 11 hours each day of the weekend and took 1.5-hour naps. For context, I usually sleep about eight or nine hours a night and nap for half an hour, max. But even on normal days, a nap is crucial.
When, where, and how I’ll be able to nap is at the forefront of my mind as I make plans with people. And my comment to my friends also reveals that I apologize for my body. In implicit and explicit ways, I say, “I’m sorry I’m like this. I wish things were different. Thank you for bearing with me.” I’m not engaging in what Sonya Renee Taylor dubs “radical self-love” in her book The Body is Not an Apology.
May we all make a promise to ourselves that we’ll stop apologizing for our bodies. Photo by Womanizer Toys on Unsplash
She says, “Concepts like self-acceptance and body neutrality are not without value. When you have spent your entire life at war with your body, these models offer a truce. But you can have more than a cease-fire. You can have radical self-love because you are already radical self-love.”
What she means is when we come into the world, we love our bodies. Babies are delighted by every part of their body. They look in the mirror and giggle or smile. No child starts off hating their body. That comes later when society barrages them with messages about how “wrong” they are for being too dark, too light, too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too whatever. Or the converse: not enough. In our capitalistic, patriarchal, white supremacist society, there will always be something wrong with us because that’s how the systems keep running.
Under this toxic framework, which oftentimes feels overwhelming and permanent, it’s harder to blame a nameless, faceless system and instead, people turn inward and start blaming themselves. That’s when the apologizing begins. But Taylor asks some great questions: “What if we all became committed to the idea that no one should have to apologize for being a human in a body? … How might we change our lives? How might we change the world?”
I can think of lots of ways we’d change – like building wider airplane seats or ensuring every sidewalk corner has a curb cut. But on a more personal level, I can see how things could be different for me. In response to my body apology, my friends said, “Your nap schedule is not hard to work with at all! Honestly, it’s inspiring for both of us.” Their reply touched me deeply because the subtext was, “You’re not a burden. You’re OK just as you are. And we appreciate that you take care of yourself.”
It reminds me of that quote from the Buddha who said, “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” That means my body too. Not when it’s more energetic or more closely aligned with my idea of perfection, but now. In this iteration. Here. I can’t say I know exactly how to radically love my body – I suspect continuing to read Taylor’s book will help – but what I can do is be unapologetic about my body and that feels like a good place to start.
I dream of a world where we remember society will always tell us there’s something wrong with us. A world where we understand we can opt out of those messages. A world where we stop apologizing for our bodies because we realize they’re already lovely just as they are. A world where we practice radical self-love and treat ourselves as the precious beings we already are.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I keep thinking about a growth mindset versus a fixed mindset. A fixed mindset asserts that your intelligence, talents, and personality are fixed traits that cannot grow. There’s no improvement, there’s no change. A growth mindset is the opposite – it’s a belief that your intelligence, talents, and personality improve and change over time. However, instead of only applying the growth mindset to myself, as in, my novel-writing skills will improve, I also apply it to how I approach the world.
My spiritual tradition is a tantra-oriented practice, which if you break down the literal definition of tantra means liberation through expansion. In practice, tantra uses everything as a vehicle for liberation. That means every situation, every struggle, every everything is an opportunity to move closer to the Divine Beloved or further away.
Grow, baby, grow! Photo by Victoria Strukovskaya on Unsplash
Here’s a silly, but perfect, example of how I use everything as a vehicle for liberation. In June 2016, I went to a cat café and none of the cats came up to me. I consider myself a cat person even though I don’t have one and usually, cats rub against me, want to sit on my lap, etc. But these cats didn’t and I was offended, especially because they came up to my friend. What the heck?!? Was she special and I wasn’t?!? Truly, it threw me into a tizzy and it’s what prompted my post, “You So Special.”
My interaction (or lack of interaction) with a random cat, once, spurred me to start affirming that I’m special and unique. It showed me that I was relying on other people to do that for me but using that method is like trying to fill up a colander with water – there are too many holes and the water will keep streaming out. I had to, and have to, give myself what I need first.
Bringing it back to tantra, my spiritual teacher says tantra is an all-around fight, both internally and externally. That means facing my fears, protesting injustice, and always asking, “How can I use this situation or experience to grow?” In my personal life, it also means becoming more accepting of whatever is in front of me because I understand it’s there for a reason and the reason is not to torture me.
My friend Ramesh Bjonnes, author of Tantra: The Yoga of Love and Awakening, wrote about this on Facebook in 2016 and I’m partially quoting him now. He said:
“In meditation, we do not deny anything, we actually become more accepting of everything, and in doing so, we realize where peace and true satisfaction is truly found – not in the fluctuating reality of the body and the mind, but in the stillness of the soul. And that stillness is so big that it contains everything, the only change is that our focus has changed, our identification has changed. It is from this state, we can more soulfully deal with pain, heartbreak, stress, and all the other stuff of life. This is the gift of meditation, to be able to dip into the ocean of the soul and thus return spiritually refreshed.”
Dipping into the ocean of the soul means taking a broader perspective. It means approaching life not from a fixed mindset of, “This will never change” or “I just need to find the right configuration of ____ to be happy.” It’s approaching life from a growth mindset of, “How can I grow from this situation? What can I learn?”
I dream of a world where we recognize we have a choice about how we approach life. A world where we understand we can view the things that happen to us from the standpoint of a victim or as something we have agency over. A world where we recognize we can grow from our experiences if we wish. A world where we have a different orientation toward the world that’s about moving us closer to the Divine Beloved.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Growing up, I was the weird kid because I didn’t fit in with my peers. I was a vegetarian in the 90s and my first-grade teacher announced to the class I didn’t eat meat because I was Jewish. (I think you know this but just in case, the two are not related.) I didn’t grow up in a bastion of diversity and understanding and that’s colored, well, a lot.
As an adult, I let my freak flag fly and usually have no problem standing out. I joke that my biography title should be: “Always the Outlier: The Rebekah Moan Story” because it’s true in 99% of cases that I’m the outlier. Over the past few weeks though, I notice parts of me are scared to be vulnerable and authentic. I realize a lot of people feel that way but that’s an unusual feeling for me. Normally, I don’t have a problem saying, “This is me. Here’s how I’m feeling,” but some parts of me feel terrified to do that because I’m worried people will run away screaming if I do.
When I shared that with a friend, she said, “Yeah because I haven’t seen the real you in our eight years of friendship.” I never said it made sense but that’s what wounding does. It makes us irrational. I’ve been ruminating over my experiences and a strong memory emerged from second grade when my music teacher went around the room and asked every child what their favorite music genre was. One by one, every child said, “country,” including me, even though I couldn’t name a country song to save my life. What I meant to say was “oldies” because that’s what my parents played around the house but I didn’t because the pressure to fit in was too great.
You belong somewhere, I promise. Photo by Annie Williams on Unsplash
Here’s the thing though – sure, in that setting every child said “country” but that doesn’t mean every child everywhere would have answered in the same way. I didn’t realize at that time I wasn’t weird, it’s more that I didn’t have anything in common with the people around me. That’s different. People who shared my interests existed in the world even if I didn’t go to school with them. What’s helping me to remember this is I organized a Zoom meetup for the young people in my spiritual community.
In our small group, we had people joining from London, Copenhagen, Moscow, and all over the U.S. Within the U.S., some people originally hailed from India, the Philippines, and Brazil. Only a handful of people live geographically close to me, which feels like the greatest gift, but also knowing there are people like me who live far away is a gift. It reminds me I do belong and there is a place for me. When I share that with the parts of me that feel like a weirdo, loser freak, they feel better too because I imagine a thread connecting me to each and every person in the world who is like me.
There’s a quote from C.S. Lewis who said, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one!’” Precisely. You’re not the only one even if sometimes it feels that way. You aren’t the only one even if the people around you are into different things. You already belong right here, right now and I hope you can feel that.
I dream of a world where we recognize someone, somewhere is into the things we’re into. A world where we remember that just because the people around us are into different things doesn’t mean we’re weird. A world where we recognize we may be far apart from the people who are most like us, but those people do exist. A world where we remember we already belong.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Even though I sync up better with the Jewish New Year, the Gregorian New Year still acts as a mile marker for me. I ask, “How does this year compare with last year? What did I think of this year? What happened?” When I contemplate 2023, I realize I couldn’t have predicted 99% of the things that transpired. I thought I knew what the future held but I didn’t, like, at all.
I want to predict the future to give myself a sense of safety. If I know what’s coming, I think I can prepare for it but I’m not sure you can ever truly prepare. For instance, you build up savings in case you lose your job but then you lose your job and it’s still discombobulating. Or your parent is on their deathbed and then they die and it’s still devastating. Can you ever prepare for what life brings you? Or can you only live it, one day at a time?
The future is like this. Photo by Maddy Weiss on Unsplash
I’m reminded of that famous Rainer Maria Rilke quote that says:
“I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
As we enter the Gregorian New Year, I’m living the questions. I keep searching for answers but the answers aren’t here yet because the future is still unfolding. There are still many unknowns for us mortals. At this point, you might be sick of reading poems on “Another World is Probable” but I’m sharing another poem! Here are three stanzas from John O’Donohue’s poem “For a New Beginning:”
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
…
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
There is a world awaiting us but we’re rising up to meet it. We’re living the future with all its question marks and unknowns. Life happens here, now. While I’m mulling over whether this thing will happen or that thing, my life continues. In the shadow of my friend’s death, I want to be present for what is, not what could be. And that means not worrying about the future and instead letting it unfold as it will.
I dream of a world where we have patience with the unresolved questions in our hearts. A world where we understand the future is mostly unknowable and so it’s better to be here, now. A world where we trust the promise of our life’s opening and the grace of beginning. A world where we let the future unfold.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Even though Passover is long over, I keep thinking about a story I heard. There’s a perception that during the exodus when God parted the Red Sea the Jews walked up to the water and tada! The water parted. However, Jewish teachings state that’s not what happened. The Jews waded into the water up to their knees and nothing. They kept going up to their waists and still nothing. Their chests, no change. The water came all the way up to their noses, meaning they could no longer breathe, and then the water parted.
So often when it comes to miracles, I want them to happen immediately, before I feel any pain. I want the Disney-fied version of events where there’s minimal struggle and I’m plodding along and everything is easy peasy. Sometimes life is like that, but oftentimes it’s not. Oftentimes, higher power waits until the last possible second to deliver a miracle. What to do? Keep moving with faith.
I’ll be honest, if I was escaping Egypt and kept wading into the water without being able to swim and not having a flotation device, I probably would have turned back. I don’t think I would have kept going. I would have acted from a place of fear and not experienced a miracle. I would have done the opposite of what Rumi advises which is, “Move, but don’t move the way fear makes you move.”
Even when it’s blurry, keep moving. Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash
I often move the way fear makes me move, especially when it comes to money. Bank balance running low? Better apply for a million jobs even if I’m not really interested! No new clients? Start contacting everyone and their mother! But that doesn’t work for me. Desperation rarely does.
The question then, is how can I move with faith? What sort of decisions do I make when I believe things will work out? What if I truly believed the universe has my back, even if I don’t see any evidence until the last possible second?
From that place, I’m calmer, curious, and open. From that place, I remember the magic and the mystery of the universe. When I’m in faith, beautiful things can come out of the blue. I receive a random email or telephone call from someone looking for my ghostwriting or content writing services. I find a random object I’m looking for, such as Play-Doh, on the side of the street for free.
Tosha Silver writes in her book Outrageous Openness if you think of the Divine as your ultimate protection and your Source for everything, “Then the Universe can use anything it wishes to meet your needs. You’re no longer limited to what your conditioned mind thinks is possible.” She has countless stories of this happening in her life and in the lives of others. For instance, she found an apartment through a hairdresser and someone else found a literary agent by bowling them over in a yoga class. Fear leads us to believe we must force things; we have to make them happen. Trust and faith show us we can relax and be shown the next steps on our path. In other words, faith causes us to move differently.
I dream of a world where we soothe our fearful parts when they’re freaking out. A world where we understand what’s ours is ours and will show up at the perfect time in the perfect way. A world where instead of moving from a place of fear, we move from a place of faith.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Members of my community are at the age where they’re starting to die. It seems like every three months or so someone passes away. Some people I’m closer to than others, but regardless, each death leaves an impact.
Have you ever played that game where you stand in a circle and hold a piece of yarn while also throwing it to someone else in the circle? In the end, you wind up with a giant web that connects every person to everyone else. That’s what I think life is like. When someone dies, the metaphorical yarn is tugged and creates a ripple effect so everyone feels it, some more deeply than others. As for me, there are layers of grief. There’s the grief I feel from the person’s death, but there’s also the grief I feel for their family members, their friends, their colleagues. There’s up-close-and-personal grief and there’s also more removed grief.
In my spiritual community, we have a ceremony to honor the passing of people. It’s purely for the mourners, meaning we don’t believe the ceremony has any effect on the recently deceased person. One of the things we say in tandem is, “You have freed us today from all the social responsibility we bore toward our dearest so-and-so.” At one point we all pour water into our palms from the same pot and take a sip from our cupped hands. It’s the bookend to a baby naming ceremony.
This picture will make sense later in the post. Photo by Ryan Hutton on Unsplash
With the baby naming ceremony, we are pledging responsibility to the baby symbolically by adding water into a tub, and with the mourning ceremony, we are taking it away. While the responsibilities are gone, the impact is not. Facebook is showing me pictures from a conference I used to go to in Vienna, Austria, every year. A few of those photos include Eric, a coworker who died years ago. It’s been many years since his passing, and we weren’t close, but every time I see his photo, my heart hurts a little, remembering he’s no longer with us.
I don’t have anything profound to say other than every person who is gone is not forgotten. We carry them with us in our hearts and they’re with us in another form. I’ll close here with an edited excerpt from writer and performer Aaron Freeman who in 2005 explained on NPR why you want a physicist to speak at your funeral:
“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral because they’ll explain to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind them about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. All your energy, every vibration, every BTU of heat, every wave of every particle that was you remains in this world. The physicist will tell your mourners that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you.
The physicist will them the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. The physicist will explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. The physicist will let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely, the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable, and consistent across space and time. Your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.”
I dream of a world where we remember every person’s death creates a ripple on the spider web of life. A world where we understand a person may be gone, but they aren’t forgotten. A world where we remember when a person dies, their energy is still around us, and not a bit of the person is gone, they’re just less orderly.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Whenever I share about my upcoming Australia trip, people are genuinely happy for me. I’m taken aback because sharing good news, especially over social media, seems perilous these days. A year or so ago, Glennon Doyle shared a video of her singing on a boat with her friends and family. The next day, she had the single-largest drop in followers her entire time on Instagram. She posited it’s because there’s something triggering about seeing women, especially, happy. That perhaps we’re more comfortable with their pain and suffering.
More recently in October, Daisey Miller shared a tweet that said, “my husband and i wake up every morning and bring our coffee out to our garden and sit and talk for hours. every morning. it never gets old & we never run out of things to talk [about]. love him so much.” Some responses were positive but many were scathing and called her out for being privileged and presumably wealthy. There was an assumption Miller didn’t work and had minimal responsibilities.
Happiness increases when it’s shared. Photo by Catalin Pop on Unsplash
In other words, instead of celebrating Miller’s quality time with her husband, people tore her down and mocked her. Numerous people tweeted their own versions: “my husband and i wake up every morning and go out to our garden and swordfight for hours. every morning. it never gets old & we never run out of ways to duel and spar. love him so much,” or “my husband and i wake up every morning and go out to our garden and we kill each other with our bare hands because we are miserable and we both have crabs.”
Those that didn’t mock her showcased self-righteousness, which is the conviction that one’s beliefs and behaviors are the most correct. As John Mark Green puts it, “The self-righteous scream judgments against others to hide the noise of skeletons dancing in their own closets.” Twitter is rife with self-righteousness and a hotbed of schadenfreude, a compound of the German words schaden, harm, and freude, joy. It means deriving pleasure or joy from someone else’s suffering or misfortune.
Brené Brown writes in her book Atlas of the Heart that schadenfreude is “seductive. Especially when we’re sucked into groupthink. It’s easy to build counterfeit connection with collective schadenfreude. I say ‘counterfeit’ because when we see someone who we don’t like, we disagree with, or is outside our group stumble, fall, or fail, it’s tempting to celebrate that suffering together and to stir up collective emotion.”
I mean, I get it. I’ve felt schadenfreude from time to time. But that doesn’t mean schadenfreude has to dominate your life. The antidote to schadenfreude is freudenfreude, a word made up by an American psychologist that literally translates as “joy joy.” It’s letting yourself feel vicarious joy for others. When we share our joy, our joy increases. The Buddha stated this well when he said, “Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle. Happiness never decreases by being shared.”
I have to remind myself of that because I worry by sharing my good news people will judge me, one-up me, or try to tear me down. Thus far they haven’t, probably because I’m not famous and I don’t surround myself with jerks. It could also be that I engage in freudenfreude regularly. I really and truly celebrate when others celebrate. Seeing their joy brings me joy and perhaps that’s why it’s coming back to me. Together, we are multiplying happiness.
I dream of a world where we celebrate each other’s wins. A world where we practice freudenfreude more than its opposite. A world where we remember happiness doesn’t decrease when it’s shared, instead it’s multiplied.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.