30 before 30 :: the books

I’ve always loved reading but, like many others, college reading and assignments forced me to stop reading for fun. I rediscovered reading in the latter part of my 20s, ironically, when I was working full-time and in grad school full-time. My job required too much of me, and grad school on top of that was depleting my humanness. I ached for time to myself, not having to worry about how 18-year-olds’ choices affected my sleep or how APA citations impacted my grades. 

I started reading again, sometimes waking up at 5:30am to get an hour in before I had to start on that paper or respond to that duty call. It was time just for me, before the rest of the world woke up and required something of me. I have vivid memories of sitting on my couch in my apartment on the 9th floor of Ondine Residence Hall, reading a book and watching the sun rise out my window.

Reading doesn’t feel like fun anymore, like just a hobby or a pastime. Reading has saved me from nights of loneliness, especially in this last year of the pandemic. It’s helped me witness lives outside of my own, pushing me to acknowledge my privilege and power and the shitty systems in our world. And every book, in some way, has stretched me to learn new things about myself. Books are crucial to my life, a requirement that allows me to show up better in the world. It sounds dramatic, but dang — it’s true. Just like I need a cup of coffee in the morning, I’m a better human when I make time to read.

The circumstances of my 20s were the perfect conditions for reading as much as I did: I was single for most of this decade and lived alone for most of it, too. I leaned into my introverted side and preferred Friday nights curled up on my couch with a book. I became a morning person and learned to wake up a few hours before work, with nothing to do except what I chose.

My reading habits will change in this next decade, I’m sure of it. I hope that one day, I have a partner whom I live with, who goads me to put down my book to watch his favorite movie for the fifth time or who whisks me off the couch on a Friday night. I hope that one day, I will have children running around my house who will steal away my morning peace, but give me the opportunity to reread the Junie B. Jones series.

Maybe this next decade will allow room for all of it. The quiet and the chaos, the solitude and the family, the time to read squeezed alongside the rest of life’s big, messy moments. I’ll hold onto both possibilities: grateful for the books I’ve read so far, hopeful that there will be many, many more. 

And so: here are the best books I’ve read in the last decade. Like choosing songs, narrowing these down was hard. If I’ve counted correctly, I’ve read over 330 books since 2011. I only know that fact because I’ve kept track of every book I’ve ever read in a Google Spreadsheet, which made it easy to remember and also reminded me that I’m a little bonkers.

Memoir:

1. Tiny Beautiful Things x Cheryl Strayed

2. Untamed x Glennon Doyle

3. Between the World and Me x Ta-Nehisi Coates

4. Gift from the Sea x Anne Morrow Lindbergh

5. When Breath Becomes Air x Paul Kalinithi

6. The Bright Hour x Nina Riggs

7. Maybe You Should Talk to Someone x Lori Gottlieb

8. How We Fight for Our Lives x Saeed Jones

9. On Writing x Stephen King

Nonfiction:

1. Love Wins x Rob Bell

2. Bird by Bird x Anne Lamott

3. The Crossroads of Should and Must x Elle Luna

4. Attached x Amir Levine & Rachel Miller

5. Daring Greatly x Brené Brown

6. The Road Back to You x Ian Cron & Suzanne Stabile

7. Missoula x Jon Krakauer

8. Eaarth x Bill McKibben

9. Bad Feminist x Roxane Gay

Fiction:

1. The Poisonwood Bible x Barbara Kingsolver

2. Americanah x Chimamanda Adichie

3. The Round House x Louise Erdrich

4. All the Light We Cannot See x Anthony Doerr

5. Gilead x Marilynne Robinson

6. Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine x Gail Honeyman

7. Where the Crawdads Sing x Delia Owens

8. The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue x V.E. Schwab

Poetry:

1. Devotions x Mary Oliver

2. Milk and Honey x Rupi Kaur

3. Citizen x Claudia Rankine

4. Good Bones x Maggie Smith

hello, my name is...

“I have to think about it.”

I stared at him and kept my mouth shut. I thought, “Maybe he means he has to think about what he wants to say to me right now. He wants to really get it right and so he’s taking time to think about it.”

Silence.

I kept staring at him and kept keeping my mouth shut, though my eyes were slowly narrowing and my lips sucking themselves right back into my mouth to keep myself from talking. I thought, “Okay! He’s still thinking. That’s fine. I am a human who is full of patience and understanding. I am not annoyed or sad, but I am actually glad he’s taking the time to really think about his response to my question.”

Silence, still.

The question I asked wasn’t, “What’s your favorite song in Hamilton?” or “What should we cook for dinner tonight?” or “What are your thoughts about aliens or God or the concept of mass incarceration?” These are the questions you’d need some time to think about. 

The actual question I asked doesn’t matter that much. It may have been, “What is this relationship for you?” or “Are you willing to show up for me?” or “Do you care about me?” I had asked all of those and then a few more vulnerable ones. His answers were all something similar:

“I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I have to think about it.”

Regardless of the wording of the question, those are not quite the words you expect to hear from a human with whom you have any sort of romantic relationship. Or any meaningful relationship, for that matter — friendship, coworker, or otherwise.

First: What?! Second: Ouch.

While there is not a one-size-fits-all, step-by-step guide, Merriam-Webster definition of love, or dating, or relationships, I sense that there are at least a few shared truths that we hold as important. We want someone who we like spending time with and who likes spending time with us, too. We want someone to talk and listen to and who will listen to us, too. Someone who makes our lives better than they were without them, whatever our definitions of “better” may be. We want someone we can show up for, and someone who shows up for us. We want someone who is steady in how they feel about us, is clear about much they care for us, and someone who takes in all the complicated parts of us, the good and the bad and the weird, and responds accordingly.

We want to be seen.

I have an embroidered patch on the whiteboard above my desk. It looks like one of those name tags you get at a networking event:

Steph sent me a digital mock-up of this patch last August, during a moment when I was at my wit’s (wits’?) end. Later, in a ridiculous, sleep-deprived, lightning-speed text message thread, we dreamed up a life where one day, when we’re roommates in a nursing home, we’ll wear matching denim jackets with hundreds of matching, embroidered patches. Patches that represent our friendship, our lives, and the cores of who we are. This patch would be our first, capturing so many of those complicated parts of us.

So I bought a real-life version of that patch for Steph and then bought one for myself, too. We said that we should wear these words as a name tag every day so that anyone who encountered us would know who we were, and would be invited to respond accordingly.

Hello, I know who I am in my body and my soul (and I hope you see that knowing, too). Hello, I am not only comfortable with feelings but I’m going to TALK about them (and I hope you’re willing to, too). Hello, I drink a dangerous amount of coffee each morning and yet I am level-headed and can get shit done and am calm in a crisis (and I hope you recognize my contributions, too). Hello, I know my worth (and you should recognize my worth, too).

Hello. This is who I am. See me, or I’ll see you riiiiight out the door.

Because when someone sees you, they don’t need time to think about things like if they want to text back or make time to see you or how they feel.

And the people we invite into our sacred lives -- the family we stay connected to, the friends who become our chosen family, and especially the people we invite into our calendars and beds and hearts -- they need to see us. Every single one of us deserves that from the people we hold near to us.

He and I were talking through a screen when he couldn’t answer my questions. I was at my desk, looked up at my whiteboard, and saw that name tag in my line of vision. Bright red, staring me down, nudging me to come back to myself. And I thought, “He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know who I am. And it seems that he doesn’t want to try. So why am I?”

I took a deep breath. And I told him that no, actually, he didn’t need to think about it. That in itself was an answer. And I wasn’t willing to wait for someone who didn’t know, on a gut-level reaction, that they wanted me. 

And while I’d like to say it felt immediately empowering to realize and name that, I hung up and cried -- the shoulder-shaking, are-these-tears-or-is-this-snot? kind of crying. Just sobbed into my lap for a good 10 minutes because -- despite what I knew deep in my core about worthiness and despite looking up and whispering to myself, “Hello, my name is Sexy Empowered Emotionally Mature Caffeinated Calm Woman!!!” -- it hurts when someone you’ve opened yourself up to, who you want to see you, is unwilling or unable to do that.

Even if it breaks our hearts and makes us cry or scream, we must walk away from those who do not see us, and those who aren’t willing to try. Even if we’re tempted to, instead, change ourselves because maybe that version will be seen -- to dye our hair or to not ask the question or to pretend we like the things they like that we actually do not like  -- we have to leave. We have to cancel the happy hour or skip the holiday gathering, have the breakup conversation or another hard one, put distance between them and us, or -- in this case -- hang up for the last time. 

I got out of my chair and went to get a Kleenex to sop up the tear-snot. I looked in the mirror and, despite the blotchy face and hazy eyes and achy heart, saw myself. That hurt, yes, but I looked in my own eyes and knew it would hurt even more to have kept going on like nothing was wrong. To keep going without being seen.

And then what? What do we do in the wake of not being seen?

We find those who do see us. We must hold on tightly to those who really, truly see our whole selves, who are willing to sit in the muck of life with us as we navigate our own, forever-changing versions of “Hello, my name is…” The ones we call in the aftermath of a conversation like this, who can grieve with us in the pain and celebrate with us for trusting our knowing, our worth.

They are the moms and sisters and best friends and maybe even the lovers, the mentors and bosses and sometimes even the unexpected ones (the baristas or the writers or the long-lost-loves who show up again, years later). They are the ones who want to bear witness to all the complicated, wonderful, raw parts of us. They tell us that they do, and they show up.

And they don’t have to think about it. Not for one second.

five at a time.

I got a book of poetry by Maggie Smith in the mail yesterday. I ordered it early in this pandemic, knowing it was an unnecessary purchase for my wallet but an important one for my heart. It arrived last week but I’m limiting trips to my PO box, located right in the middle of campus, probably the busiest spot these days. I tore off the packaging and started reading, searching the Table of Contents for the poem for which the book is named (Good Bones). I stopped myself after four more poems, put a bookmark between the pages, and set it on my end table, on top of another half-read book.

“Huh,” I thought. “Isn’t that something. Two books at once!” 

I looked around my apartment and saw another book on my couch. Oh, I thought, I guess I was reading that this weekend, too. I looked around — my bedside table, my desk, my bathroom — and I had not one or two or three in-progress books lying around, but five. Five! I have never read more than two books at one time, and even two-at-a-time is a rarity. It was a bit disconcerting that, without realizing it, I’d become a five-books-at-once person. At least for now.

Seeing these books scattered around my home caused me to wonder: What other parts of me have changed ever-so-slightly during these times?

I speak of “change” loosely. I will not buy into the nonsense that we should use this time of quarantine to become Better Versions of ourselves, though it’s tempting. To use this time to get healthy and fit, to start a side hustle, to deep-clean the closets in our houses and maybe the garage rafters while we’re at it, to teach ourselves Portuguese and get our kids to learn it, too. The pressure, accompanied by the feelings or language of “should,” that every moment should be spent becoming the Best Version of ourselves? That is harmful shit that comes from our productivity-obsessed, white supremacist, capitalist society. We do not have to do anything other than what makes us feel a little bit more okay. That’s it.

(And, side note: If any of that feels good to you during this time, then do it! But only if it’s truly how you want to spend your time. Deep-cleaning and working out and vigorous washing of the dishes have been balms for me, areas of my life that I can control in the midst of the unknown. But that was true before this time, too.)

Because things are different now. Time feels different and routines are different and how we show up in our day-to-day — with our work and our families and ourselves — is wildly different. We’ve been asked to adapt, to pivot, to change our lives. This pandemic was like: “Here is a thing that you did not ask for and don’t know how to handle but, like it or not, it is all yours to figure out! Good luck and godspeed!” And that fact is changing us; in small ways, like my book-reading habits, and in bigger ways, like the effects of extended isolation and extended time with our partners/children/housemates and a shifted work/life rhythm. 

For myself, quarantine has brought a lot of alone time. I’m single, I don’t have kids, I live alone. I’m used to alone time, but this is some unprecedented alone time. So in trying to figure out what to do with my unstructured solitude — days and hours of the quiet, my connection to other humans through a screen that sometimes hurts my eyes — I’ve been thinking about who I am. This time is providing an opportunity to question how and why I do things — to come face-to-face with myself in a different way.

Why do I only read one book at a time? Why am I still meal-prepping the same salad for lunch every day even though I have plenty of time to cook and eat something different? Who am I when I haven’t been a human in the way I’ve been one for the last 29 years?

I’m learning I can read more than one book at a time, switching easily between a thriller and poetry. That my internal motivation for leaving my bed or couch or desk is dangerously low when it comes to working out. But, for writing in the mornings, my motivation is a bit higher. It’s surprisingly high for going into the office (AKA my second bedroom), too. I’m learning that I prep meals not because I don’t have the time but because I do not like to cook! I still don’t take my vitamins or regularly floss, despite this extra time. I still do make my bed every morning. I don’t talk to myself as much as I thought I would, though I’m learning how to speak up in different ways -- to admit when things are not okay, even when it feels like I should just get over it. 

I’m learning that my natural state of thinking is in scarcity mode, and I’m learning (trying to learn) how to adjust that. I’m gentler with myself in some ways and have developed harder edges in others. I’m learning (trying to learn) how not to stare at myself during every Zoom call. To instead close my eyes a minute before each meeting starts to pretend I’m really with the person on the other side of the screen. I’m learning this experience is not a competition for who has it worse, who is more tired, who is more stressed or overworked. I’m allowing myself to be sad and scared and lonely, even though there’s guilt that creeps in that things could be much harder for me. And I’m learning to forgive myself for wondering if I should be trying to change for the better, even though I don’t buy into that narrative.

I am learning the very complicated ways I am a human during this time.

In moments of “shoulding” on myself, and in moments of restlessness or fear or scarcity, I turn to the Instagram posts I’ve saved (a lot) and the articles I’ve bookmarked (several) that say to the collective Us: None of this is normal. It’s okay to react to social distancing however you react. Cry. Laugh. Savor it. Resent it. There is not a “right” or “wrong” way to do what we’re being asked to do. There is not a “right” or “wrong” way to cope with what we’re being asked to cope with. Do not feel pressure to use this time to become A Better Version of You. But you can if you want to, I guess. It is okay to change and be changed by what is happening. Breathe. In and out, in and out. Repeat.

This is hard for us all, in ways we will not know until we talk to each other, ask each other, “How are you, really?” This is changing us, in ways we will not know until we talk to each other, ask each other, “What’s different now?”

In big ways and in small ways, we are changing. We are changed. We may not know how changed until we see five half-read books piled up around our apartment, and think, “Huh, I guess I read multiple books at a time now.” We may not know how changed until we see someone face-to-face again, finally, and burst into tears. We may not know how changed until we head back into our offices and our changed lives and think, “This is not the same. This will never be the same.”

Maybe you have your own five-books-at-a-time version of change. Maybe everything is the same, or nothing is the same, or you don’t give a shit about how things have changed. All of it is okay. Breathe. In and out, in and out. Repeat.

Tonight, I’ll pick up Good Bones and read some poems. Then maybe I’ll read a bit of Running the Rift, a borrowed book from a former professor-turned-friend-turned colleague. And then, if I’m feeling really wild, I might end the night with a few chapters from another, different book! Just because. And to remind myself that though there are bigger, scarier changes — many are still to come — some are surprising, lighthearted, welcomed.

Huh. Isn’t that something.

solo friday nights.

I’m sitting at my favorite tea shop, alone, on a Friday night. This is a regular occurrence. Not the tea shop part, but the alone part. Sometimes it’s a coffee shop, sometimes it’s my bedroom (more specifically, my bed), but I’ve been flying solo on Fridays recently. The quiet of a Friday night, even though I’m usually only awake for five hours post-work and pre-sleep, seems to balance out the loud 40+ hours of Monday morning through Friday afternoon. 

Tonight’s been a wild one so far: I combined my leftover dinner from Wednesday and my leftover salad from today’s lunch to make a pseudo-dinner at 4:45 pm. I thought about Instagramming, but didn’t know how to write about my happiness for the following things in one eloquent caption: children’s spelling bees, Jess returning to the Gilmore Girls revival, and finally learning to drink my coffee black. I laid in bed and read for an hour or so before I thought, “Let’s take this party elsewhere."

So I threw on a sweater/scarf/red lipstick/glasses/flip-flops combination (which is, by far, the perfect Friday night outfit) and walked to my neighborhood’s tea shop. I ordered herbal tea, found a spot in the corner, sent some work emails, and wrote some prayers for my church for our Lenten liturgy. I know, I know, it’s been wild! The barista has only asked me to quiet down three times so far.

But, as I cracked open my laptop and journal, I got distracted. Because there’s a man and a woman sitting across from me, and I’m pretty sure they’re on their first date.

They’re doing all the first date-y things, the very things I do when I go on first dates. They’re sitting across from each other, not side-by-side. They’re both sitting up straight, straighter than I do even on my best, most posture-aware days. They’re leaning in ever-so-slightly, alternating between making intense and almost-zero eye contact. Their heads nod and their laughter seems to be free-flowing.

I can’t be 100% sure of their status, of course. They were here before I arrived, so I didn’t get to see if one arrived before the other and waited by the door, eyes glued to his or her phone, simultaneously hoping that the other would walk through the door any minute or call to cancel. And I have headphones in, so I haven’t heard murmurings of “…our first date…” or “…so what do you do for a living?...” in their conversation. But, based on my observations from seven feet away, this is a first date.

Fast forward an hour or so, and they just hugged goodbye and walked out together, but since I’m facing the inside of the tea shop and not the window, I’ll never know if they went to the same car, or parted ways at the door after an awkward side-hug, or made out in a dark alleyway before heading home together. Maybe, from their table and their eyes, their date was a dead-end and they won’t see each other after tonight. Maybe it was a one-and-done kind of thing, and even though they laughed and smiled and had a nice-enough time, there wasn’t a spark. Nothing to keep them there any longer than what’s polite for a first date, and certainly nothing to – at least immediately – text their friends about.

But maybe – just maybe – their date will lead to another, and another, and they’ll eventually realize that they want to keep doing these dates for the rest of their lives. Maybe they’ll want to have a little party, and invite all their family and friends, to mark the importance of choosing to do these dates together, for the rest of their lives. They’ll dance and cry and laugh in a courthouse or in a church or in a barn, and they’ll recall that time they sat in Townshend’s Tea for two hours, smiling and laughing, and try to remember what they talked about, or what kind of tea they shared, and what made them say yes to Date #2.

And – you have to know where I’m going with this – they’ll live happily ever after.

//

I started writing this and wanted to turn it into something about how you never know when you’ll be in the background of people’s big moments – witnessing a couple’s first date, sitting next to someone on the bus who just got news that she’s an aunt, smiling at someone at the grocery store whose kid just got a full-ride to college. I wanted to write something about how those moments are happening all the time and even though we might not know it, we’re a part of them and that’s so wild and beautiful and full-circle. That would have fit so well for a post on this lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy holiday.

But the reason I’m actually writing about this is less about their couple-ness, their maybe-first date, their made-up love story, and more about my single-ness. I wanted to write about this because of where this all started: a solo Friday night. I wanted to write about this because of where it will be on Sunday: a solo Valentine’s Day.

This will be my fourth Valentine’s Day where I haven’t had a special someone, in the way society defines that phrase. (Which, by the way, is bullshit. I can think of at least 23 special someones in my life.) I’ve had a few go-arounds at being single on this day, so it doesn’t catch me off-guard or feel that lonely anymore. This year, I’ll spend most of my day channeling Tom and Donna from Parks & Recreation and treating myself to writing, dinner, and a massage. I’ve learned how to respond to the “Are you seeing anyone?” or the “So, anyone special in your life these days?” questions. And I’ve learned how to exist – both on Valentine’s Days and on Friday nights – in solitude. Slowly and patiently and sometimes painstakingly, I’ve learned to enjoy it. Sometimes.

I don’t believe anyone is qualified to make blanket statements about how they always love being single – or, conversely, always love being in a relationship. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. Somedays I can think of nothing better than to lay in my bed, by myself, as I watch Jim and Pam fall in love on The Office. The next day, the same scenario makes me want to curl into a ball, realizing that I’m far, far away from a Jim and Pam-esque love story of my own. There are days when being single just sucks, just as there are days when being in a relationship just sucks. That is life: we flip-flop from being 100% happy and 100% discontent with where we’re at. Sometimes that flip-flop happens within days or minutes or at the same time.

So seeing those two on such a fun date — sitting across from one another, laughing in that nervous “Gosh, I think you’re cute!” or “Please don’t think my laugh is weird!” way — reminded me of that. I was happy for their happiness, as much as I can be happy for total strangers. But I was also a little sad. And a little frustrated in the general direction of the universe and its response to my brief attempts at Bumble and Tinder. (So many men holding fish! So many selfies at gyms! And umm, no, I don’t want to enter into a “mutually beneficial agreement” with you. Ew.) It made me question my wild, solo Friday night routine and wish that instead, I was sitting across from a someone, trying not to get the hiccups as I giggle or hoping that I don’t have anything in my teeth when I smile across the table.

This day of the year, and the days leading up to it, and the aftermath of it, can be so. damn. hard. for people who feel alone and isolated. Maybe you just moved across the country and are still figuring out how to cope with that solitude. Maybe you just moved out of your parents’ house. Maybe you just ended a relationship, romantic or otherwise, and aren’t even sure what your new solitude looks like yet; it’s too soon and too hard to go there. Or maybe you’re just single, without someone to buy you flowers or take you out to dinner. Or maybe you’re reading this at a coffee shop or a restaurant or a tea shop, and there are couples, romantic or otherwise, all around you. And for some reason, having a solo Friday night doesn’t seem as appealing anymore.

And that’s okay. You are allowed to feel joy. You’re allowed to feel like a bad-ass, independent human one day, and to feel sadness and a little lonely the next. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. The same scenarios evoke different emotions on different days, and both are valid and both are your truth. But know this – and please remember this. It’s the thesis of this rambling outpouring of words:

You are not alone on your solo Valentine’s Day.
You are not alone on your solo Friday nights.
You are not alone on any other nights of the week.

If you’re in a coffee shop, look around; there are other humans sitting alone, aren’t there? If you’re at home, remember that you’re one of seven billion humans on this planet; there have to be at least one billion of those people sitting alone too, right? Maybe you’re physically alone, or your relationship status is “single” on social media, or you’re the last of your pals or coworkers to be in a relationship. Our lives are filled with moments of solitude – of solo holidays, of solo nights, of solo anything – but, in a way, all of us who are doing the whole solo thing are doing it together.

Maybe, this Valentine’s Day, I’ll come back to this tea shop, and there will be another couple across from me, sharing a pot of vanilla rooibos or a bubble tea. I’ll be alone, and I don’t know what my reaction to them will be. Maybe I’ll re-download Bumble or maybe I’ll text my mom or maybe I’ll just keep writing. But as I press “Publish” on these words, I’ll know that they’re zooming into the universe on a day when maybe – just maybe – we all need a reminder that we’re not all that alone after all.