This past summer, a volleyball shoulder injury left me restless—relegated to reading autobiographies of the stars in my backyard.
I’ve always loved those books with a glossy middle section: select black-and-white photographs, carefully chosen, like clues to study. The Lauren Bacall memoir I picked up at the thrift store was so worn it began to fall apart as I turned the pages.
What struck me most was Bacall’s sheer determination—and her family’s unwavering support. That love seemed to give her the confidence to stand on street corners hoping to meet producers, to say yes to small roles that went nowhere. She was so nervous she threw up before her first screen test. When her big break finally came, her mother moved across the country to live with her and waited up when she stayed out late with Humphrey Bogart.
It reminded me how often we only see the polished version of the people we admire. The glamour. The highlight reel. But behind the scenes, there are quiet support systems, false starts and long pauses. Rejections and missed calls.
There’s something comforting about knowing even our idols get nervous. That they worry, work, love, and long—just like we do.
So there I was, lying in the grass, an ice pack on my shoulder, sun warming my face, remembering: part of being human is failing, fumbling, and sometimes feeling miserable….
On the edge of burnout, a delicate flower considers a forever hiatus.
When I left fashion school, my first internship was at a conglomerate sportswear company in Vancouver. The company was mid-corporate takeover. I’d never worked anywhere big enough to have a company song before—“I Gotta Feeling (Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night)” by the Black Eyed Peas blasted through the warehouse daily. I still get shivers when I hear it.
The job felt meaningless. I was part of the custom bicycle jersey division. I used to cry on the SkyTrain there in the morning, and again on the way home. But I saw the contract through. I never quit.
So when a friend sent me a meme this week, turns outthat burnout is an actual thing. It includes the following symptoms—a sense of failure and self-doubt, detachment, feeling alone, loss of motivation, cynical outlook, and decreased satisfaction. Check, check, check. Sigh.
Dragging myself to the finish line of this contract, I keep asking myself: where did I get the idea that endurance is a virtue?
Maybe it’s because I’m holding out for the dream. Maybe it’s my artistic fascination with melancholy. My dysfunctional family probably has something to do with it. Whatever the origin, I’m tired. And I’m starting to question my talent for twisting myself into a people-pleasing pretzel.
Now that this film job has rung me out like a dishrag, I wonder if I’ve finally learned my cosmic lesson.
It’s dawning on me that maybe I don’t have to grind myself down to a nub to be successful, worthy, or abundant.
Maybe I don’t have to keep deferring my creative expression or ignoring my actual needs.
Maybe this delicate, sensitive flower is going on hiatus—for the foreseeable future—doing the next thing that feels good. And then the next after that. And the next after that.
Field notes from an atmospheric river in Vancouver, circa January 2022.
It's winter in Vancouver. I'm driving up the Lougheed Highway with a parking ticket slicked to my windshield. The days are long and dark. I dragged out my Seasonal Affective Disorder lamp and sat under it like a lizard for the recommended 20 minutes a day; it does help a little.
Everyone, myself included, is walking around in a daze. I was at Micheal's art supply store this week; every mug and magnet seemed to be from some alternate universe—blah blah, living my best life, whoo hoo, etc. Micheal's CEO is a maniac.
Even the weather agrees; a shipping container crashed into the seawall this week in English Bay. Then I saw a video clip where patio furniture was flying through downtown.
It occurs to me to get my nails painted. After all, the nail salon is familiar, and nothing is required of me there. They make room for me in the bay of customers, and the technician clips my nails short. Then, she polishes them with a clear coat of Nail Envy, which promises to strengthen weak and damaged nails.
The woman next to me has chosen a soft, muted grey pink. It looks beautiful on her, so I say so, which leads to a conversation about beauty ideals, men and dating, mothers and limits. She has deep and soulful eyes that peek above her mask, her fake eyelashes gently askew.
Maybe she senses my sadness because she lists things that sound like they've come from a fortune cookie. I politely nod back in half-hearted agreement. But, unfortunately, I'm not quite there.
#covidblues #atmosphericriver #sunlamp #MichealsCEOisamaniac #flyingpatiofurniture #nailenvy #vancouverwinter
