Someone asked me the other day if I've ever written a blog. I confess I usually hesitate when people ask me this, because it was sort of nice to exist in relative anonymity, and I still don't like outing myself to people I have to see on a regular basis, unless I choose to be vulnerable with them. But on the other hand, this space and the community I found through it have been so important to me for over fifteen years that it's hard not to acknowledge; it's also shaped the person I've become far beyond the page.
The fact that there are 5 million paid subscriptions and 35 million active subscriptions on Substack alone, never mind the people who just read occasionally or the other platforms where blogging happens, seems to indicate that there's still something we crave about the connection we can only make with other humans in long form writing. It requires us to slow down, requires attention, in a way that TikTok or doomscrolling on Instagram never did. And I think it's something we really need right now.
Though I don't read nearly as much Substack as I used to read Blogger, one of my colleagues recently shared a post with me from our former Dean of the College -- a professor of English and Theater, and a person who I came to admire in so many ways during her years at the helm. Her stack is about the experience of living with "indolent" stage four endometrial cancer, and while the post is a meditation on where she finds herself right now, she also talks about connection and witness in ways that resonate for me.
Though there are some notable exceptions, we generally suck at simply being present when we can't fix a difficult situation, and this is particularly true in cases of grief and loss. Five years ago I wrote this post about sitting with people through grief, in particular, sitting with people through the loss of a child to suicide, and (to take me back to where I started today), that ability to really be with people when you can't do anything continues to be my most meaningful takeaway from blogging.
In the past few months, one of my best friends has been dealing with stage three colon cancer, and is going through chemo, which is nasty no matter how you slice it. My college roommate had brain surgery to remove a large fistula that was trying its best to kill her, and though she is healing now, it's going to be a long road. My high school English teacher had to have a stent put in for NPH. While I brought them or sent them all food, because that's one of the ways I try to see embodied humans, perhaps more valuable was just being there, acknowledging the awfulness, showing up when I could, seeing them, "abiding," as Mel has called it in the ALI blogging community.
At work, we're about to welcome the incoming class, and among the things they have to do over the summer is a reflective self-paced course that tries to get them thinking about their purpose in coming to college. I was going through the course just so I could see what they'd see, and found that one of the assignments asks students "if you could wave a magic wand and change anything in the world, what would it be and why?" As I was writing my answer, I didn't think much about it, but I realize now just how informed it was by this impetus towards presence and connection; I said something about wanting people to see the world through other people's perspectives to the extent possible, and when it isn't possible, to bear witness to their experiences in ways that may require them to be profoundly uncomfortable.
All of that to say: I'm still grateful for this space, fifteen years in, even when I don't write much any more. Thanks for being here, and for teaching me how to be there, too.
It's strawberry season here, so in the spirit of sharing food, here's a cake I made from Yossy Arefi's Snacking Cakes book a while back. She shared the recipe in her substack, here. It's what I might bring to make the first five minutes of sitting together just a little easier.
