Welcome to can’t relate, a newsletter from me, Maria Del Russo, that I write biweekly. Here, you can expect essays from me where I grapple with the weight of relationships — romantic, familial, friendly, and everything in between. If you like what you’ve read, consider subscribing so you’ll be notified whenever I publish.
xxMDR
Remember how in my last newsletter I wrote that I was feeling like slowing down, but that the feeling would probably not last? Well, I must be psychic, because I am currently whipping myself into a frenzy.
One of the parts of myself that I’m really trying to work on is the fact that I can’t just slow down and take things moment by moment. “Chill” is a word I would love to embody, but can’t seem to reach — not permanently, at least. No, I feel like I’m more comfortable with the verb “careening.” I’m constantly bouncing off of things, lurching this way and that, and getting spun up in myself. I have a set goal in mind, of course, that I am, on paper, working towards. But it’s hard for me to love the journey, to settle into the process, and to take things one step at a time.
This time last year, I was living at my childhood home between leases, apartment-hunting with my boyfriend, and struggling through an ever-dwindling list of freelance contracts. It was the middle of the pandemic, and even though my brain felt frazzled, there wasn’t a whole lot I (or anyone, for that matter) could do. I was forced to sit in place, which gave me the time to figure out the bits and pieces of my life in short order. It was effective. My partner and I found a place and I settled into a new, full-time job in the same week, and for the past 10-ish months I’ve been living in that space. And it was good — for a while.
But now that the world is opening up, I feel like I’m in hyper-drive. I am decidedly unsettled, thanks in large part to a lot of changes brought on by the pandemic. My partner and I have made the decision to move out of our shared apartment and into separate places, and I’ll have to start from scratch with getting my new home together — which will take a while. I’ve also been promoted at work, which is amazing but has brought on a new set of hurdles and responsibilities. And now that we’re not living under the constant stress of lockdown, I feel my creativity coming back, and I want to throw myself into my side-hustles: More freelance work, making this newsletter amazing, and *finally* handing my agent some more pages for my book. (Sorry, Hannah. I owe you an email.)
Desmond Tutu once said that “the only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.” But I’m trying to unhinge my jaw and swallow the elephant whole. I’m Han Solo (my husband) and Chewbacca trying to make the jump to lightspeed, but I still have the emergency brake on. It’s a problem.
All of this is because the way that I define success is flawed. I see success as a final destination, a concrete spot that I’ll be able to land on and claim. In this spot, all my anxieties and neurosis will fade away. I’ll have enough money, enough notoriety, and enough “happiness” for my shoulder to finally settle from around my ears. But the issue is that the goalpost keeps moving. I look around and see people at various states of success and think: Why not me? So I make larger plans — a second and third book, more money, regular trips to Paris, whatever. But when I hit those, I know I’ll just want more. It’s maddening.
So what’s the solution? Well, who knows, but I’m trying to work on the concept of “enough.”
There’s a story about Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller, who wrote Slaughterhouse-Five and Catch-22, respectively. Heller wrote a poem about an interaction the two authors had at a party hosted by a billionaire. At the party, Vonnegut remarks to Heller that their host makes more money in a year than Heller’s book will ever make in its lifetime, and Heller responds that he has something the billionaire will never have. “What’s that?” Vonnegut asks. Heller responds: “The knowledge that I have enough.”
What Heller is saying here is that, objectively, he has enough to live a good life. He’s got a roof over his head, food on his table, and enough dollars in his pocket to cover both. By recognizing that he does, in fact, have enough, he’s free of the constant striving, the incessant feeling of being slighted by fate. He has enough.
Objectively, I have more than enough. And I need to start remembering that, because the beauty of finally realizing that you have enough is that it allows you to enjoy the extras you get as just that — extras. Did you get a pay bump at work? Amazing! Can you afford a slightly larger apartment now than you did before? Cool! By reframing your markers of success around the idea that you have enough, the rest falls away. You realize you don’t have to monetize your hobbies because you have enough that you can just enjoy them as for the respite they provide. You don’t need a Togo couch because everyone has them on Instagram — you don’t even like the way they look, and they’re way too expensive, and I like to kick my feet up on the arms of a sofa when I’m binging old episodes of Barefoot Contessa on a Sunday morning. You don’t need more followers or more friends or more money. You can just live in the moment and be happy with what you’ve got because it’s enough, Maria, alright!! Just!! Relax!!!!
We get so caught up in the “shoulds” that we think where we are isn’t satisfying enough. (I blame a lot of this on the ~evils~ of social media and how it fuels compare culture.) But starting today, even if I have a hard time slowing down, I’m officially attempting to operate from a place of “enough.” I have all that I need to be happy, and if some extras come along, amazing. I’m eating the elephant one bite at a time. That is where I am, or at least where I’m trying to be. And for now, just the act of trying feels like enough.