we do not have to be good.*
I’ve been caught doom scrolling, again. Not Instagram or TikTok, as I have managed to stay away from them since I quit cold turkey a few months ago. But I downloaded the Substack app again this week and I have some thoughts.
While I love the poetry, art, and the authentic glimpses into people’s rich lives—I do not love the endless parade of articles carefully written to help me become my best self, maximize my time, master my to-do list, increase my “beauty hormones” (wtf?), and otherwise ensure that only the most ethereal version of me is presented to the prying eyes of the world-at-large.
It’s exhausting.
I’m 37, neurodivergent, a single mom with multiple degrees, and an exvangelical who clawed my way out of a cult. For years, self-improvement was the north star by which I measured my worth. I have poured myself into trying to be the best version of me, holding myself to standards that are impossible to meet. I have searched for the magic solution that would make navigating this hellscape easier, put me on the fast track to whatever success felt like in the moment, and ensure that I was always agreeable and happy.
As it turns out, my friend, none of this makes for a good person and it definitely doesn’t make for a real, grounded, actualized, happy person.
If I sound angry, it’s because I am.
I am so angry that we’ve bought deeply into the lie that we must always be improving ourselves. We have believed that we are not enough and it has stolen our identity, made us afraid of anything imperfect or messy, and robbed us of our human experience. And what’s worse, it’s all a distraction to keep us small and ineffective in the face of real oppression. Our constant comparisons to others, our perceived failings, our lack of efficiency—we are encouraged to hyper-focus on these things so we don’t have the energy for the real work of creating the world we want to live in.
Because as long as we’re striving for unattainable goals, we won’t be holding violent systems accountable for their crimes.
In breaking news, I have recently discovered that I no longer give a fuck. I don’t want to be a quiet, efficient part of this society. I don’t want to be well-behaved and orderly. I want to be feral and disruptive and joyful and just. I want to be alive in a world I want to live in.
I want wrinkles from both laughter and tears. I want comfortable pants and dirty hands from gardening and to pet every dog that I meet. I want to be sensual and well fed and well read. I want friends who are honest and adventurous and real. I want to be just unstable enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who deserve it, and just warm enough to bring comfort to those who need it. I want to drink so deeply of life that it’s dripping down my chin.
The culture of constant improvement wants to steal this from me with its unforgiving measuring stick and ever moving goal posts.
I’m done, retired. No more. I’m not giving it another ounce of my precious attention.
Please, do not believe the lie that there is something wrong with you that can only be fixed with another habit or supplement or planner or professional. Just leave yourself alone and rest for a bit. When the time comes, make change for yourself from a place of authentic self-discovery and let the world spin in its own insanity without you. You don’t need to drink from every cup it hands you. Okay? Okay.
Your feral bestie,
kaela
*(Thank you, Mary Oliver.)
Painting is Timoclea Kills Her Rapist by Elisabetta Sirani, 1659
kp 
Leave a comment