the yips

had a public crash out and can't write about anything else

Well, folks, it appears as though I’ve got the yips.

If you’re unfamiliar with the yips, it’s a term broadly used by athletes who suddenly and inexplicably couldn’t perform the skill they’ve previously mastered. Originally, it had to do mostly with involuntary muscle spasms that interfered with a rote motor skill. But now, it’s just another way to say….

Choking.

We all have things we can do with some relative degree of automaticity. Brushing your teeth. Driving to work. Your morning routine. Even things that require a high degree of skill, like playing an instrument or performing surgery, can become second nature when practiced enough.

Until, that is, you start thinking about it, and self-consciousness sends the whole house of cards careening to the ground—your conscious mind interfering with processes that seem to just flow when you’re on autopilot. The more you focus on the exact steps—on not messing up—the more likely you are to fumble.

Last week, I tried to put together a piece about self-care, and the mere fact that I was writing something about self-care started to make me nauseous—it felt impossibly trite and, frankly, boring. Then, I tried to turn it into something about how the wellness industry is ruining community and third spaces via commodification, and I couldn’t string together a single coherent thought (honestly, though, this is still probably going to come out at some point).

Then, I started to panic. The sinking feeling that I would never be able to think of something exciting or meaningful or even marginally good ever again started to creep in and take over, which…definitely didn’t help.

So, now, the only thing I can think to do is share something honest.

Last Friday, during a stretch of unseasonably warm weather, I took the afternoon off and went climbing. Rock climbing is one of my favorite things. Access to prime climbing is not an insignificant factor in why I live where I do. But as I got halfway up the wall on my second route, I stopped and came down. Something wasn’t right. I took a deep breath, tried again, got a little further, and again, stopped.

I knew something was deeply wrong.

My brain kept looping a negative story—I don’t like this, I want to go home—I bailed mid-climb and had a very public, embarrassing mental breakdown, softly sobbing for all to see.

Because a) I felt like I was wasting this beautiful day, and b) the fact that this thing that’s supposed to be fun was making me miserable was very distressing. I started to realize that I hadn’t had fun or genuinely enjoyed anything in a really, really long time.

It dawned on me, 40 ft off the ground, that I’ve been feeling quite depressed.

Now, I’m not one to pathologize myself. Moments of depressed mood are human and normal, and not always something to label and panic over. I’ve experienced debilitating clinical depression before. But I got myself out of it, and that experience forms the lens through which I’m able to write what I write.

But being back here makes me feel like a fraud. I know I have the tools necessary to get out of it, and I know this is my mind and body’s request for change, but still, here I am, just having totally rearranged my life to prioritize and pursue writing, and suddenly, my mind is blank. I’m at this crossroads where I feel like I have to spend all of my free time writing, but now I’ve spent too much time alone with my thoughts that I’m starting to lose touch with reality. I emptied everything out and forgot to put anything back in.

You know that scene in New Girl where Nick, to overcome his writer’s block while working on his zombie novel, decides he needs to be “more like Hemingway” and live more adventurously, so he decides to get drunk at the zoo?

I know in the end it just ends up being a big procrastination ploy, but before that… it’s honestly such a relatable feeling—too much thinking, not enough living.

I put a lot of pressure on myself to continue to put out things that feel true and interesting and entertaining, and that resonate. I’ve been writing on here for two years, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it, AND I’ve had a great time doing it. It has been such a gift.

But for the first time, I’m coming up empty. Everything feels derivative, or like I’ve said everything I have to say, and I’m starting to become a broken record.

And—everything that comes out just feels snarky. Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely be snarky, but it’s not my M.O. I don’t really want to keep writing critiques—at least not every week. But when it does well, and I’m rewarded for it, it’s all I can think of to write about.

But I’m not moved by negativity, and I’m not inspired by snobbery.

What I am inspired by is the feeling I get when I step out into the crisp, cold air on a clear night and am greeted by a sky full of sparkling stars.

By learning about how our species works and the absolutely remarkable course of improbable miracles that it took not just for there to be life on earth, but for us to be the way that we are.

By testing my limits and finding my edges—by feeling like your body is going to give out, and then finding yourself on the top of a mountain, looking at the earth stretched out before you.

By the fact that we live on a planet where there are sunsets and lightning and auroras and trees and water that sparkles when the sun hits it just right, and with people who write poems and do back flips and know how to fix engines.

All of these things are the reason why I do what I do. I’m obsessed with the mystery and wonder of it all.

OBSESSED.

And I haven’t been doing the most important thing I could be doing as a writer, which is indulging that obsession by experiencing it all and honoring the things that excite me the most.

I cannot inspire if I’m not allowing myself to be inspired.

If you’ve gotten this far, thank you.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to release this, but I didn’t feel like I could proceed without getting that out, and it didn’t feel complete unless I released it out into the world. It’s like the sink was clogged, but I was running the faucet, hoping that it would take care of itself. But I was starting to realize that if I didn’t address the clog head-on, nothing was going to flow.

So thank you for being here and thank you for sharing this space with me and allowing me to share what’s on my mind and heart.