I have spent the last few days trying to understand why I feel such grief about Heather Armstrong’s passing. I knew her, but not well. We worked together in 2008 on one of the first parenting web series on the Internet, Momversation. There are not enough words to explain my feelings about the experience except to say it was special.
Looking back at that period as a whole is a marvel. So many things that dominate our world today got their start in the aughts. Twitter. Facebook. The iPhone. WordPress. YouTube. We all have feelings about social media now. But back then, it felt like the world was getting smaller because of these new tools, and these technological innovations would unite us toward a more inclusive and connected future.
I know this sounds doe-eyed and dreamy, but I am telling you, it really felt that way. There was a time I could start a conversation with anyone on Twitter, and more often than not, they’d respond in some way—even famous people. I still remember when President Obama followed me. I mean, COME ON. That’s how small the Internet felt. Yes, he still follows me. Yes, I am still gushing.
I started a blog in October 2008. I was on a six-month sabbatical that began in April and had no idea the Great Recession was coming. When it arrived, I had trouble finding a job and was terrified I wouldn’t be able to support my family. I read an article about people starting blogs and earning a living. Heather’s blog, Dooce, was heralded as “proof of concept” that if you shouted into the Internet, people would find you, and you could get paid. It was a glimmer of hope at a time that felt a little hopeless.
Instead of talking myself out of something that had statistically little chance of working, I asked myself, “Why not me?” I had a lot of time and few options, so I followed in Heather’s footsteps, taught myself HTML and CSS, and started a mom blog.
A month later, I was featured on the front page of CNN.com, was interviewed on Headline News, and landed a spot on Momversation. I can’t explain how it happened so quickly, but it did. The “mom blog” I created paid my mortgage and put food on the table at a time when millions of people were losing their jobs and homes.
Yesterday, I spent some time watching old Momversation episodes. A couple of things struck me. First, we all look so young. Second, I can hardly stand watching myself. Third, how special this group of women were (and are).
I don’t know what alchemy and magic brought us together, but fifteen years later, I am still connected to most of them in big and small ways. They used to inspire me as creatives, but now they inspire me because of who they are and how they move about in the world. These good humans care so deeply about their communities and contribute to them in brave and impactful ways. And I swear to God, if every person on earth had a friend like in their day-to-day life as I do, we would all live more meaningful and connected lives.
I was in the car this morning with my friends Christine and Cris on the way to a hike in the Columbia Gorge. I relayed the week’s events, talked about Momversation, and how I have this other life as a writer.
“Asha is my neighbor now,” I tell them. “ is my writing coach. I met Karen after she published her first book.”
Christine stopped me. “Do you mean Karen Walrond?”
“Yes,” I replied.
Christine immediately got verklempt. “You know Karen?”
“Yes.”
“She helped get me through my dissertation. I was having a tough time, and her posts were my weekly moments of light.”
Christine gets emotional as I tell her I’ve just texted Karen to let her know she made a massive difference in my friend’s life. She cannot believe this is happening in a way where you dream of telling your hero how you feel about them, and then it actually happens. I am so proud to connect these two wonderful people in my life.
And just like that, my mind returns to Heather. She built the creative house I live in. I write and self-publish deeply personal essays because she helped create that genre. I have friends in my life because of this Internet series I was on, that she was the star of. From the New York Times to Rolling Stone, so many retrospectives and reflections have been written about her impact on our culture. But she made a difference in my life, and I never once told her.
Later in the afternoon, Christine texted me and thanked me for sharing her story with Karen.
“I never let a compliment go to waste,” I reply. “People need to hear nice things about themselves.”
“Yes, so valuable,” Christine agrees.
My job as a human and as a writer is to be as honest and generous with my words as possible. It means telling stories and saying things even if they seem vulnerable or scary. It means expressing precisely how I feel or what people mean to me. It means not choosing my words too carefully because I’m worried about how they will be received. We just don’t know how anything will be received. Or, in Heather’s case, words were received in every possible way – with reverence and vitriol. So she said what she wanted, which was sometimes hard to hear.
Fifteen years ago, Heather Armstrong had every marker of external success I ever wanted. But I know it’s all a trick now. I have every marker of external success that other people have told me they want. It’s all relative, and none of it is a prerequisite to happiness.
The space between what is true in our lives and what we think (or what our broken brains tell us) it should be is the place of such discontent. We can get so lost in striving for the perfect snapshot. But in reality, it’s hard to tell if we are making any headway in any of it. Our lives are unpredictable, and even if we reach a fixed point of perfection, we keep moving, and our ideas about happiness do too.
Right now, I am the happiest I’ve ever been, even though I still have setbacks. I am becoming better friends with the joy of doing things and in getting better at a craft. It’s meaningful to have a creative purpose. And it’s wonderful to appreciate the sweetness of your life as it is.
Sure, I still intend to write something worthy of critical success. But that’s not my job. My job is to write. As for the rest, I keep telling myself, “Why not me?” and I then return to work.
Love,
Giyen
