Hello friend! Welcome to Scrap Facts.
I’m a health care reporter, and a general maximal enthusiast. Each issue, I'll write to you about what I’ve learned through life and on the job.
Happy Halloween, my friend!
As I've been reflecting on this spooky season, I realized my biggest fear was a surprise to me: It’s not a monster, nor a disease, nor any threat to my physical being (though I am still afraid of all of those things): it’s stillness.
It’s counterintuitive, because arguably, stillness is the plainest form of being. But the fear for me comes from the reluctant acknowledgement that I have built so much of my identity around doing.
If you asked me to describe myself, I'd probably tell you the activities that take up my time. I'm a journalist, I'd say, I co-lead a local running group. I'm an endurance athlete, a reader, and a very amateur singer.
By that simplified logic, if I do and therefore I am. If I stop doing, do I simply cease to exist?
Of course, I know this is not true. But there’s knowing in an abstract sense, and knowing when you’re abruptly confronted that we’re not always in control of what we’re able to do. And in those moments of inaction, or stillness, we’re left puzzling out who we are.
My ability to do things gives me a (false) sense of control in my life. If I feel inadequate at my job, I can work longer hours. If I worry I’m not athletic enough, I can build my muscles. And if I fear I’m not a good enough spouse or daughter or friend, I can call my loved ones to check in on them, or send a gift to let them know I’m thinking of them. Sometimes, I don’t even know what I feel bad about — but I know that doing something like reading or listening to music will distract me until I feel better.
These are decent coping skills, I am told, but they don’t get to the root of the problem: That at my core, I am very afraid that without tasks and activities to prove my worth, I am nothing.
A few weeks ago, I failed at a major goal. I had set out to run a marathon abroad. I put in months of work to achieve it. I told those close to me about it. It was a part of who I was for the time it was on my horizon.
But then, on race day, despite my preparation and the knowledge that I should be able to run, I failed. I dropped out halfway.
In the moment stopping seemed like the obvious choice. I had food poisoning two days before, and I had missed an entire day of eating one day, and difficult time eating the next. Plus, I knew I was injured; I had been running on unwell feet for months.
As I recovered physically, with forced stillness and rehydration, my mental space deteriorated. I kept doubting my decision. Was I really that sick? Could I have pushed through? I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, I was just weak. And if that was true, I who even was I If not someone who achieves difficult goals?
In the days that followed, I reminded myself of the facts. Getting sick was beyond my control. I still put in all the work of training, and I needed to heal anyway.
But during the day, I could also distract myself with the bustle of chores and other responsibilities. At night with no activities or chores to distract me, all of my doubt crept right back — and amplified themselves.
Maybe this failed race was indicative of a deeper truth about myself, that I am a failure. Maybe the fact that I am disappointed in myself means that I am a disappointment to others. Maybe the entire identity I’ve built for myself is a lie.
Reading this, I'm sure you're thinking “KEF, that is ridiculous. You didn't fail. That was out of your control. Also, no one cares if you can run a marathon. We have literally so many other modes of transportation these days.”
This is all very valid and reasonable. But I also suspect that this tone of my self talk in these dark moments resonates, at least to some degree, with maybe how you might talk to yourself in some of your own moments of forced stillness.
I don't always feel that bad in stillness now, because frankly I don't have all that much time to be still. But I know that there’s a chance that, in moments of stillness, those thoughts are waiting to resurface. And I can’t keep moving forever. Stillness is inevitable.
So I've decided that what I need these days is a little more exposure therapy. Practice being still through things like meditation or slow yoga or walking without my phone. (I know these are all technically activities — but this is the point I’m at right now.)
It’s not all bad. Sometimes I notice the sounds of birds around me, or the smell of the morning air. Sometimes I just focus on the knowledge that, with no discernible effort, my insides working tirelessly to rush blood to tissues and process nutrients and clear waste.
And I’m asking myself who I am when I’m not doing anything. I’m not sure exactly what the answer is, but I’m trying to notice the qualities in myself that I love: I’m discerning and disarming. I’m thoughtful and caring. I have a tremendous capacity for love — which, yes, is doing something, but arguably, it’s the only thing that really matters in our brief stints on earth.
I don’t know if I’ll ever find the answer. I don’t think it’s possible, frankly, knowing how much we change year to year, month to month, week to week. Maybe, the best we can do is notice who we are in those individual moments, and over time, we’ll find someone wonderful.
What else have I been up to?
A (brief) selection of my work for POLITICO from the last few weeks (if you’re unable to access and would like a PDF, reply to this email):
Three takeaways from comments to the expert panel reviewing FDA's tobacco program
RSV surge casts focus on vaccine pipeline (with Lauren Gardner)
Listen on POLITICO Pulse Check: An interview with Megan R. Wilson on her investigation into the trade association BIO’s personnel changes; an interview with Chris Hammond, a person living with long Covid (if you check out to anything I do, listen to this. And it’s free!)
That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️
Wanna keep in touch outside of this newsletter? Follow me on Twitter and Instagram.