My year in unproductivity, wrapped
Issue 124
Hello friend, welcome to Scrap Facts. I’m Katherine, and I’m glad you’re here.
If you’re new here, welcome. This newsletter came about from my health reporter days when I wanted to find a way to give life to the many fascinating tidbits that got cut from my stories. Now it’s evolved into a space where I write about what I learn wherever I can.
Welcome to December, the month that is approximately 24 hours long! This sprint to the finish/next start line is full of year-end reviews, some of which are fun (hi, Spotify), and others of which feel are first-class tickets to feelings of inadequacy.
Logically, I know that comparison robs us of joy. But because I can’t help myself, I preemptively muted the accounts online that give rise to my biggest insecurities, per the advice of a friend’s secular wellness Advent Calendar newsletter. I plan to delete the apps entirely over the time I plan to spend with family.
The thing is, this year has been the least productive year on record for me, at least in terms of tangible output. My year-end review would be a bust. I wouldn’t even make it to the Comparison Olympics, because I wouldn’t even qualify.
A big part of this is from a change in my work: I left journalism in 2023. Journalism is a field with longer hours than most, partly because of reporter ego, but mostly because of ad sales that demand a fixed number of regularly published products.
I was excited to have a little more work-life balance. I planned to spend the extra time I gained in the day doing activities I always wanted to do: learning to draw, developing kitchen skills, building a Little Free Library, doing a pullup.
In classic Virgo fashion, my January self prepared a rough timeline for my goals. I gave myself a few weeks to scale the learning curve of my new role, and then gave myself deadlines with ample warnings of when they’d approach. I was going to crush my non-work objectives.
My December self is here to say: I did none of these things.
I have a sketchbook that I doodle in sometimes. At the time of writing, the last meal I cooked with an Instant Pot could be described as “technically edible.” I got so far as googling how to build a Little Free Library, and this week, my physical therapist said that my flexed arm hang was “not as bad as she was expecting” — but it was very much not a pullup.
I don’t really care about why I didn’t do the things I planned in 2024. They’re personal goals that don’t really matter, and besides, 11 months ago is akin to a lifetime in our Age of Unprecedented Events. (Let’s be real, some of them are Precedented now.)
What’s far more interesting to me is what I did instead with all that time.
Reader, I did nothing. At least nothing that got me closer to any goal.
I went for walks and runs around my neighborhood and delighted when I noticed something new. I played with my cats. I beat a video game from my childhood. I sang, sometimes well, but mostly loudly. I listened to vinyl albums in their entirety.
I watched movies. I watched reality TV. I watched every single X-Men film, as well as the new X-Men 97 TV show on Disney+, which is really more of a soap opera than I was expecting.
I went to book clubs to meet new people. Sometimes they were not my crowd, and that’s okay! I went to thrift shops and independent book stores on my own and talked to the owners. I went all over the country — and even across international waters in some cases — to visit friends. I went to the pool, the library, and to my very first quarry.
I read more than I ever have in my adult life. I’m pretty sure I also ran more, because for once I didn’t get injured by pushing myself too hard. It doesn’t matter how much I did of either, because I did it all for me.
I also made mistakes this year. Many mistakes, in fact. That is a pattern I’ve witnessed in my life before 2024, and I’m sure it will continue into 2025.
But unlike in other years, where I beat myself up over errors, this year I was moving slow enough to try to thoughtfully learn from them. They still sucked, but at least they didn’t carry the added weight of self-loathing.
Sabrina Imbler, the science writer of How Far the Light Reaches, wrote an essay about the immortal jellyfish that has stuck with me for months now. It’s how Turritopsis dohrnii can achieve the remarkable feat of reverse aging. Scientists have been able to do it over and over again in a lab — but only by exposing the jellyfish to extreme stress, like starvation or a injury.
It’s an incredibly cool survival mechanism. It shows us all the ways that life can be resilient. But Imbler wonders how Turritopsis would live if it never experienced that stress. What would it be known for them?
In the human world, I’ve heard again and again that hardship brings out our true selves. It’s meant to say that we learn that we’re capable of rising to the occasion, even when we don’t think we can.
I’m so over the idea that we need stress to find our true depths. First of all, it implies that life isn’t already hard. It is! Sure, it could always be harder. At some points in life, it will be. But in the 21st Century, in whatever era of global inequality we’re in: It’s. All. Hard.
Instead, I want to answer Imbler’s question: Who are we when we’re able to just…be?
When I look back at this year, I do not see the person I thought I wanted to be a few years ago. In fact, my decreased ambition — at least when it comes to things I would want to showcase — would fill my past self with shame.
Instead, I see the person that my childhood self dreamed of. Someone who answers the phone when loved ones call, and picks up the phone when they need to. Someone who’s playful, but who also has time to be serious and listen. Someone who doesn’t have to fill the silence.
I couldn’t have found this person if I kept adding to my plate, or even if I had found ways to keep operating at my 2023 output. Instead, it took doing less for me to be more than I ever thought I would be.
I hope this resonates, dear reader, and that you also take care in this last month of 2024. Life is short and precious, but it is also far too long to live in the shadow of a list of accomplishments. Thanks for being here with me ❤️
What else have I been up to?
One of the trips I took to visit friends was just a few weeks ago. We went to Barcelona to visit one of my pals in graduate school and another who was celebrating a milestone birthday. The trip was a dream. What a gift, to spend time visiting with people you love.
Less is more: Shout out to the short kings of books, whose pages are fewer than average but pack a serious punch. Here are just a few that I’ve greatly enjoyed:
My Sister, The Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite: Talk about family ties. This managed to be both funny and serious and heartbreaking, and delightful plane company.
Open Throat by Henry Hoke: A commentary on humanity, told from the perspective of a Los Angeles panther. I read this while my beloved cat Crab Rangoon was missing earlier this year, and it brought me great comfort.
Heavy: An American Memoir by Kiese Layman: I had to sit with this one for a bit. The audiobook is narrated by the author, which makes it even better.
An Honest Woman: A Memoir of Love and Sex Work by Charlotte Shane: Shane is an incredible writer. I still don’t know if I believe she’s a completely reliable narrator, but this memoir is interesting and surprisingly touching. I cried toward the end.
Follow me on Storygraph for more of my recent reads.
That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️
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