An Optimistic Update: My Ambiguous Return

Connecting the dots and finding the shape of things

A quick note:

Hi! It’s been awhile. This year is moving at a very different pace than I originally planned for. How has it been for you?

I took a break in January, already imagining a dramatic and impressive return with clarity for the next version of Outsourced and a calendar of ideas I could share with you, so you (and I) would finally know what to expect and when. They say consistency is important for building trust with your readers, but, truthfully, no one wants the known-ness of a defined direction more than me.

Now it’s April. And, instead, I am here with a different invitation. I have the ideas, but no idea how they will unfold. Much like the first version of this project, it’s going to be a learning-in-public situation. An in-process experiment by an in-progress human. Maybe that’s what you were here for all along. Maybe me too.

All this really means is I’m going to be testing out some new mediums, topics, and structures. I’ll be playing around with look and layout. I might pop into your inbox on different days. I may veer outside of the ‘real life through fiction’ premise. I’ll introduce some new series and sections that are really fun in my mind, but need to take shape on paper. If they don’t work, I’ll iterate or you may never see anything like it again.

All that to say, you can expect consistent inconsistency. I think it’s going to be a lot of fun. And maybe a little weird. Let’s find out together, shall we?

Today, I have the start of a new (potential) series for you, (tentatively) called Connect Four, because that’s what it feels like. That, and also like thoughts swinging from one monkey bar to the next monkey bar (a better visual, but a less catchy name).

A little backstory: I am in the middle of a guided Artist’s Way experience hosted by

Little Things

and, in regularly doing the morning pages (free write journaling), I have started noticing my brain making unexpected connections and putting like things together to make a new kind of sense. Just like Julia Cameron promised “the Artist Brain is associative and freewheeling, yoking things together to create meaning.”

Connect Four is a mapping of those synchronicities and seemingly random connections, while also creating a more casual space for me to share a short form collection of experiences, discoveries, resources, inspiration, and recommendations. Four things at a time.

Like this…

— one —

Did you know that when you’re training for a marathon, you never run the full 26 miles? Usually, the longest run you’ll do is 20 miles. That means, on the day of the race, you will reach the farthest point you know you’re capable of, and you’ll still have six miles to go.

I know this because my husband just ran his first marathon a few weeks ago. He knew other people who were running, but he trained on his own and he ran on his own. I guess running, even when you do have a group, really is a solo endeavor.

But, at Mile 19, our friend RJ, who has run thirteen marathons (THIRTEEN!), hopped in and ran the last seven miles with him. Or a little bit ahead of him, to be exact. Apparently, this is a thing that runners sometimes do for each other- to help them pace, to keep them going.

He made it so that when Chase was covering that unknown territory, he did it with a familiar face. Can you imagine that kind of generosity and kindness?

It isn’t easy to run 26 miles. I always knew that, of course- it isn’t easy for me to run any miles- but I never really understood it. But, over the last four months, I watched my strong, athletic, healthy husband train to do exactly this. And it was a lot. Even for him. Our whole life shifted to make space for his preparation. Weekends were choreographed around his mile counts, dictated by his extensive tracking spreadsheet.

What I mean is- this is not something you just casually show up and do.

And, yet, here were 22,000 people doing this same, very hard thing.

I wanted to stop every single one of them and ask them why (though, probably in that moment, they were asking themselves the same thing). But, what about when they committed to it, when they signed up and paid for the registration or when they woke up every Saturday morning and ran farther than the weekend before or when their limits were stretched and there was still so much more to go…what were they doing it for? Or who?

The thing is, so many of the runners that day did not look like runners in the way you would expect- lean, gazelle-like figures with tone and definition and 0% body fat. Some did, sure. And the rest were absolutely every other shape and size and age and background you could imagine. Some ran in expensive shoes, some in sandals. One guy was barefoot. Some were styled in coordinating technical gear, perfectly calibrated for peak performance, some were in old t-shirts and shorts that maybe they slept in. A few folks were in full animal suit costumes. I’m not joking.

And here they were. All of them. On the same path, alongside each other, doing the same very hard thing.

And here were the rest of us. On the sidelines. Cheering them on.

This, too, struck me. The sheer volume of support and enthusiasm, everyone standing together for hours, shouting and clapping and playing music and whistling and cheering. Some people even rolled out wagons of waters and fruit and power bars and bandaids to hand out in case any runners got in a pinch between stations. Not to sell, not to promote. Just to help.

Families and friends waved carefully crafted poster board signs like banners, the name of their runner spelled in bubble letters so big and so glittery, they could catch the sunlight and be seen from space.

And the strangers. There were so many strangers who didn’t know anyone running, but they were still there. They woke up, grabbed the whistle or the bluetooth speaker or the cowbell they (somehow) had on hand, and spent their morning cheering on thousands of people they would never know, who would never know them, but would remember that they were there, because it was impossible not to feel how much it mattered. That act of being witnessed in our bravery and vulnerability.

Generosity and kindness was everywhere that day. The brightest most beautiful spectrum of our humanity was on full display.

I wasn’t running, but my spirit was moved. 

— two —

The day of the marathon, when I wasn’t actively trying not to cry from the beauty and hopefulness of it all, I was thinking about an On Being interview I had just listened to with Dacher Keltner about the science of awe¹. In it, he says that, when asked to describe a time or experience that inspired awe, people will rarely mention a god or the grand canyon. Instead, they will tell you about a time they witnessed ordinary people doing extraordinary things. 

I think when we see that capacity in others, it reminds us of that capacity in ourselves.

— three —

Later that day, I referenced the interview and that quote on my instagram, along with a proud wife montage of marathon photos and videos, and my sister responded with an ‘if you like this, you may also like…” recommendation for Vox’s This Is Love podcast.²

Speaking of unlimited capacities, there is no limit to my interest for consuming stories about our shared experience and the resilience of the human spirit, but amazingly, I had never heard of it. 

The first episode I listened to was about a man named Nelson³, who, in the 1980s, bought a giant video camera (video cameras really only came in one size in those days) that he carried with him everywhere. They said he looked like a one man film crew.

The thing was, he wasn’t making a documentary. It wasn’t experimental art or some epic masterpiece he had planned from the beginning. It was just an interest, a fascination, a physically challenging, inconvenient, awkward thing he did for himself and his friends.

He’d capture walks and nights out and impromptu dinner parties and errands. He’d take his camera to their favorite night clubs and document the fringe art and drag shows and outskirt communities that no one else was paying attention to, but he believed should be seen.

Big moments, small moments- he didn’t wait for special occasions to hit record. He didn’t need a significant moment to announce itself. It was all his life. It was all important. And he got it all.

Tens of thousands of hours of footage of ordinary people doing ordinary things.

People are amazing.

— four —

Throughout the episode, Nelson is introduced through audio clips pulled from interviews with his friends. Anecdotes and details are woven through the facts of the story, and thirty minutes later, I really did feel like I knew him.

It is an interesting thing- how we describe someone we loved to someone who didn’t know them in a way that will make them feel like they did. If you read my introduction email when you first subscribed, you know I’m also always asking the other side of that question- how do we tell someone about who we are.

And, since the problems we solve for others are the problems we’ve also had, this fascination has intersected with my copywriting work- specifically an About Page/Bio writing service I’m developing⁴, which might sound like a cold segue after such a warm, human story, but I’d argue that, at its best, our brands and our bios are a human story. And, as

Between The Lines

points out- your about page isn't actually about you.⁵

We respond to what we recognize- our experience reflected in someone else’s, their capacity reminding us what we’re also capable of.

What we share in common becomes a familiar outline, colored in with every beautiful, weird, specific detail that make us unique. That’s what we are drawn to, what we admire and celebrate in each other. And that, I think, is what we talk about when we paint the picture of ourselves.

They described his little house in the meat packing district (when it was still very much the meat packing district). His black dog named Blackout that he found wandering the streets during a blackout. The old percolator he used to make coffee. 

We talk about what we love…

They mentioned his piano and the opera he was composing, using almost exclusively the black keys.

How we spend our time…

They talked about how fast he walked- even though he was never in a hurry.

How we navigate life and the world…

And then of course, the video camera he carried with him everywhere, to record everything.

What we pay attention to.

1. [Listen] On Being: The Science of Awe with Dacher Keltner

2. [Listen] This Is Love podcast

3. [Listen] This is Love: Ep. 57, Nelson’s Camera

4. If you need a scroll-stopping LinkedIn profile or awe-inspiring About Page and are interested in workshopping this service with me, I’m taking a few test clients. Reach out to: outsourcedoptimism@substack.com

5. [Read] The Not-About-You-Page formula