I’ve been living in my new apartment for almost exactly a month. At the end of week four, I finally stopped living out of a suitcase and tucked all of my clothing into a dresser. The end of week three marked the first time I had a functional couch, shower, and dishwasher. Since move-in day, a human-sized cardboard box has loomed over my main living space, playing host to countless other broken-down boxes like the saddest nesting doll there ever was. A weird amount of boxes heavy with books still populate the surrounding area, deferential to the Almighty Collection of Cardboard Refuse. My bookshelves sit empty in undecided space, waiting for me to push them around yet again. In short, I am not yet living in a functional space.
This was the last thing I expected from myself—from this experience. I thought it would take me two weeks tops to find myself fully settled into my cozy little second-floor apartment. Well, the powers that be said “No <3” to that concept.
My April 2nd move-in day was (as they always are) long—but also really nice in its own way. The typical phenomenon played out: you feel you have way too much stuff while you’re in the middle of moving, but once it’s all finally inside your empty unit, it feels like way too little. The “way too much” feeling is usually exacerbated by the amount of grief expressed in the midst of the move-in process by whoever you’ve roped into helping you move. This was especially the case for my parents given that my mom’s back was out. Beyond liking my boyfriend a lot, I also appreciated the fact that he let us exploit him a bit for his strength as a result. He was the real difference-maker in getting us to the a place where we could genuinely say all was well—and he brought champagne to celebrate all of our hard work once we were done :’) By the end of day one, I hit the “way too little” phase where I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, clothes strewn everywhere, and my couchless living room was filled with boxes. But it was an exciting sense of disarray—one that held a lot of promise.
Soon enough, things started coming together: my boyfriend and parents built me a media stand and a bed frame, respectively (they’re the real MVPs of this newsletter!). But other things came together to fall apart. Literally. My boyfriend and I excitedly built my long-awaited green velvet couch only to find that eight of its 24 support slats were missing. I contacted customer service, also sharing that the 16 slats I had seemed too short to bear weight once placed in the couch. They fell through at the slightest movement—or even no movement at all. The customer service rep assured me they would flatten out naturally once used on a fully-slatted couch. So, I sat on my new couch cushions on the floor with the short slats beneath me, attempting to speedrun the flattening process even while couchless. I had a whole regimen, alternating slats day by day so they’d be uniformly sittable by the time The Final Slats arrived.
A week later, when The Final Slats did arrive, they were a completely different (see: longer) length. The correct length. I attempted to evenly disperse them throughout my couch carcass and fill in the holes with the short slats, but my entire sofa crumbled beneath me every time I dared to sit, short slats clattering angrily to the floor. I reset the slats again and again, attempting to keep them in place long enough to sit, but every time I tried, they fell through. The cushions and I started following suit. All I can say is that my downstairs neighbors must have hated me during this slat trial run.
Coming to terms with the fact that I was going to have to wait even longer to have a functional living space was decidedly a bummer. I recontacted customer service for 16 new slats to match the newest eight, but I stubbornly kept using the couch in spite of its instability, working from home or Facetiming friends as it fell apart beneath me. The absurdity of the constant clatter and sensation of sinking through to the floor each time I held out long enough turned my disappointment into something like bemusement. It became an in-joke with those closest to me, this silly illustration of my stubbornness unsurprising to them. Beyond that, it truly can serve as a fair representation of the moving experience for me thus far.
My windows would crank open but not closed, so I had to take the screen off, manually pull in my windowpane, and replace the screen every time I wanted to close any window. Even then, they wouldn’t close completely. The shower, which has intriguingly fire hose-like water pressure, filled to my ankles with standing water within a minute of me stepping inside. This begged the dreaded question: whose hair was still living there with me? I was also in a standoff with my portable dishwasher, which sprayed me in the face with sink water every time I attempted to connect its hose to the tap and turn the water on. I ordered faucet adapters and watched YouTube tutorials on how to tame dishwashers on wheels, but somehow my ancient portable kept besting me. I put up with these things for a while, wondering if it was necessary to bother maintenance (Catholic guilt, ladies & theydies & gents!). Eventually, after weeks of dysfunction, I reached the last dregs of my stubbornness and contacted maintenance with an overlong and apologetic request.
To my property management company’s credit, handyman Larry was sent out to see me the very next day. After working my windows back into shape, he set about checking my dishwasher. He showed me how to properly connect the hose to the faucet and stayed to ensure the appliance ran through a full wash cycle. He gave me tips on how to use the antiquated knobs and buttons, coaching me through connecting the hose to the faucet and cheering me on when I did so successfully. Larry’s kind assistance really started to dig me out of the dumps I had a hard time admitting I was in. Accepting help made me feel a little less helpless. Who would have guessed?
The next day, a kind plumber snaked and checked my drain only to inform me that the drain covering was the issue. It was a completely normal-looking drain cover that, despite being open, only allowed water to drain long, long after the fact—one that he had encountered at apartment after apartment. It was another one of those incredibly dysfunctional items landlords seem to invest in as a united front just to cause tenants—and plumbers!—unnecessary grief. His advice: take it off and never use it again. I did just that, and sure enough, I was relieved to find that I had a functional shower hiding in plain sight all along. And soon enough, three weeks after my original delivery date, the Final Slats arrived. They were the correct length, fitting securely into my couch and allowing it to finally come to life. In spite of the continual couch mishaps, I can truly say I love the piece. It’s incredibly comfortable, supportive, soft… and just a lovely shade of green. Even after weeks of forcibly ascetic floor-based living, I don’t feel regretful when it comes to my purchase. Not a bit.
Just as I was starting to get my feet back under myself, I decided it would be a good idea to wait until the last minute to buy a vastly overpriced unfinished dresser and finish it myself in “my free time.” I add the quotation marks because free time didn’t seem to exist for me this first month. I had to work late a fair amount of nights, and whenever I did have time alone, it seemed that it was spent unboxing and tackling apartment-related projects. I had finished my coffee table with polyurethane and planned to do the same with my dresser, maintaining its light pine that so nicely matched my bed frame and mirror. I built the IKEA contraption slowly but surely, bravely wielding an electric screwdriver for the first time in my life—and doing it so flawlessly. But then the process dragged on due to my greenhorn status.
I used an oil-based polyurethane instead of a water-based alternative, which left my natural pine glossed in a worryingly yellow shade. I sanded down the oil-based layer to decrease the effect and had to wait for another night off to buy a new can of polyurethane. With sanding and coating the entire dresser in addition to its six drawers (each coat took hours to dry), every night was filled with brushing and waiting on layer after layer, all of my windows open and fans running to ensure I didn’t die from chemical pneumonia. And then I decided I wanted painted knobs, so I had to run out for white paint and eventually coat those in layers of semigloss as well. For about a week, I was wading through a minefield of dresser drawers just to go to bed or set foot in my kitchen. Every nook and cranny of my bedroom was covered with sawdust. And the joy that initially came with the novelty of the situation began to fade.
Now that I’m done with the task, I’m happy with the piece and likely better for it. I worked hard to finish something exactly to my liking—to make it perfect for my space. Throughout this move-in process, I have had so many moments of excitement and gratitude for where I’m at and what I’ve given myself, but I also have come to the conclusion that moving in alone while working a full-time job is hard. This is especially the case if you work from home and have few opportunities to escape your makeshift place. My broken-down, unfinished physical space started to parallel how cluttered my mind felt—something I didn’t expect.
I assumed moving would allow my mind to default back to some kind of blank slate—that I would enter this clean, empty space and be washed over by mindfulness and peaceful calm by osmosis. But life doesn’t suddenly change when you move! Just days before move-in, I really messed up for the first time at work. I dropped the ball, and no matter the excuse, it left me far too close to affecting a publishing deadline and the work of others. This first misstep hit me hard, and I had to work long, hard, and late until I made right on what I missed the first time around. Though I was lucky to have a supportive team at my back, I was consumed by stress and disappointment with myself, and I carried this with me into my new space. Working late took time away from moving, and once I was caught up with work, it was jarring to realize that my space hadn’t caught up with me. And neither had my mental state, if I’m being honest.
I haven’t felt too sad or lonely, really—just consistently drained by this process and confounded by how long it’s taken me to make a better situation for myself. Seemingly simple decisions that were supposed to excite me, like where to put my bookshelves (my favorite part of any room!), took a month to make. I was just spending boatloads of time inside, from the workday to my evenings, overwhelmed figuratively and literally by boxes and dysfunctional appliances or furniture. I couldn’t unbox my books because I couldn’t make a decision about where to put my bookshelves, so I spent inordinate amounts of time staring at my phone—if I hadn’t drifted off to sleep out of exhaustion before then. I felt joy when starting productive tasks around the apartment, but that joy wasn’t sustaining me to completion. I had less and less energy to check in with my friends and family via text and sent DMs to friends that I couldn’t bring myself to eventually respond to (if I did that to you and you’re reading this, I’m sorry! I’m working on it!). Every task awaiting me felt insurmountable—like it would take forever to complete—and to be fair to myself, my track record has almost confirmed that thus far. On top of so much drawn-out dysfunction, it just seemed like I was letting myself down on all fronts. I was living in a mess and every part of my life felt just as messy.
Adam Grant at the New York Times has given a name to much of what I’ve been feeling: “languishing.” In his piece “There’s a Name for the Blah You’re Feeling: It’s Called Languishing,” he describes my current state (and maybe yours, too):
“It wasn’t burnout—we still had energy. It wasn’t depression—we didn’t feel hopeless. We just felt somewhat joyless and aimless. […] Languishing is a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you’re muddling through your days, looking at your life through a foggy windshield. And it might be the dominant emotion of 2021.”
Apparently, languishing is a side effect of living through the pandemic—such an intense period of upheaval that has kept us so on-edge for so long that it’s deadened our sense of psychological well-being and puts us more at risk for more serious mental health issues. Grant describes languishing as “the void between depression and flourishing—the absence of well-being.”
“You don’t have symptoms of mental illness, but you’re not the picture of mental health either. You’re not functioning at full capacity. Languishing dulls your motivation, disrupts your ability to focus, and triples the odds that you’ll cut back on work.”
Having someone put a name to exactly what I was going through provided me with more clarity than I’ve had in a long while. It allowed me to better understand myself and, more specifically, why this past month has been so hard for me. And it made me feel less alone—something I need more of now that I’m spending so much time with my own thoughts. And last but most definitely not least, it gave me a place to start.
Grant upholds the helpfulness of “flow”—the state of absorption or immersion in one’s activities or projects—as an antidote to languishing. Fragmented attention and inability to focus contribute directly to languishing, and we can combat those things by carving out interrupted time to spend with ourselves or make progress in our tasks. Grant also suggests celebrating small wins on our path to flow, where we complete tasks at a “just-manageable difficulty,” taking small steps toward reinvigorating ourselves through achievable achievements. In recognizing that these pervasive and persistent feelings aren’t going anywhere, I’ve taken a step (or two) back. I’ve stopped punishing myself and started slowly working through the things I have the bandwidth for… or, depending on the day, accepting that I have no bandwidth whatsoever.
I really wanted my first check-in to be a triumphant one—one where I could tell you guys that moving has been all that I’ve hoped it would be before sharing a bunch of aesthetically-pleasing pictures of my finished and lived-in space. Writing this has been an exercise in accepting that I can’t honestly do that and trying to come to terms with the fact that that’s okay. This newsletter should have gone out last Wednesday. I was so saddened by what I was originally writing, stressed with work, and eventually laid out by my second dose of Pfizer that I had to admit to myself that I needed more time. Initially, taking more time felt like yet another letdown. But I’m so glad I took it.
Acknowledging that I was taking on too much (and needed to recover from being fully vaxxed) allowed me to more freely take time to make decisions about my space. I’ve found the perfect spots for my bookshelves. I’ve made my office space functional. I’ve put away all of my clothes. I’ve cut down on the number of boxes encroaching on all sides. I’ve cleaned up all of the sawdust. I’ve even shown off my place to two of my close friends and actually felt proud of what I’ve pulled together so far. And now I’ve been able to write this piece with a more balanced mindset than when I first approached this topic. Instead of writing myself a pity party, I’ve tried to make space for self-reflection, gratitude, and a little bit of a reality check by slowing down and managing my expectations for my space and for myself.
Neither this piece nor my living space are proud or perfect representations of where I’d like to be right now, but this is where I’m at. And I’m going to accept that it may be a while before get to where I want to be—both mentally and in terms of my living space. In the words of Adam Grant, “‘Not depressed’ doesn’t mean you’re not struggling.” Given that languishing is a product of our largely unchanged circumstances, the path back to well-being, fulfillment, and flow will take time and concentrated—though just-manageable!—effort. So just know… when I hit you guys with that contented apartment tour-esque newsletter down the line, it will be well-earned. But I’m going to make sure that I am kinder to myself in the process of earning it. In the meantime, I hope you are just as kind to yourself if you’re feeling like you’re languishing too. We’re going to get there. It’s quite literally just a matter of time.
This TikTok, which will show you where the title of today’s newlsetter came from if you don’t already know :^)
This lovely fried egg spoon rest by AmandaPaintsandPots on Etsy! I didn’t even know spoon rests existed until last week, when I stumbled across some overpriced ones from West Elm (thank you, scarily accurate Instagram targeted ads). I immediately popped over to Etsy—I’m a longtime Etsy patron, and moving has given me an excuse to indulge a bit more on handcrafted items—and stumbled upon this beautifully whimsical piece. Amanda shipped the spoon rest to me so quickly: it was on my doorstep five days after I ordered it. Beyond that, it’s super high quality. My counters and I are already so much happier :^)
Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution. This Academy Award-nominated Netflix documentary should be required viewing—especially for those of us who are non-disabled. Crip Camp focuses on the impact a hippie-led summer camp for disabled teenagers had on the lives of its campers and counselors—and on America as a whole. Camp Jened’s progressive promotion of the rights of disabled youths and amplification of their voices led to those very youths growing up to fight for accessibility legislation across America from the 1970s onward. The documentary’s focus on the legacy of their hard work (especially that of Judy Heumann) is so moving but also saddening, as it highlights how little attention is afforded to Disabled in Action and those involved in the 504 Sit-in in our history books. As Judy Heumann put it, disabled Americans are “the largest minority group in the United States,” and the Disability Rights Movement should be recognized as the monumental undertaking that is is.
My grandmother’s banana bread. I had my mom send me this simple family recipe after I spent weeks failing to eat the weird amount of bananas I purchased upon move-in. My grandma’s wording was really vague (she was a very talented intuitive cook) and I didn’t know what “cream butter” meant, so I will provide you with the amended version I wish I had when making this just in case you’re in the same boat. I highly recommend this as a cheap and quick way to put a nice breakfast/snack/dessert option on the table. And it tastes really nice—it’s even boyfriend approved :^)
INGREDIENTS: 1/2 cup butter, 2 eggs, 1 cup sugar, 3 mashed bananas, 1 tsp vanilla, 2 cups flour, 1/4 tsp salt, 1 tsp baking soda
Mash bananas on plate using fork until nearly runny
Cream butter: microwave butter until soft (15-30 seconds) or use room temperature butter; beat and stir in a large glass bowl with a wooden spoon followed by a fork (unless you have a stand/hand-mixer—if you do, just use that and then let me know how it feels to be God’s favorite) until light and almost whipped
Whisk eggs in separate bowl until frothy (look for little bubbles!)
Add sugar and eggs to butter bowl; mix
Add bananas and vanilla; mix
Add dry ingredients (flour, salt, baking soda); mix
Bake for 45 minutes at 350° in a greased loaf pan