You know, that one fucking moment
I live on planes.
You think I’m joking? We are in the 16th week of 2017, and I have been on 10 trips. Since I refuse to do work on planes (I spend too many hours already working), I get to catch up with (A LOT) of entertainment.
As I was flying up to Seattle (in my favorite seat — 11F — which is close to the front and has two windows; on my favorite short haul airline, Alaska) I was watching Girl Boss on Netflix. Between you and me, I became less and less of fan as the series progressed as the main character went from quirky and adorable to annoying and listless, which given the person it’s based on saddened me.
In the final episode (light spoilers, but dammit, it’s based on a real person YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS!) there is this moment where during the launch party for Nasty Gal where Sophia runs outside and falls to her knees in tears after having the realization that she had achieved a milestone AND THE PRESSURE JUST BUILT.
Except this was written by writers not entrepreneurs, so the writers decided to attribute the EXPLOSION of feelings to a recent heartbreak.
(Ok, quick aside. FUCK YOU WRITERS. Why doesn’t the Herculean effort Sophia and her friends achieve warrant the center of your story? Do you honestly believe that you had to humanize an FUCKING FORCE OF NATURE FOUNDER by pushing her heartbreak forward. GOD FUCKING DAMN IT.)
But, as tears streamed down my face (behind my hands as I tried to ensure that my rowmate didn’t think I was crying due to her absolutely rotten smell), a realization smacked me.
Writers write what they know, and unless you have ever been there, on your knees, starting into space wondering how…just fucking how…you will be able to carry this burden with grace and strength and foresight, and how to hide your abject fear from everyone. Because WHO THE FUCKED EVER BELIEVES IN A 25 YEAR OLD FOUNDER?
I know at this point you are screaming at your phone “DAMMIT MICAH I GET BEING A FOUNDER IS HARD, CAN WE STOP TALKING ABOUT IT?”
No.
I watch my sisters with their children and realize I can never know what it is like to be a mother. And, yes, my love for them and my nephews and niece are off the charts, beaten only by my respect for what they have accomplished.
I watch artists — real artists — and writers — real writers — create fantastic pieces; life changing pieces, and I know I will never know what it feels like to spend time writing a book, or designing a sculpture that defines me and then have the world critique it.
But I can empathize. And there is where we fail each other.
Each us, regardless of profession, race, gender, age have those fucking moments which are unique (and they ARE) to each of us. But they are not unrelatable. We have all had that exact moment where the world said “here” and we responded with “why me?”
That one fucking moment where on the clock it lasted a minute, but on our souls it’s never ending.
Respect the moment when it happens to you. Recognize that it is just a moment, a fucking moment. That for most people, falling to your knees just after your tears hit the street, is a prison that is nearly impossible to extricate yourself from without a small gesture from someone else.
Fall to your knees. Cry your heart out. But don’t close your eyes, there are hands, shoulders and ears reaching out. You are only alone when you close your eyes.
For Sophia…(lets not talk about the fucking horrible breakup scene…)
Him: “How’s Nasty Gal going?”
Her: “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Seriously? The thing that defines your life, that contributed to the heart break, not because of the hours put into the company, but because his lack of respecting the emotional effort led to …well, just watch.
You always should talk about the things that matter the most to you, that scare you, that bubble up uncertainty. You should find a tribe that understand those moments and can share in the weight.
Those goddamn fucking moments.