There’s an interesting disconnect between myself as I am and the self I could strive harder to be.

I think of this as “me” and “the professional me”. The second version almost always knows what should be done and has a good sense for how to do it. The first version is who I am and what I do, with all my logic and illogic, perfections and imperfections, energy and exhaustion. When I give advice to others, I employ the abilities of the professional me – and, because professional me has the answers, I give the impression that I do what these answers advise.

Today, a friend was telling me about some doubts with a class, and I was able to give quite sound advice on how to care, but not too much, and on how to let things go, but not too much.

Meanwhile, I was there, still recovering from the almost definitionally irrational throes of grief and alone-ness, sitting on an unfinished assignment that, yeah, doesn’t have to get done per se, but definitely should get done. It’s disconcerting to hear yourself give advice to others about what they should be doing and how they should approach issues when you would benefit from that advice yourself.

My life is something of an Instagram life: I often give a very convincing impression of being calm and in control. Largely, I think I am. But the me who was laying down 6-minute mile after 6-minute mile last week, tears streaming down my face, was not calm or in control.

I suppose that, in some ways, I was in control. I was tremendously affected, yet I went out and did stuff. On the other hand, passing cars with a visibly trembling lip and crunched-up-in-sadness face seems less controlled and less calm than usual.

(And, although running is very much a “doing stuff” kind of activity, for me it’s also very much an “I need to not think” kind of activity – and I’m quite good at running even when everything else is falling apart. Interestingly, the tougher part is reminding myself to not run too much. I force myself to consider the larger goals, like doing an injury-free work-up to 55–65 miles per week. Thankfully, it’s easy to cut a run short: make a plan, follow a route, and just stop when the route is up. I’m realizing now that I should attempt to introduce this automated decision-making style to more aspects of my life. Following a plan is easier than improvisation.)

Moreover, “calm” is far from the first word that comes to mind when I think of my minding spiralling from my teammates’ deaths into imagining my other friends’ deaths and my loved ones’ deaths.

It’s a real bad feeling. Whenever my friend who broke the news (news-es?) sends me a text with some variation on “yo” (as is his heart-stopping [hyperbole!] habit), I semi-consciously steel myself for the news of another death. It’s a real bad feeling. It can’t be natural. But I don’t know another way because when someone’s brought you bad news three times – particularly in the rapid-succession style it “enjoyed” – there’s some frequentist logic to performing this steeling, even if the Bayesians would have point out the silliness (at least I think that’s an accurate reflection of the statistical dichotomy – idk). I erringly think this steeling is better because it prepares me for the potential shock. As I was reminded this week, nothing prepares you for that shock. So probably I should stop. Anyway, that’s the advice of the professional me. Me, as I am, will struggle to put this into practice because emotions aren’t logical.

Anyway, I am feeling better today. I’ve been able to work – partly because I made myself work, partly because I think I’m legitimately doing better – and I’ve gotten some good stuff done.

I guess professional me is “mask on”; me, as I exist in my head and as I exist in my room, is “mask off”. I’ve been trying to remove the mask from professional me, and I think I’ve been making progress. I let some people know of the badness that’s going on, which was actually new for me. I usually keep this inside, ostensibly to protect others from the pain I’m enduring, but I’ve realized that this isn’t sustainable, and that people who care can offload some of the pain for you.

Anyway, I’m attempting to shift away from this Instagram-style outward presentation. It’s tough when people value your calm and your happiness. And it’s tough when you don’t want to talk about the things that are happening (because, when they’re as hard as they’ve been, who does?). And part of that desire to not talk to others comes from the fact that people might not want to talk to you: it’s not great to spend time around someone who’s always bellyaching. I sincerely believe that I’m not – statistically, I have some right to be taken aback by my 99.5 tragedy percentile, but it’s tough because I know, know, know that there are people (e.g. the closer friends, the closer family members, the actual family members) who have every right to be way more affected than I am. So when I’m talking, I’m feeling like I’m saying, “Feel bad for me,” but I don’t want people to feel bad for me. The reason I feel bad is because I know there are others who feel worse!

One of my good friends recently warned me against the foolishness of comparative grief (OK, “foolishness” is a connotationally harsh term since it attempts to impose logic on grief-processing strategies). It didn’t help at the moment because nothing does, but it’s helped a bit since. Professional me, I realize, has been extolling the benefits of this mindset for a while: every emotion is valid, even if it feels silly. “No comparative grief” challenges the idea that some people have more of a right to grieve than others. I’d been an adherent to this belief that some people can grieve more than others – basically, the deeper your connection to the involved individual, the stronger your claim to grief. Solidarity stuff is great, but when I was really in it in 2020, the sadness and claimed grief of people at these solidarity things kind of got my goat. How are you this sad when you haven’t even lost anyone? I thought. How do you have the energy to grieve this much? Or are you just pretending to grieve this much, and then you go home and move on with your day? (At the time, I was going home and not moving on with my day – I say this not to elicit sympathy, but to try to reconcile my usual sympathy for others’ suffering with my reduced sympathy here.) Part of me still thinks that some part of this stuff is performative, and that annoys part of me. But I know that some people have significantly more visible emotions than I do, and I also know now that something could really bother someone in a way that doesn’t even make sense to that person. So yeah, I’m still a little skeptical for some people, but I try to be much more accepting of the different ways in which people approach different things, and I try to be thankful for the idea that I can move past these major things and keep on keeping on when others have trouble moving past things that I’ve been able to move past.

One thing I’ve realized is that I’m sometimes still skeptical of others’ grief. It’s a strange duality: I’m much more willing to entertain the idea that someone is carrying something real tough (because I know I am), but when people say, “This is so horrible for me,” I kind of think, “Is it?” I’ve gotten better at not doing this (i.e. everyone has the right to grieve, and everyone has the right to grieve in their own way) – this is much more the broken 2020 me talking than the more mature me of right now. Still, though, it’s a strange duality that doesn’t fully track with my general acceptance of grief for things as long-term trivial as tough math exams to things as long-term nontrivial as matters of life and death. I’m still thinking this one through.

In summary, becoming aware of the concept of “no comparative grief” is great: it gives an essential equal right to grieve, and it reminds me that I really shouldn’t be mad at someone for being sad. Being sad isn’t something to envy, so why should I be mad at others for being sad?

Again, this is the professional me saying things like, Being sad isn’t something to envy, so why should I be mad at others for being sad? It does feel legitimately weird for others to be presenting sadness more than you for going through (I think?) less, so I think that’s why I’m a little mad, but it’s whatever.

I’ve realized that “It’s Whatever” is, in some ways, a better concept than “It Is”. The main reason why it’s better? Joel Embiid, the runner-up for NBA MVP, presented it as his view of the perceived snub. Research reveals that Joel Embiid is a man who’s been through a lot: he missed his first two seasons due to injury; during the same time, his younger brother was killed in a car accident. He’s since emerged as a stunningly resilient leader – I was going to say “as a stunningly resilient ironman” before realizing that his injury-prone nature evidences an earthly composition of something much less robust than iron – developing from an often-injured, ill-conditioned Twitter troll into a man who plays through a torn MCL, guides his team through absurd levels of in-season drama, and then – on the heels of his first injury free-ish season ever – tears his thumb, gets concussed, and breaks his face – and then dives into the stands, gets hit in the face and brough to tears, and continues to play.

The concluding nature of “It’s Whatever” is also cool. “It is” trails off. “It’s Whatever” has a forcefulness to it. “It is” leaves the possibility for some hope, while “It’s Whatever” slams the door and moves on.

I’m starting to think that, after embracing the beauty of the unknown with “it is” to ground myself from spiralling worry, the time has come to move on. Am I moving on too fast? Should I take more time? What more should I do? What less should I do? “It’s Whatever” —Joel Embiid.