I don't want to talk about it 😤

But I guess I'm here anyway

For the past few weeks, I’ve come to my computer, opening blank pages, typing a little, and then abandoning them in frustration. That’s if I even write at all.

Why?, you ask?

Well, I don’t want to talk about it.

I am finding myself in a weird headspace where I don’t really want to talk about anything, but I do want to talk about something. It’s confusing and hard to navigate at best.

My journaling has been short and sporadic — too short, if you ask me. I don’t feel the desire to journal, I don’t know what to say, and at some point I stop showing up all together. Ignoring the advice of the Julia Cameron (the great), instead of writing “I don’t know what to say”, I just get up and leave.

I don’t want to talk about not knowing what to say.

I spent my summer writing about and processing a layoff, questions about my career, and then landing a gig (albeit temporary) in the industry I said I wanted to leave. There are still unanswered questions about what’s next and what I want, where I go, and what I pursue. I’ve been talking about that a lot with folks in my life, and have written thousands of words about that transition this summer on Substack and in my private writing.

But I don’t want to talk about that here, anymore, at least not now.

I’ve also been circling drafts I started one and two and six and fourteen months ago about paid childcare vs staying at home; my growing toddler (and what my ‘favorite age’ really is); organization systems that help me manage my ADHD; my changing levels in patience, tolerance, and courage; the things I thought I knew before becoming a parent; how much I miss concerts; about trying to find my style even though I don’t feel like I have ‘style’; about a music class we used to go to but don’t go to anymore; the ‘Some Things’ essay I wrote back in June that doesn’t feel relevant anymore but I still want to share but don’t know how to share it now that it’s October; dozens of others.

I open them up, read what I wrote, edit what is no longer relevant or resonant, add a sentence or two, and then leave, as I think to myself, I don’t want to talk about that now.

For someone who typically has a lot of opinions and a lot to say, I can’t help but wonder where this self-silencing is coming from.

As I write this, I am tempted to leave a few times. But because you’re reading this, you know I didn’t.

I don’t really want to talk about this, either. At least not on the surface.

I sit with that. A few things pop up.

For starters, there are other things I could be doing. I could be emptying the dishwasher. I could be lying in bed watching a TV show. I could be getting ahead of my client work for tomorrow. I could finally put away the stack of folded pants that just need to make their way to the closet in the hall.

Is that guilt? Or is it a prioritization problem?

“Talking about it” takes time. It takes mental energy, and if I’m spending energy here, it means I am not spending it somewhere else. I feel guilty about that, but I also struggle to justify it sometimes.

I feel like my writing has gotten redundant. How many different takes can we listen to about navigating a career transition (especially one that doesn’t have all the answers yet)? Why are my takes on parenthood different or more interesting than the thousands of other takes on parenthood that have been flooding the internet for decades? Who am I to offer advice or share experiences on neurodivergence? How many times can I show up to this platform and write something meta about struggling with this platform?

Is this a confidence problem? Or is my self-criticism warranted?

“Talking about it” sometimes feels like something I’m constantly going through, constantly processing, and when I’ve moved through the mental, I sometimes find it hard to return to the page. I often forget a big part of my process is thinking and working through something in my head — by the time I could be ready to talk about it, I’m spent.

On the one hand, I think not talking about it is the season I am in. I’m feeling spread thin, and at this point, I’m choosing to do things that aren’t writing to push through it.

But on the other hand, I think I really do want to talk about it, I just can’t seem to figure out how. The drafts and essays I have half-baked need more time, and each new idea I have seems to follow a similar path. Not now, not yet. The frustration of wanting to say something, but not knowing what, lingering for a bit too long. I become disconnected, and I move away from talking about anything altogether.

I’ve told (or perhaps tricked) myself into thinking it has to be all or nothing. I have to write something stunningly prolific, or not write at all, for it to be a ‘successful’ session. My brain tells me those edits and sentences I’ve scattered throughout my drafts aren’t real progress, and aren’t worth it, so the next day I do nothing.

I was listening to something¹ the other day, and they mentioned the concept of “No Zero Days”. That means, if there’s something you want to commit to, do something each day — but never let yourself find zero.

Want to commit to walking outside every day, but having a moment where facing the elements feels insurmountable? Open your front door, take two steps, and walk back inside. Want to get back to reading? Open a book and read a sentence before bed. Want to drink more water? Open your mouth under the faucet and take a sip. None of these actions were probably what you meant when you said “I want to build [xyz habits],” but it’s still a step in the right direction. It’s not stopping, and it’s not finding yourself at zero.

Conceptually, this is something I’ve always sort of bought into — even if I haven’t had the exact words for it. I’ve always told myself, ‘a 3-minute workout is better than nothing, ’ ‘just unload the cups from the dishwasher and you can be done,’ etc. But I’ve always done that in the hopes that once I get started, I’ll want to keep going. It was more of a way to trick myself into finding momentum rather than a tool to keep a habit going day over day.

The permission to stop after that three-minute mark, or when the cups are put away, is always there, but my thought is always “once the cups are put away, I’ll want to keep going”. It’s always been a trick to get myself to do more — not a way to just do something.

I’ve never approached it from the other side. I’ve never thought, “I don’t want to put the dishes away, but don’t want to not have put any dishes away. So today I’ll put away two cups and that’s it”. I’ve never told myself I was actually going to only do the bare minimum and nothing else.

And because I never commit to doing just the smallest bit of something, I end up with a lot of ‘Zero Days’ in many areas in my own life.

I realized I was letting myself have far too many ‘Zero Days’ with writing. My ‘not wanting to talk about it’ was getting in the way of seeing that a scattered sentence or a few edits is, in fact, progress. My innocent ‘10-minute-a-day’ writing habit became a hurdle I felt I could no longer overcome.

Instead of lowering that barrier (five minutes? two sentences? one edit?), I pushed it aside without giving it a second thought. Day after day passed, and with that so did a lot of days that were set to zero. I don’t realize it’s happening, but once I hit a Zero Day, I find it’s so much easier for them to pile on. The zeros stacking up before I realize what’s happening.

Insert your favorite spiel about inertia and momentum and blah blah blah here. I know, I know. In order to write, I have to write. I have to say something. I have to talk about it, even when I don’t want to.

I woke up today and told myself I’d write a sentence. The smallest step, but a step that breaks away from Zero.

I ended up with an essay in my hands before I knew it. That’s not always going to happen, and wasn’t my goal — but by acknowledging I don’t want to talk about it and that I also don’t want any Zero Days, I guess I’ve found a way to talk about it.

Today, an essay.

Tomorrow, maybe just a sentence. But by next week? I could have seven sentences. Maybe more, but I’m not trying to trick myself into more.

Not wanting to talk about it and actually not talking about it are two different things². Chipping away at my current self-silencing, one sentence at a time, is my attempt at figuring out how to want to talk about it. I want to want to talk about it, after all.

I still think I’m in this season of not wanting to talk about it, but maybe I can slowly get myself out of that. Or, at least, I might show up, despite not wanting to talk about it. Choosing to embrace this season instead of fighting it and waiting for ‘inspiration’ to strike.

1. The ‘something’ was a pretty poor-quality, written and narrated by AI YouTube video I stumbled upon and stopped shortly after, but the theory seems to come from a Reddit comment, of all places. The post has since been deleted, but the comment lives on. It’s also been cited in a few other blogs (here, here, and here), and it’s a theory I’ve already come to appreciate, just a few days after I’ve discovered it.

2. That’s why people go to therapy, right? (At for least the introverts…I imagine the extroverts in therapy actually want to talk about it, which is foreign to me but, alas…)