The Trust Fall

I've really never, ever cared for these.

When I was a freshman in high school, I went to see Pearl Jam in concert with my boyfriend. Pearl Jam had connections to Missoula (their bassist, Jeff Ament, is a Montanan) and, well, it was Pearl Jam, so the University of Montana auditorium was packed. It was a big event. This boyfriend of mine had bought us floor seats, which was actually just a mosh pit, and I remember looking over at him with his broken arm in a cast and thinking, This really doesn’t seem like a good idea. He didn’t care, he was pumped and probably a little drunk—and so I tried to be pumped too, even though I don’t love crowds. But Pearl Jam. And “Jeremy.”

Alain Séchas (1955- ) Le Mannequin 1985 Cuvette en plastique bleu remplie de plâtre, mannequin en mousse noir portant un costume d'homme en tergal gris, chemise grise, chaussures noires. 185 x 130 x 76 cm Le Mannequin shows a man in suit whose head is stuck in a concrete stand. Alain Séchas questions the traditional foundation through this tragicomic work. REPRODUCTION A. Séchas, Le Mannequin, 1985. Centre Pompidou, MNAM, Paris. © Adagp, Paris 2021. Photo © Centre Pompidou, MNAM-CCI / Philippe Migeat / Dist. RMN-GP, Prints from € 59, Centre Pompidou

I spent most of that show trying to stay standing upright while the crowd convulsed and watching concert goers get passed on their backs by way of upstretched arms. People were climbing up on the stage and falling backwards in trust falls. Trust falls are my nightmare. Every time we had to do some variation of them in bonding exercises at the beginning of the school year as a kid (we’d gather at Camp Paxon for a few days on Seeley Lake), I would squirm out of it. My instinct to turn toward the ground so I could break my own fall was too great.

Well, we don’t get to avoid what scares us forever, and I find myself in a bit of a trust fall with the universe—and all of you. I talked about this at some length in Monday’s solo episode (“Taking Your Foot Off the Gas”), but I am heading into a “rough initiation,” to quote Francis Weller, and I need to take a sabbatical to give my body a chance to heal. (I’ll share more about the specifics in the June solo episode, which comes out at the end of next month; I’m not being coy, it’s all unfolding in real time, and I need to go through my own process without too much feedback.)

This sabbatical was not planned, nor is it by choice, but as I got organized for it, I found myself looking forward to something that’s not what I would choose because it means I get to take a break. That was a pretty big revelation: In addition to needing to step away to take care of myself for a bit, I’m wiped. I’ve run out of steam. It’s time to stop running.

I’ve written about this before (“What Kind of Horse Are You?”), but I strongly identify with two creatures: My “Shakti”—my connection to the vertical, my life plan or pattern, my intuition—is governed by my panther. My “Chi,” or life force energy that shows up in the horizontal (my work, my daily life) is run by my horse. I have a lot of Chi, or horsepower. While my panther is a wise guide, knowing when to move and where, my horse is both strong and ruled by fear. When I get scared—spooked and startled—my horse takes off. I end up overpowering myself: I will do, do, do and work, work, work, to guarantee everything will be okay.

I let the horse go partly because the horse has taken me far. I love its propulsive energy and the hit of control I feel by carrying myself away. Leaning into my horse feels better to me than standing still and trusting everything will be okay.

It’s not an accident that I fell off a horse a few years ago and broke my neck; and then insisted on getting right back on. :) This June, I get to be with the horses but I won’t be able to ride. Hard medicine, but what I need.

It’s time for more Panther. It’s time for me to find faith for myself by not exclusively relying on myself. There’s a lot of grandiosity in the way I’ve been approaching life: the Divine/God/whatever-you-want-to-call-it can worry about everyone else because I don’t need anything. You worry about them God, I’m totally fine over here…I can take care of myself! But maybe I can’t. My body is saying enough. The little girl in me is really saying, enough. Enough horsepower. I’ve had my foot on the gas for a long time, and what’s mostly at the wheel is my fear and anxiety. It’s not such a fun ride anymore, it’s not sustainable.

I talk a lot more about this in the solo episode—if you’re an overfunctioner, there’s something in there for you, I promise—but I’ve set myself up to be paid in what I produce…all across the board. Nothing I’ve created compensates me in perpetuity (no product, no courses, no company dividends). This is true for a lot of creatives. And it’s true for corporate types, though there’s no HR safety net—the structure is me. (I’d still choose it every day.)

As I’ve settled into this particular call to adventure, I’ve been working to locate my fear. I’m not scared about what’s ahead of me practically (I’m not facing anything life-threatening); I’m scared about what will happen if I stop “performing.” In the past month or two, my fear has been located precisely there: How I will support my family if I don’t religiously write every week (even though only a tiny portion of this community—2.5%—pays me for it)? How will I support my family if I don’t publish a podcast every Thursday that’s supported by your listens and the corresponding advertisers? How will I support my family if I tell all my consulting clients that I need to step away for a minute and put my monthly retainers on pause? Will people forget about me? Will they stop listening and reading if I disappear for a few weeks or even a few months? Will they decide they don’t really need my help or insight anymore? That’s the lesson plan of this rough initiation: Learning to let ceaseless productivity go and find faith that something bigger than me—all of you, the universe—can hold it for a minute….and guess what, it won’t fall apart.

Can I trust it? I’m trusting that I can.

So practically, what does all of this mean?

THE PODCAST:

The podcast will run per normal through the month of June because I’m compulsive and record way ahead. There are some great episodes coming, including the return of mythologist/psychologist Dr Sharon Blackie (her new book is Ripening: Why Women Need Fairytales Now), Belle Burden (author of Strangers), professor Paul Eastwick (author of Bonded by Evolution: The New Science of Love and Connection) and therapist Mark Wolynn (author of the mega bestselling It Didn’t Start With You: How Inherited Family Trauma Shapes Who We Are and How to End the Cycle). Over the course of July, I’m re-running some of my greatest hits, recontextualized for this moment. I’ll be back at the end of July with a solo episode update, and then return to regularly scheduled programming in August.

THE NEWSLETTER:

This is my last newsletter for a minute. Episode pages for the podcast will go up, but I’m not going to be sending out a newsletter for at least a month, likely two…maybe even three? Eeks.

I’ll be back though, and better than ever, because during my sabbatical this newsletter and community will be re-homed on Beehiv. Many of you have asked me when I’m going to jump ship and bail on Substack and the time is now. (Well, to be fair, I’ve been working on it for a couple of months, but well, I’ve been busy and distracted, so now-ish.)

A vast majority of you won’t need to do anything for this move—you might not even really notice. I’ll be porting all of my subscribers over. I will also port the Stripe back-end over too, so if you’re part of this paid community (THANK YOU!) then you likely won’t have to do anything either. (Beehiv has amazing customer support if there are any issues.) If you’re not part of the paid community but have thought about joining, now is actually a good time—I’m going to raise my rates a bit when I make the transition, so you can lock in the annual rate ($80) now. The only people who will need to take some extra steps to stay connected are those who “follow” me through the Substack app—I don’t have your email address in that case, so you’ll need to formally subscribe. Similarly, if you’re paying me through the Substack app, that will all be cancelled when I leave, and you’ll need to recommit. We can cross that bridge when we get to it. (I’ll send out a final email with any important details—and if you’re one of the people paying me through the app, I’ll send you a note when it’s time.)

I know there are a lot of writers/creatives in this community. You can probably guess the reasons why I’m bailing, but I thought I’d hammer them out for anyone else contemplating the move.

So first, Substack has been very good to me and I’m grateful that I got this newsletter going here a few years ago. At its launch, Substack was single-mindedly devoted to writers and newsletters and promised to be a reprieve from social media and algorithms. They offered a blessedly simple CMS and a democratization of tools. There was also great growth, which justified the 10% revenue share.

A couple of years ago, they started to introduce social media artifacts, like “notes” and “followers.” We were irked, but they promised they would continue to prioritize subscribers over followers—though it’s hard to feel that’s true. (I have about 80,000 followers and 41,000 subscribers, so go figure. ) Subscribers are the dream, because as writers, we need your email addresses to be able to reach you. If you “follow” us, we have to rely on yet another algorithm to show you our content…and if we leave, we can’t take you with us. (Substack also promised to never hold writers hostage…oops! They’ve gotten pretty good at violating their stated values.) At some point early last year, during a fundraise that valued them north of $1B, Substack did something to the platform—I don’t know if they broke it, or if they’re simply prioritizing flashy new writers and people who are using tools that writers really didn’t ask for, like…Substack TV and endless video variations—but growth halted. My friends stopped growing too. Most of us have started losing subscribers, month over month.

Here’s the other big issue with Substack, which dovetails with concerns about the fact that they platform Neo-Nazis and people like Andrew Tate. They’re not just a platform, which gives them ample opportunity to say they’re merely supporting free speech. They take a 10% revenue share from everyone publishing on Substack, which means they are enriching themselves on hate speech. It’s a real f*&cking ethical pickle, and I don’t want to participate in it.

Also, their rev share is really, really expensive. When I got my 1099 from Substack last year, I realized that between Stripe (2.9% + a $0.30 transaction fee) and Substack (10%), I’m paying close to 20%, which is disheartening. Beehiv charges a flat fee based on list size and they do not share in your revenue, so moving is a smart financial choice. They also offer a lot more flexibility: Tiers, one-time payment options for people who want to attend an energy bath or workshop but not subscribe, a tip jar, etc. Friends who have made the transition say that operating a Beehiv newsletter is like driving a Maserati—there’s way more support and functionality. In comparison, Substack is a beater. (For one, there is zero support, despite the high pricetag.)

There are other fantastic options besides Beehiv, including Ghost, which I seriously considered. Ghost is a non-profit that baddies like Rebecca Solnit write on…but you need to have some technical know-how, since it’s all open source, and well, that’s not me. I’m a one-person show! If you decide to publish on Ghost, check out Outpost as a marketing integration, they seem fantastic. Someday, I’ll move to Ghost; in the interim, I’m excited to give Beehiv a spin.

Alright, that’s a lot for one email. I’ll be back soon-ish. In the interim, you can find me every Thursday on Pulling the Thread. Please don’t forget about me! I’m going to close my eyes, lean back, and resist every urge to turn my body to the ground and run. :)