The conversation was meandering between community cats, an ombre napkin side-hustle, and the general goings-on in the lives of the group text when I confessed my desire to start writing again. For the first time since I studied abroad in college, I was beginning to methodically organize my thoughts by topic, and I was thinking about inviting others to read it.
Tongue-in-cheekly, as everyone and their beloved mother has started a podcast in the past two years: “Is it SoOooOo annoying that I think I have something to say?”
But then, I thought about how thankful I am for the organized, relevant reflections others create and share with me. And my mom read my thoughts on parenting in a kindergarten application essay and called them “beautiful.” And that sermon said something about stepping out in faith. And the thoughts and hopes and learnings just haven’t let up.
I had offered up my idea to start this Substack as a joke, but eventually, I realized I wasn’t really kidding.
And so, today is the star on the mall map: Something More Comfortable. We are here.
I spend much of my time questioning the hows and whats of my everyday doings. Parenting strategies, friendship barometers, marital affections, vet care for a 14-and-a-half-year-old black lab.
What are we doing? How are we doing it? How are we doing at it?
At times, there doesn’t seem to be much, if anything, to speak to definitively. Absolute truth exists, yet the days try to toss us like waves. And yet, I find myself unpacking via text my interconnected thoughts on life and faith and that new recipe I loved, in response to a simple, “How’s your week?”
It must be, at least in part, that the past five years have been wildly uncomfortable, individually and as a whole world, it seems.
Can you relate?
There are the consuming, widespread problems — global pandemics, threatening our physical and mental wellbeing; natural disasters of every kind, tearing through places already dear, or ones we hoped to visit someday; a multitude of wars and political insanities, leading us to wonder if this is our new normal, and if so, how we’ll make it through. And then, there are the personal trials: living under our roofs, waking us up in the wee hours from inside our own heads, or from the little room down the hall; breaking the hearts of us and the ones we love.
Meanwhile, I’m in joggers, doing the best I can.
A few years ago, I complimented a gal pal’s heather black, buttery-soft joggers, sincerely but off-handed. “I wish I’d gotten the solid black, because they look less casual, but they’re still really soft,” she replied. I had not much considered the nuances of joggers before, but this short exchange was the gateway.
She gave me a pair for my birthday, and my husband and his mom caught on, too, to kick off my accidental collection. Now, these are my “nice” joggers, smooth and light, washed cold and hung to dry to preserve their elusive, creamy feel.
Then, I rediscovered the jewel tone Amazon dupes, sent a few years earlier like a platonic love letter from the East Coast. They’d cut through my freshly postpartum, homebound haze, and I still wear them fondly, even after the drawstring has gone missing from a particularly aggressive tumble through my washing machine.
I stumbled upon a matching Splendid set at Costco, which soon became a complete collection of all three patterns. (I’ve lived too many times over the regret of not buying that favorite thing in every color.) These are the coziest, but they must not leave the house — unless the festivities call explicitly for pajama attire, in which case I will be there, donning both bells and this duo.
I snagged the warmer, track-sweatier version that
gushed about after a friend lent them to her, because she’s never led me astray, and because Gap was having a sale, and because the weather was colder, and bundling up was “in.”
As I look at these hangers, is there poetry in my closet full of joggers? Does this collection tell a tale of something deeper in my soul? I might never have to put on a real waistband again, and yet the world can still threaten to drown us in darkness and difficulty. How many places and seasons will I continue my search for something more comfortable?
How are there, day by day, the endless options of convenience — grocery delivery, omnipresent wifi, at least four levels of jogger niceness to choose from on a given morning — and yet in some moments, there appear to be so many barriers between me and the contentment, peace, and joy I seek?
How can I be so uncomfortable in the ways this life is stretching me, and still complacent as I tend to the constant of change?
I want to be intentional, but I want to be flexible, too. I want to be on top of things, and I want to emanate soul-deep rest. I want to be happy in my skin, but I also want my forehead to look like hers. (Is literally everyone Botox-ing but me?) I want to raise strong, resilient kids, and I want to be tender with them, so they’ll tell me anything, forever. I want to love to cook, and I also want Thai takeout just about every night. I want to wrestle with the complex questions of our world, yet I want to focus my best energy on the people around me, whose lives I can actually tend to and care for.
I want to be content, but I don’t want to be complacent.
I want to wear my comfy pants, but I don’t think I really desire a comfortable life.
So, here is Something More Comfortable. You are welcomed here, invited to join me in questions and learnings, comforts and qualms, hurdles and breakthroughs of our days. I’m writing things down so I don’t forget them, struggling in a transparent pursuit of contentment over complacency, posting on Thursdays. And, usually doing so in joggers.
Life may only become more complicated, yet there’s the promise of joy for us as we press on. We’re here together, embracing discomfort as we grow, and putting on our comfiest pants in the meantime. The journey is long and winding, so let’s get going, together, and let’s get comfy.