We Can Do Hard Things with Glennon Doyle - Jia Tolentino: The 1% of Life that Makes It All Worth It (Best Of)

Episode Date: April 27, 2025

Jia Tolentino joins us to discuss how to finally accept all sides of you:  Why your un-productivity matters most;  When your shame is good;  How to make your real life bigger than your internet life; How to let motherhood energize you instead of drain you; and  How to stop scrolling in the middle of the night.   Plus, we talk acid trips, the sorority rush that Jia and Amanda shared, why Glennon’s friends track Jia’s words – and whether Glennon’s mug shot will inspire Jia’s next show.   About Jia:  Jia Tolentino is a staff writer at The New Yorker, a screenwriter, and the author of the New York Times bestseller Trick Mirror. In 2020, she received a Whiting Award as well as the Jeannette Haien Ballard Prize, and has most recently won a National Magazine Award for three pieces about the repeal of Roe v. Wade. Trick Mirror was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle’s John Leonard Prize and the PEN Award and was named one of the best books of the year by the New York Public Library, the New York Times Book Review, the Washington Post, NPR, the Chicago Tribune, GQ, and the Paris Review. Jia lives in Brooklyn. TW: @jiatolentino IG: @jiatortellini To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Welcome to We Can Do Hard Things. We have a big day. Huge. And that is because we have the Gia Tolentino here today. Before I read her bio, I need to tell Gia one of my favorite Gia Tolentino stories, which Gia and I have many, many funny stories together, which is interesting since we've never met. And most of our experiences have been extremely one-sided, but I have a group, I have a few groups. You know how we all have those groups of women that we have on text or on Zoom where when shit happens, we just kind of check in with each other. So there's this one group of smart people who we check in with each other whenever shit hits the fan in the world. So a lot of times. Which is happening with some regularity. Yes.

And there's this one recurring thing that people often say, which is kind of like a, what would Jesus do situation, which you'll know from your, we both have evangelical pasts. We certainly do. We certainly do. But ours is more like, what did Gia write? Oh my God. And it's real.

It's real. Somebody will say it. What would Gia write? And it kind of works because you can say like, Giazus, so it like goes, Giazus. Yeah, which I know you're gonna really love. And probably. But if we have one complaint, it's that we often have to wait a long time

for a Giazus take and we're mad now, okay? So like, we'll have to wait for a New Yorker piece to come out or sometimes we get lucky and you're on a podcast, but it takes a while and that's annoying. And so one time one of the women in the group said, well, what did Giazuz write? And I was thinking for a while and I thought,

you guys, what if Giazuz is trying to tell us something? Like, what if, what if we're supposed to think hard and do research? What if you're your own personal Gia? What if I... What if I have... I too have a Giazis inside of me who can stay calm and cool and collected and like think hard and keep an open mind and open heart and interview people and then come to a nuanced conclusion a month later.

And one of my favorite group, they thought for a while and my friend said, fuck that, we don't have time. I'm mad now, what do we tweet? Oh, I'm so, that's so, I'm so moved by that. And I'm sure we'll talk about childcare and child raising, but you know, something happened to my brain in 2020. And I mean, that something was the pandemic and having a baby and all of that. And I was like, I am not calm.

My brain is not good. I have nothing to, you know, that thing that I had always relied on my job being and this kind of writing, being this process through the only way through which there's any ever any thought in my brain. It really, you know, my shit got rocked by 2020 and the years afterwards. But I think I'll be back on the on the blogging train. But I got so sick of myself, you know, I know. It's a good example. Yeah, it's an excellent example. The proof is in the writing. It might have been an accident, but you were showing us the way. So now I'm going to read your bio and then we're going to jump in. Gia Tolentino is a staff writer at The New Yorker, a screenwriter, and the author of

the New York Times bestseller Trick Mirror, which everyone just needs to get right now if you haven't already read it. In 2020, she received a writingiting Award as well as the Jeanette Hayen Ballard Prize and has most recently won a National Magazine Award for three pieces about the repeal of Roe v. Wade, which I'm sure that everyone in this pod squad has already read, but if you haven't, please do. Trick Mirror was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle's John Leonard Prize and the Penn Award and was named one of the best books of the year by the New York Public Library, the New York Times Book Review, the Washington Post, NPR, the Chicago Tribune, GQ, and the Paris Review. Okay? Gia lives in Brooklyn. Welcome, Gia Ziss.

I am so happy to be here. Truly, it's an honor to be here. Thank you for having me. Gia, we actually, you and I, also have a relationship you don't know about. Through Virginia? Yes. So you graduated from UVA undergrad the year that I graduated from Virginia Law, and I was there before you. Whoa. Yeah. And we were both double majors, including political social thought, and we're both pi-fis. No way. Oh my God. And so I think that that leads very naturally to this question of paradox, which is that,

that that leads very naturally to this question of paradox, which is that, so I was, for example, going to hoes and bros parties on Saturday night and was a women's study major, was doing absurdly politically upsetting now things and then going on Sunday to the prison to meet with women who had killed their abusers. Can you talk to us about paradox? Well, I think we've all lived our, it's like, I want to hear so much more about that than I am interested in my own. But I do remember, it so funny. It's also, we were both there during the sort of last

gasp of Bush era conservatism, you know, even aesthetically, like the popped collar era. It wasn't that long ago, but culturally, it's, I mean, thank God, it feels like a long time ago. But I remember so many things in my life I started doing as kind of a bit or like a proto-repertorial curiosity, you know? And Rush was one of them. And of course, combined with I was 17 and I wanted to be cool, right? So there was a little bit of that. But mostly I spent all of Sorority Rush getting super high and just seeing how much I could lie to people, you know? Like you have these things where there's 35 women all kind of kneeling at your feet and you have 45 allotted

seconds to talk to everyone. And they'd be like, Oh, I'm from Boston. I'd be like, Oh my God, I'm from Boston. And the rotation, you know, the little like dollhouse rotation would happen faster than anyone could catch me in my thousands of lies. And you know, I thought it was really funny. And then of course, I did think the five five are very special and I ended up doing it. But I remember And then of course, I did think the fi-fis are very special and I ended up doing it. But I remember that feeling of being, I think the feeling of being in and out,

it like in something to inhabit it, but because it was the only way I could possibly learn about it. And whatever other confusing ulterior motives of sort of ego and conventional socialization were at play as well. But I went to frat parties my first year, but after that I was, you know, I was the one sending like the rude emails. Like, do you

remember that thing? Oh my God, this is so UVA. There was some sort of competition where one frat would have all the sororities compete. Oh God, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah. And so I would just be like, sending fake schedules being like, okay, like below job competition is at 10 a.m. tomorrow. And I think I was still, I couldn't really tease out my motivations, but so much of,

I mean, so much of growing up evangelical also felt like an education and paradox, right? It's the horniest culture and the most sex-suppressive one. It is like super homoerotic and it's also so suppressive of any admission of any sort of non-straight love. It's so violent and it's so outwardly focused on peace, you know? And I feel like that leading into the UVA kind of mid-aughts experience, it felt like quite natural, right? Yes. Well, can I tell you a funny story about Bye-Bye?

Tell all the funny stories. Speaking of being stoned all the time, I gained so much weight my first year because I just turned into an all-day stoner. And I felt great about it, honestly. My best friend and I, we have this joke that we were smoking weed in the graveyard every morning. And he gained zero pounds, but his GPA was a 2.7. And I gained 20, but mine remained at a 4.0. We really learned about ourselves that year. But I, the little sorority composites

when everyone's in their weird little turtlenecks and like everyone's like this. And the proofs of those photographs got sent to my house and my parents' house in Texas. And my mom called me and she was like, Gia, I just got all of these pictures from the dentist's office. You've just had major dental surgery.

You didn't tell me. I was like, what? And she was like, you're wearing a black turtleneck. Like your face is, is, is so like, are you okay? Did they break your jaw? And I was like, Oh no, mom, that's what I look like now. Good thing you saw it before I came home for Thanksgiving. Cause it would have been shocking. I'm eating a lot of bacon, bacon, egg and cheeseburgers. Yeah. I was in a sorority at James Madison. Which one? Sigma Kappa. That's what I am.

Sigma cap born and sigma cap bred and when I die, I'll be sigma cap dead. Okay? So, I kept getting arrested accidentally in college because I was an alcoholic. Yes, but only in retrospect understood I was an alcoholic. I just thought I was a really good time. Okay? You just had a lot of bad luck. I'm sure you were. I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time in handcuffs.

Okay. And I'm seriously five times. Okay. I got arrested five times probably. And one, at one sorority meeting, the sorority president stood up and she said, so you guys, just one last order of business. If you get arrested and you have to go to court, could you not wear your letters? Oh, shit. And it was like given as a general, yeah, guidelines. This is for everyone, to no one in particular. But I was the only one that kept getting arrested and it was only sweatshirt I could find.

Yeah, just quick cue. What do you mean by the letters? So they're like these sweatshirts that you wear to show what's the word. The Greek letters. Oh, it's like your uniform? It's like your costume. It's like your soccer uniform. Oh my gosh. Yeah. Do you just wear it all the time? Only to jail. And you also wear it to show that you belong somewhere. Got it. It's like, cool. I never knew that. That's a good sort of movie poster actually, like a Sigma Kappa mug shot kind of thing. I'll file that away for later reference. Please, it's yours.

Yeah, yeah. It's yours. I have some issues with the whole thing. About that paradox though, I'm interested in this idea. You said that you looked down at people at the time who didn't have the sense to have shame about it. That was me. I didn't know.

I did actually, you're right, I 100% did. That was me. Which I get, it's like, you know, you're the captain of the cheerleading squad in high school. You're the pi fi at UVA. But I have the sense to have shame and know that there's something inherently complicated and bad about this. Well, this is also possibly another evangelical holdover that I have never... When I was at Jezebel, I always wanted to write a piece called, Shame is Good. It's a troll title, and I obviously think the way that shame is allocated in our world, all of the people that should be feeling it feel none.

And all the people that don't need to feel it for a second in their lives are devastated by constant unearned unwarranted shame. However, I am a believer that... I don't know, I think it's kind of right and appropriate to feel ashamed of your participation in mechanisms that you're continuing to participate in. But I sort of think that there's something about kind of baseline American emotional ideology. It's kind of an unwanted side effect of the sort of emotional work that has been happening in the culture for the last however many years that I think so many people think that

they should be living a life where they feel great about everything they do. And that's kind of some version of what happiness is or something. And I think it's, I'm always a little dissatisfied or more with most of what I do. And to me, that doesn't get in the way that seems conducive to like honesty and change. And yeah, I was like, we should be ashamed of all of this guys.

Yeah. What are we doing? So what are some of the things that you're involved with now that you feel shame about? Shame about? That you're still, cause the coolest thing about you that we talk about all the time is that you're holding of the paradox of everything. I feel ashamed when I order things online. Like there's this huge union fight going on at UPS right now.

I feel actively bad about my participation in labor chains that are exploitative. And I have plenty of points of participation in that. And that's the one that seems the most intractable. Like I'm not going to stop buying out of season fruit at the grocery store. I'm just going to keep doing that. I feel shame about participation in the child care market. Like we found out yesterday, when I enrolled,

my kid started going to daycare when she was one. And the only question I asked at the interview was, do the teachers get full benefits? The childcare director said, yes, this is a great place to work, blah, blah, blah. Then I found out a year and a half later after we'd already transferred her that she had been lying and the teachers don't get benefits. I recently found out that at our current daycare, the teachers don't get benefits. And I feel so much shame about that. I feel so much... And to me, the solution to this is obvious, is that there needs to be federally funded universal childcare, and that's literally the only way out of it. There have been so many pieces this year on how impossible the numbers are. We

need to view childcare as a public good. But that's currently on my mind. Those are the big ones, I would say. They're mostly involving like labor right now. Glennon's, yours is like watching Real Housewives. I wasn't gonna tell Gia Tolentino that, sister. Shit. Do you guys watch Real Housewives? Occasionally.

I can't, luckily, like there's like my brain, if I, it's like football award shows and reality TV, when you put it in front of me and it looks like static noise and like the Charlie Brown sound, like it just nothing, no signals communicate. And so luckily my cognitive problems have blocked that from entering my life. Cause otherwise I'm sure I would just watch it all the time.

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this lake of despair and like purple, black swirliness of despair, right? So, which I think is also beauty. I think that's kind of the tension is I'm supposed to stay close to that and it's like the ache of being human. It's like how beautiful and brutal everything is. And reality TV takes me so far from that. It has nothing to do with any beauty, with any truth.

It's like the way of turning off the realness of life. Isn't that beauty and truth though? It's like the opposite of poetry. Yeah. I know, but I think that like that's where beauty can also live in the... Turning off of it. Turning off of like the insanity of some of it. I also think that you couldn't live by that lake if you didn't have reality TV or the

equivalent of it, right? That's right. I've thought about this a lot writing about, anytime I've written about abortion or activism where I'm trying to look for these emotional management ways to manage my own stupid little feelings of overwhelm and sadness that we're all trying to do all the time. And it sometimes feels like you can spend your entire life just figuring out how to emotionally balance yourself. And then I talk to people who are really in the trenches and I'm reminded there's a toolkit for this that activists have been practicing for decades that, you know, like women that are manning the helplines that abortion funds in Texas, they've been

rowing a little canoe across that lake of despair since 2011. And they can't be in it. They can't be face deep every second of the day in the literally life or death stakes, the existential and emotional, the intensity of all that. Because I get overwhelmed even writing about it sometimes. I'm like, how do I manage? And then I remember that these people, these women, I think they watch plenty of Real Housewives. I think you have to go to a dry kind lit, uh, kind of synthetic place for a little bit sometimes in order to get back on the shores of the lake

and really feel it all. Yes! This too is humanity. The neon too is humanity. It's not always an escape from it. It's a coping mechanism to get back to the lake. I think that that's right. And I also think that there's an exceptionalism piece to this that I'm really interested in, which is that I'm not a regular sorority girl. I'm not a

regular Real Housewives watcher. I have to distinguish myself from that by showing that I am a feminist and an activist and whatever, as opposed to being like, actually, if we don't try to prove our own exceptionalism, then we could just all lean into this idea that everything is a paradox. And when you do, when you say that there are feminist sorority girls, you know, like you have to acknowledge your place in this like shameful structure and you have to critique it. But can you not do that better when you're leaning into the paradox and saying, maybe I'm just a person who likes your housewives and maybe there isn't something that you can automatically say about me because I am.

Maybe I am a sorority girl and I am changing that from within instead of making myself exceptional from it. Right. Right. I do think there's this need to be like, oh, I'm only doing this because, you know, that we need to justify. But one of the ways that I find myself chafing around this issue now and wondering if, to what extent that sense of almost like juvenile exceptionalism may still be at play is the fact that, you

know, I live a pretty conventional heteronormative life, right? I got married so I could get WGA health insurance because they don't let unmarried partners do it. And I never thought I would get married. I really didn't want to, but I am married and I have a kid and I'm seven months pregnant with my second and I'm so conventional in so many ways and I always have been. But, you know, like many, maybe most, maybe all as, you know, as Glenn and as your whole work has surfaced within this community of women, I'm certainly not alone in my resistance to the strictures and the expectations of conventional socialization, right? But I still think that the act of feeling emotionally resistant

to certain aspects of it, to certain expectations of it, like the ways in which that feels differently important around, let's say, like domestic labor and child rearing and stuff like that, like that's my own version of it right now. Yes. I'm like, yeah, I'm a mom, but like, you know, my partner is the primary parent. Okay. You know, exactly. Exactly. That's what I mean. I spent Mother's Day in a fucking hotel by myself bitch. Like, you know, and I wonder it's I haven't fully untangled to what extent I'm trying to say something about myself.

I'm still untangling my thoughts about all of that. I just love it because I think we compartmentalize so much and compartmentalizing is the defense against paradox. But if we take all those compartmentalizations away and just say like, this is what it all is. It's a big stew of us participating in these horrible structures that are violence against people. And we're just as much a part of it, even though we think we're special like, you know, I'm a baseball mom asterisk. I'm also a radical feminist. We try to like make ourselves different than that, but we actually are all the things.

And I think, but like, for example, what scares me about myself is I did not know. When I was in a sorority, I was like, yep, this is what I'm doing. 100%. I mean, I would sing songs about women that I could not repeat on this podcast with fraternity, like awful things on their shoulders. And I was like, I am the shit. Yeah, but I think this is what I've been working towards. Here's the thing.

I think that we all have this vision of what a good feminist is supposed to be thinking and doing and saying. Well, it's the thing. I think that we all have this vision of what a good feminist is supposed to be thinking and doing and saying. Well, it's not that. I know that. But I know, but here's my point. You had to have that experience. We all have to actually be living in our lives

to experience shit and to be like, oh, that actually didn't feel that good. Or like when you look back and you're thinking about what you did, you're like, actually, that's not the kind of person I want to be now. And we're always fucking ever changing. I think that sometimes we get so stuck on thinking

and the person we want to become prevents us from acknowledging like the story and the life that we have needed to live to eventually become the people that we want to be like. And we're never gonna fucking figure it out. The world is ever-changing. But it takes different kinds of people because Gia was in the sorority meetings in Rush going, this is hilarious.

She thinks I'm from Boston. And I was like, oh my God, am I doing good? Am I gonna make it into the sorority? It's a different consciousness. I will say that I have a lot of, there have been a lot of kind of random, almost like fairy godmothers, people who have planted ideas in my head at various times where, you know, when I got to college and I was 16 and thought I was a political moderate and was like, maybe I'm a libertarian.

And some girl was like, read a little bit more. I don't think those exist, you know, instantly disabused me of some deep false narrative I had about something or other. Like I have needed people who have been rude or abrasive about like certain conventions at random points in my life to shake me out of them. And I am, you know, glad if my bad attitude could have brought that to someone else's life in any helpful way at any point in this.

I would be happy to serve that role. But I, what Abby was saying, like, I also think, you know, there's no greater way to navigate any of the paradoxes of contemporary living other than to be in them. There's no point even thinking about them. It's like you have to just do your way through it to see like what you're actually fucking talking about. Yes.

And I mean, I totally relate because I played for our national team for 15 years. And when I was in it, I needed that paycheck. I needed my health insurance. I was fucking all in like red, white and blue bled through my, through my pores. And now having stepped away from it, I'm so proud of the time that I spent playing on the national team, but I'm also very aware, educated and conscious of how complicated our country is

and how confusing and how evil we can be at times. And so I think that we have to be able to at least at the very least look back and kind of analyze and go over what we've done and figure out maybe our next steps from some of our successes and our failures. What is your thinking about the internet these days? I don't understand it anymore a little bit. So I had written about the internet always because this was a thing that one could be

authoritative about when I was 22 and not getting paid to write anything and had no experience or authority about anything. But young people are good at writing about the internet and it was research I could do for free from my home in grad school in Michigan, not knowing anyone in New York. And so I started writing about it and I found that the bad things about my brain cleaved well to the pace of the internet. I liked that it was frantic. I found that I could navigate that. I was interested in it. I found it really fun. Part of it was that I had been in the Peace Corps with no internet for a while. So when I came back, it seemed like the magical and this was 2012 and so it was kind of pre-algorithmic consolidation. It could still be like, you know, all four of us could get on the internet right now and we'd probably see pretty

much the same stuff. Whereas in 2012, not at all, right? There wasn't this like consolidation. And I always wrote about it and I always participated in it really heavily and it was one of the reasons I was able to have a career kind of with no connections and not living in New York until I did. And yet there was some period, I mean, it was right around when I started writing my book, which was 2017, and it was like, how did the internet seem so good to me 10 years ago? And now suddenly, like, I can feel my brain kind of leaking out my ears. I can feel this sort of existential dullness and dissatisfaction and, you know, a promised connection. And it feels like people are mostly getting more and more alienated.

I started thinking about these things and then I started writing about them for my book and for maybe for other things. And I was like, well, I'll just stay on it as long as I'm getting more from it than I'm giving. And as long as it's still funny, you know, for a while it was just on the internet because it was funny. I was like, you know, as long as I started like pissing my pants laughing at some meme on Twitter, like at least once a day, then I was like, fine, I can, I can deal with everything else, you

know, it's a small price to pay else. It's a small price to pay. It's honestly a small price to pay if someone can, you know, if like a meme about a frog on a unicycle can make me laugh that hard, you know? And I truly believe that. But then, you know, something happened. It was around, my book came out 2019. By then I had started thinking about the internet as, and the entire model of surveillance capitalism is deeply, deeply destructive, an entire economic model that treats our souls and our interests and our desires and our connections, our most essential human desires to be seen and to be loved and to connect one another.

Treated it the way that colonial mining companies treated land in East Africa. This was the last territory left to be mined to all hell. And so that a little profit could come to us in the form of whatever it comes, but all of the profit is really getting sucked upwards and we are the raw material for this economic model of the internet. We are the raw material for this economic model of the internet. And I'd written a lot about the commodification of identity, right? And the commodification of our souls really. And then my book came out and all of the things I'd written about in critique, I got swallowed in.

Yes. I instantly like, I was like, oh, by publishing this book, which is in part about this, I've made myself so useful to the commodification of the self. And I got very alarmed, you know? And I was like, what am I doing on the internet? And pretty soon after that, 2020 happened. And another thing I'd always told myself about the internet too, was that as long as my real life was bigger, was just self-evidently bigger than the internet, then the internet too was that as long as my real life was bigger, was just

self-evidently bigger than the internet, then the internet could occupy probably an outsized place in my life. I could spend five hours a day on my phone, whatever. And then in the pandemic, my real life was so small. It was just a room and my partner and my dog and whatever dinner we were cooking that night and the internet ballooned in this outsized way. And so I was like, okay, I need to shrink the internet so it's smaller than my life.

You know, because I was just like, I need to keep that. And I also like the memes got bad. Like, I don't know if I'm getting older. Also, I haven't seen a frog on a tricycle in years. Yeah, like the only meme that was funny to me in 2020 was the gossip girl, go piss girl meme. Like nothing else really did it for me. So I tried to shrink in 2020 was the gossip girl, go piss girl meme. Nothing else really did it for me. So I tried to shrink my involvement with the internet. I have to

use, I always say, I use a program called self-control on my laptop and a program called freedom on my phone, like super Orwellian. And then I had a kid in August of that year and I was like, I just, I don't want to be up at 3 a.m. looking at fucking Twitter, you know? And so I got off of Twitter. My relationship to the Internet, I'm still on it a lot for work, for reporting and stuff, I'm back on Twitter to like, look at what anti-abortion groups are saying all the time and whatever. But it's changed a lot.

Like there came a point where I was like, I can't keep writing about how something is bad and then like throwing myself fully at it and benefiting from it so much. So I've been experimenting with being less online. I feel like we get the message, don't be on as much, but there's not really a concrete way that you can measure what as much is. But when you just say, I needed my real life to be bigger than my online life, that's actually something concrete.

How do you measure that? And how do you measure the bigness of your offline life to ensure that it is outsizing the internet? Yeah, well, it's tough, right? Because if our work is disseminated primarily on the internet and you can't get around work, like that's, you know, that complicates it significantly. But I think I could just feel it, you know? I think it's just something that I that complicates it significantly. But I think I could just feel it, you know? I think it's just something

that I think most people can feel. I don't ever wanna find myself in the real physical world thinking about something that doesn't exist there. And it was, the pandemic was, it really enshrined for me something that I think I had understood maybe more subconsciously that the moments in life where I feel like actually human and actually like myself, they're all unmediated, they're all unsurveilled.

It's like going out dancing, being with my friends, doing acid, at a show, sex or whatever, physical presence and nothing in between and no one recording. And many of those things were so hard to come by during the pandemic. And, you know, even like, there was something about even just texting my friends for four hours a day, which I did, that I was just like, I just want to be in front of your fleshy face, you know, and have a conversation that there will be no record of ever. And then I guess having a kid reinforce that, right? I think I just wanted as much of my experience to be of no monetary use to anyone but me. That's how you know you're human.

You're being human. Yeah, yeah. And I'm actually like, maybe it worked. Maybe it worked. I'm like thinking in real time. Maybe it worked better than I thought. Yeah. [♪ Music playing. Okay, Martin, let's try one.

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Lease a 2025 Escape Active all-Wheel Drive from 198 bi-weekly at 1.99% APR for 36 months with $27.55 down. Wow, that's like $99 a week. Yeah, it's a big deal. The Ford It's a Big Deal event. Visit your Toronto area Ford store or Ford.ca today. I just had this meeting with my therapist yesterday and I was talking to her about how I went to this festival this weekend and that I felt these feelings in my body that I think are joy and I was like around other bodies. So much of what you're talking about human to human, there are bodies involved. Right, right. And with the internet is like disembodied. Like I am working on becoming more embodied

and like being fully human, which seems to be easy for other people. And it's not the, and then I'm realizing, oh, I have created an entire career and world out of a completely disembodied community. Like I love humanity, but not other human beings. Like a way on the internet to, like, connect? How do we really connect when we're not body to body?

And when you say, I want to be with my friend's fleshy faces, it feels so simple, but that's it. We have been sold this idea that we can connect on the internet, but I don't know if any of that is real. Oh, I think it totally is. There's something different when, you know, if you're a writer, this is a profession that has always been mediated, right? Like, and the work that you do, there's no way that you can have one on, you know. I also think I've tried to not be kind of an unequivocal alarmist. Like,

it's like, I do recognize the internet is magic and that we get to meet like this I also think I've tried to not be kind of an unequivocal alarmist. I do recognize the internet is magic and that we get to meet like this from our living rooms. That's a fucking gift. I owe my entire career, my ability to write, the entire democratization of the media industry is due to kind of the sudden horizontal smushing of hierarchy that the internet allows for. I think there are still so many kind of radically wonderful benefits of it. I just, I guess those have always seemed so obvious to me. Or like those have always been so, it's much easier for me or it was for a while to get caught up in all the parts of it that were

freeing and were good and did allow for things that couldn't be done otherwise that I was like, I have to keep my eye on the part that is corrosive. But I think the fact that people can hear your voice in their ear when they're going about a day that they kind of at the moment have no choice but to be alone within their day and they're not alone listening to you. I think that the disembodied nature of that, I think something like a podcast is different. It's different. Yeah and writing, like it is the best we can do with the

tools that we're given and it does matter. It is connection. I think it's the the kind of false connection, the false disembodied connection of the internet, I think of that as the connections that are involuntary. There's something about choosing to read a book or choosing to enter into the parasocial relationship that I have with various, that it's not... Those vectors still feel pretty human to me and like pretty kind of unadulterated and at least in my experience, the stuff that is freaky is the stuff that's being pushed on us by algorithm for other people's benefit, not the stuff that we're actively choosing

to change our life, right? And I also think that's why I hunger for physical presence so often is because for whatever reason, my life has led me to mostly be working alone behind a screen. Is there three realms? This is what I'm trying to figure out because I've changed my relationship to the internet and social media completely over the last two years.

How has it changed for you? Well, I just, I heard you on a podcast say that you read Jenny O'Dell's book. Oh, isn't it so good? I just, it fucked me up completely. Like I just- Absolutely. Same. I was like, I have to change my whole life. Me too. I changed my whole life.

Everyone read that book, yeah. Yeah, and then, and then I changed it brilliantly by getting off social media and starting a podcast. Which then took, takes me 12 hours a day of like, I just didn't do it right, I don't think. But it's different. I love this podcast. Like I love this podcast.

Because podcasts can be the same as a book, can be the same as a painting, can be the same as, but there's a difference, right? Between like, I think of my real life, which are the people in my day, in my neighborhood. And then there's like the art that I'm making, that I'm pushing to people because they're choosing it. But then there's this other realm of like performing

on social media that is different. Yeah. That's the one. I don't know how to explain it yet. I don't really have language for it. But when I am making something, I am purposely thinking about that thing. And then I am making something new for people.

And then I'm trying to create something beautiful. And then I'm making something new for people. And then I'm trying to create something beautiful. And then I'm putting it out to them and they're opting in. That's like writing a book. But there's something about like if I stop my day and take a picture of myself or something or my kid or my... And then I put that out, that feels totally different. And that second realm is what I'm trying to get rid of. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I have also stopped doing that as much and started feeling weirder about it when I do, which I think is probably good. Like I think, you know, whatever, that shame, you know, whatever ambient shame I might feel about. And it's actually like shame isn't the demotivating factor there. It's more just like a,

I don't feel like a spark with doing it anymore. Like I feel much less attraction to showing myself online than I once did. I think the like simple miracle of in your early twenties being like, wow, I can be seen as the person I think I am, you know, that, that can carry you through a lot of life phases. Now I'm like, I don't care about being seen. Right.

Right. And it's an evolution of that. Yeah. And I feel like I try to follow like a spirit of pleasure into as much of my life as I can. And it's like, I maybe thinking about it so much has sucked some of the pleasure out of interacting with that last realm for me. And I just, I think one thing that brought my interactions with the internet down and

me, this probably has to do with Jenny's book too, is like, what is giving me like real kind of animal pleasure in the day? And it is more and more not anything having to do with my phone, like work, work accepted, right? Talk more about animal pleasure. What is animal pleasure? And what are examples for you? Well, I think I've, I run on instinct more than many writers do. Like I think I, it was another thing that I realized during the pandemic that I couldn't really write about anything if my life was contained within one room, because I really rely on, you know, being able to like go to a march, go to a

situation and feel what's happening in my body. You know, I have no intellect that exists outside of my body. I think so many writers have that cerebral capacity. I don't have it at all. It was an interesting thing to realize. And I think I do have kind of a little thing worrying. It's like, is this thing that I'm doing next going to make me feel more like myself or less? Or is it going to make me feel more present within the world or less? And I think of the fact of feeling more present as the kind of purest animal pleasure, that they exist exactly where they are with the stuff of their moment and their environment and

whoever's around them. And I'm feeling like a cumulative X many years of acid trips just kind of seep out through my mouth right now. Can you talk to us about that? Talk to us about acid trips. Any of you guys a fan? Well, I've only done shrooms. I've done shrooms many, many times, but it was just always in a fraternity basement.

It was never a great experience. I mean, it was better than not being on shrooms. Yeah, yeah. Would you ever experiment? Yeah. So, and I actually am very seriously considering doing medicinal... Yeah, yeah, yeah. ...because it's really supposed to be helpful for eating disorders.

And I just have some lingering concern that I'm working out with my therapist, et cetera, because of my sobriety and all of that. Of course. But yes, I'm very curious. I wrote about this in one essay in my book, but I think one holdover from my evangelical upbringing is that I really desire a sense of transcendence and of smallness, and of sort of like ego death in some sort of divine, even though I no longer believe in God, certainly not in the way that I was taught to growing up. And I think I've relied ever since probably college-ish years to like on an annual... I actually think acid

is way better than trumes because I get so emotional on trumes. I was afraid of it for a long time because obviously it's scary. You're like, I'm going to lose control of the steering wheel of my consciousness for nine hours straight. you know? But I've kind of relied on an annual or now annual at best kind of moment like that to what feels like spring cleaning. It feels like a reminder of this actual stakes of life. And it has been my greatest reconnector to that sense of scale and transcendence that was felt to me like one of the most valuable things about growing up in the church and of kind of worshipfulness,

but not to anyone in particular, but to the fact of being alive, right? And I love that feeling and I need the intensity of it in the acid format to carry a little bit of, I think I do, to carry a little bit of it around me, around with me for the rest of the year. Yeah, I- I last felt that at this weekend.

You have to tell me, yeah, well, if you ever do. At the music festival. Let me know. No, I will tell you. How it goes, yeah. But that feeling of smallness, of transcendence, of worshiping something bigger that's not something

particular, I think the closest I'm getting to that these days is live music. Yeah, exactly. Yeah. Yeah. It's like, oh, this is what I was trying to get at church. That's what I said to my daughter this weekend. Like, this is what I was going for. 100%. I heard you say recently that you write about motherhood more in terms of like, you've been talking about it today, policy and like how we can make things fairer

and that you keep a journal about like your personal experiences with motherhood. And you said that you don't see motherhood written about in ways that you are actually experiencing it. Can you talk about that? Like, what do you mean? And do you have language around that yet? I don't know if I do, which is one of the reasons I haven't written about it except

to myself. And I also feel like I'm still so new into it. I feel that it must be annoying to people who have raised children for much longer to hear someone, you know, with a two year old being like, well, what I know about motherhood. Like, what the fuck do I know? I've been doing this for literally like two and a half years. Like, what the fuck do I know? But talk about animal pleasure. Like, I think so much of the aspects of motherhood that have really stuck in my throat and that have stuck in my brain have been things that elude

the kind of emotional vocabulary with which it's often written about. Like even the way, the moment of birth, I didn't experience it in terms of love, I experienced it in terms of revelation. And like not love, there was so much love, but it's these shades of existential experience that I don't feel like I have a handle on. If I don't have a handle on

it in my thought, then I can't get a handle on it in writing yet. And maybe it's about that lake you were talking about. It's like the way that motherhood is often spoken about certainly and certainly, and written about is this sort of sweet filigreed net that's hovering unspoken over a giant lake of existential fear and instability. And that's the thing that's making it so beautiful. But that, ugh, that lake is the thing that gives it its meaning. It's not the love, it's not the snuggles. It is the vast glimpse of life and death that you're getting constantly around all of it, right? Oh my God.

I guess it's hard. It's hard to write about. It's hard to think about. It's hard to hold it in your head all at once. Yeah. And it's like the ultimate paradox, right? It's hard to think about. It's hard to hold it in your head all at once. Yeah. And it's like the ultimate paradox, right? Cause I like, I'm like looking at my kid and I don't know whether to be like,

you're welcome or like, sorry. Right. For doing this to you. You're all fucking alive, yeah. I'm not sure yet whether this is all worth it or not. I'm not sure whether it was a great idea. And how do you talk about that? I understand what you're saying.

Well, and yeah, and even that, I feel some sort of shame. I mean, I don't know if shame is exactly the right word for it, but I feel some sort of moral trouble about having knowingly birthed an upper middle class consumer that will be probably as bad for the planet as I have been. Even despite all of my best efforts, like the cloth diapers and the compost, I'm still a fucking drag on the... And I try not to hamster wheel about that too much because in a way that's not useful, but yeah, even stuff like that. And last night I had the oh my god, I had what felt like a kind of wonderful and terrible milestone where I'm entering the weepy phase of third trimester, which is unusual for me because I'm not a crier, but I'm truly entering the like,

the weepy phase, which is kind of great because I get to experience what it's like to have tears at the ready, but it's also terrifying to me. But anyway, my kid has started going to bed at nine, which is too late for a three year old, but she was resisting bed and it was nine o'clock and I was so tired and I just started crying. And she comforted me in the most unbelievably mature, you know, she started singing Daniel Tiger songs to me and was like, take a deep breath and count to four and counted. And I was like, oh, fuck.

I was like, this is the first time that you have felt emotionally responsible for someone else's life. And I was like, I'm so proud of you for doing that so well. See, I'm like getting teary right now thinking about it. Like I was like, I'm so proud of you for doing that so well. See, I'm like getting teary right now thinking about it. Like I was like, I'm so proud of you for doing that so well. And I'm so sorry that this is your first taste of the responsibility that you will feel as a girl,

as a woman, you know, or whatever, TBD. But I was just like, oh, I have just ushered you into an adult experience, you know? And I was like, thank you. And I'm so sorry. Which is also the paradox, right? It's like to be a human in this world and to be deeply connected and aware of that connection

is the most beautiful thing. And most devastating. And most devastating thing. And that's the bridge over the lake. It's only beautiful because it's terrifying and it's only terrifying because it's beautiful. And it's like this proof. This little proof. If I'm doing the math, I'm doing the math of like, is this shit worth it at all?

What I like about the kids' existence is it's like, I guess it's just a little percentage. It's proof that I really believe that it's like 51% worth it. Yeah. I must truly believe that or you wouldn't exist. I would not have done this. So it's a reminder to me of the like extra 1% of all of this. That the you're welcome is just a little bit bigger than that. Sorry.

Yeah. Yeah, it feels really disrespectful to think about this quote in the context of like my own life, which is so charmed in so many ways. But I always think about Simone Weil, the French philosopher. She wrote at some point during World War II, she wrote something like how wonderful it is to be alive when we've lost everything or something like that. I still do come down instinctively, physically to the idea that being here is a gift and it's a malleable one, and that malleability is the most important part of it.

And I haven't doubted that, but yeah, you do. Like last night I was like, maybe it is 49.51. Yeah. Exactly. You said that motherhood has also been steering you towards the unvaluable values. Yeah, there's no kind of labor less economically valued steering you towards the unvaluable values. Yeah. There's no kind of labor less economically valued and more universally important than

caregiving in general, but you know, of the elderly, of spaces, of land, whatever, but of children specifically. And it's this enormous glaring truism of our world that the things that are most economically valued are often the things that are the most destructive, just openly, spiritually, materially in every way. And I've always been afraid of wasting time, of not doing as much as I can with my stupid little time in this world, you know, whatever the things that... I think that a Jefferson scholar...

One of the things that like, you know, and that's what those experiences we were talking about, like live music or an acid trip or being with your friends where the things that remove me from the desire to be productive in some outwardly manifesting way are the things that have taught me like how I actually want to live. And I think my whole life will be a slow process of just trying to live by those values more. And having a kid, I mean, yeah, I'm just staring at you. I'm not doing anything other than staring at you and cleaning up poop, and we're just going to lay here. And this time is so actively devalued by everyone that I don't even have fucking paid maternity leave. And yet this is like, it is obviously immeasurably precious. And

I think it made me more comfortable with doing things that, you know, as per how to do nothing, life changing fuck, that it is those times of doing what ostensibly seems to be nothing that feel the most valuable of all. And so, yeah, since then it's been like, how can I do work that is lucrative enough in less time that will give me plenty of time to do nothing with my kid? And has it extended beyond your kid, Gia? Because I feel like that is still somewhat valorized.

And I feel like mothers are shamed often for like, why are you on your phone in the park? And why aren't you getting one more enjoy from staring at- Oh, I love to be on my phone in the park. Yeah. What the hell else would you do in a park? From staring at your kid.

But has the unvaluable time, have you taken it also for yourself? Like is that opening it? Yeah, to the extent that, you know, it's like, you have this realization just as like non-useful time has become much harder to come by. But I think, I mean, the way in which I thought of this very specifically as outside my child was,

I think a lot of people feel, if they are lucky enough to be able to, like this forced expansion of capacity in early parenthood, we were like, oh, you know, suddenly you realize how you're just gonna fit it all in. You feel this great expansion of your caregiving capacity and your ability to stretch yourself past an emotional limit you thought you had

and really give a lot more of yourself than you would have previously. And I think that's a pretty, you know, like near universal experience. And I was like, I pretty, you know, like a near universal experience. And I was like, I want to make sure that doesn't only apply to my daughter. Like it's one of the ways that I chafe against whatever, the nuclear family ideal, right?

Is that like all of our ideas of safety and flourishing and love. I always feared that that would get directed too much inward with marriage or children. And that was like a fear that I've had for a long time. It was like, I don't want to grow up and tend to my little walled garden. That seemed very scary and bad to me in many ways. That idea of that as the good life.

Because I had always thought about relationships. I was like, romantic relationships, that should make your world bigger, not smaller. But it seemed like a lot of the visions of romantic relationships were like, now you have a cute little tight little unit, you know, and I was so scared of that. And I think with kids, I like, I definitely started to, I was like, I'm going to volunteer with much more dedication and frequency than I did beforehand. And I'm going to make it work somehow to remind myself that this expansion of capacity doesn't only need to be directed

towards my biological child. I sort of needed to physically do it to remind myself that that expansion of capacity and interest in doing kind of non-valued work, non-paid work basically, that I just didn't want it all to go to her because it would be a waste of this like sudden compulsion and capacity that I felt. Wow. Yeah. Gia. Gia's us has spoken.

Gia's us has spoken. What should I write about next though? Ask the group chat and let me know. Yeah, I will. We will. We will. We will. You're wonderful.

I just hope you get lots of time to do it. Yeah, we will. We will. We will. You're wonderful. I just hope you get lots of time to do nothing. I hope so, too. I just think that you're such a gift to the world. And thank you for this hour. It's been absolutely wonderful for us. Thank you, guys.

It's so, so good to meet you. Yeah, truly. We should be glad for the internet because it allowed for this. So there we go. 51%. 51%. Yeah, 51%. We're on that one. I love it.

Thanks Pod Squad. We'll see you next time. Bye. Bye. If this podcast means something to you, it would mean so much to us. If you'd be willing to take 30 seconds to do these three things. First, can you please follow or subscribe to We Can Do Hard Things?

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