We live in an age of constant urgency. Every scroll brings a new crisis, a new villain, a new call to action. And if you’re not keeping up, you start to feel like you’re part of the problem. You should be outraged. You should be doing more. You should care harder.
But lately, I’ve started to wonder—what if that feeling isn’t helping? What if it’s actually part of the problem?
When I tell people I’m re-reading Walden, they usually look at me a little funny. There’s a certain kind of surprise that comes with it—Wait, that book? The one everyone had to read in high school? The one where the guy builds a cabin and creates war stories about ants?
And I get it—Walden is an odd book. It’s undeniably important in the American literary canon, but it’s tough to get through it with that mindset. The first couple of times I picked it up, I tried to absorb every sentence as if each one held some hidden truth. That didn’t work. I stalled out somewhere in the bean field chapter, buried in Thoreau’s painfully detailed accounting of rows, yields, and the price of beans.
Early on, the Internet felt like it was going to be a force for good. It was supposed to connect people across the world, break down barriers, bring everyone a little closer together.
That’s not exactly how it turned out.
Spend a few minutes scrolling through Reddit and you’ll find posts where people gang up on some poor anonymous person. Titles like “Is this the ugliest woman in the world?” pop up, with the picture above, and the internet gladly weighs in. Everyone gets their shot. Everyone feels clever. This is the worst version of what social media can be — not connection, but collective cruelty.
When I first picked up Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to get out of it. Lamott writes about fiction and memoir, about the kind of writing that draws on personal memory, deep emotional truths, and a close relationship with storytelling. I don’t typically write that way. My writing tends to be more analytical—I like ideas, structure, context. I try to make sense of the world through observation and reasoning rather than plumbing the depths of my childhood.
Still, the book came so highly recommended, and so persistently, that I figured I’d give it a try.
Here are two quotes from commencement speeches:
“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.” — Steve Jobs
Steve Jobs, Stanford Commencement, 2005
Full Video
“You’re not the cold clay lump with a big belly you leave behind when you die. You’re not your collection of walking personality disorders.” — Anne Lamott
Anne Lamott, UC Berkeley Commencement, 2003
Full Speech
Which one will inspire you to lead a better life?
We were in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, getting ready for a tour. Tours start in the Vélez Blanco Patio, a light-filled marble courtyard just past the library. The kind of space that makes you pause—not just because it’s beautiful, but because it feels transported from somewhere else. Which, it turns out, it was.
The room is so unique, I had to ask, “Where did this room come from?”
When I was a kid, every sitcom seemed to have a time capsule episode. The kids would gather at school, bury a box filled with artifacts—a mixtape, a letter to the future—planning to dig it up years later.
I realized that I could do the same for 2020, but as a virtual time capsule—not one packed with sourdough starters and rolls of toilet paper, but a collection of the moments and memories that defined that strange year. And today, March 15, 2025—five years after New York City shut down its schools—feels like the right time to open it.
Rules for good passwords seem less like security measures and more like a practical joke. Your password must have at least one uppercase letter, one lowercase letter, one number, and one special character. It must not contain dictionary words, but it must also be memorable. It must be changed every 90 days, but it must not be similar to your last five passwords. It should be impossible for anyone to guess, except for you, who must recall it effortlessly at a moment’s notice.1
There’s something about folk stories behind names that makes the world feel richer. Names, after all, aren’t just labels—they’re little windows into the past, into the way people once understood the world. And when the official explanation is dry, people fill in the gaps with something better.
I managed to break my ankle in the most absurd way possible. Technically, I was on my way to go skiing—but saying I was skiing would be a stretch. It’s complicated… I’ll just let some familiar characters explain it.
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