I am un-automating my life

On turning thirty-five and living wildly, rebelliously on purpose.

Those of you who have been here for a minute (or many precious minutes) know that I view my birthday as a kind of personal New Year. I’ve made a tradition of reflecting on who I’ve been and who I am becoming, along with what I desire for myself and what I’m letting go of during the coming year.

Yesterday, I spent eight hours in the car with my daughter and husband. We were making the return trip home from Nashville, where we celebrated my thirty-fifth and a dear friend’s sixtieth birthdays.

Much of the drive was spent finger-combing through our big, audacious dreams. We spoke of the Ranch we plan to build in the not-too-far-off future…

Where it might be, who we can’t wait to welcome there, what we hope they carry home with them when they leave…

An intention I have for my future home and legacy is the same I’ve had since moving into our little farmhouse last summer: To embody a cadence of living where my heart and nervous system can attune and regulate.

I recently came across this poem by William Martin, and the recognition of its truth was visceral.

Another mentor of mine would describe this as bringing “exquisite awareness to ordinary things.” Which, to me, is the primary function of Somatic Experiencing, motherhood, sex, poetry, cooking, ranching…Fill in the blank.

A profound learning I’m unspooling in real time is this: The act and art of attention is inconvenient. It requires us to slow down, which often feels achingly unfamiliar, and maybe even unsafe in a world obsessed with speed, instant gratification, and automation.

Instant purchase buttons.

Fast fashion.

Same-day delivery.

I understand that modern-day conveniences have improved our quality of life. Indoor plumbing? Praise be given. Refrigeration and A/C? Essential sorcery. Sign me up. Order-ahead groceries when you have a sleeping toddler in the car? Sanity saver.

And yet, I quietly worry about what our preoccupation with comfort and efficiency is costing us.

I was recently in a room where someone instructed ChatGBT to play a bedtime story for their child. They specified that it should be a choose-your-own-adventure! With unicorns! And fairy magic! And then they walked away to cross a few more items off the to-do list. I was mesmerized and unspeakably sad.

Automation is lauded for being a Time Saver…But what could be more worthy of my time than reading to my daughter, hand-selecting a gift for a friend, choosing my words with care, or slicing into the most decadent tomato I’ve ever tasted, given the time to grow sweet on the vine.

I have been guilty of saying, “It’s okay, honey. We’ll get you a new one.” To ease or (if I’m being really honest) hurry through my daughter’s disappointment or grief.

I realize now that in those moments I am depriving her of the lessons loss teaches us—to be more gentle with people and things. Nothing lasts forever. Some things are irreplaceable.

I want my daughter to learn the vital skill of thoughtful stewardship.

I want her to understand the inherent value of a dollar, an heirloom, a moment, a person.

I want to be inconvenienced by the nourishment of community.

I want to hold physical books and smell the intoxicating aroma of ink on paper.

I want to be both deeply affected and bullishly hopeful at the same time.

I want to dig carrots from the earth with my hands.

I want to write my grocery list on pretty paper from the stationery store.

I want to engage with life in ways that leave me wrung out and euphoric like a child at the end of a long pool day.

I want to absorb love like a poke-cake soaking up warm, gooey chocolate frosting.

I don’t want to streamline or automate my heart.

I want to live and love wildly and rebelliously on purpose.

Good things take time.