Lace-up the old cleats in an unfair world
Pushing through this imperfect moment
There are days where I feel particularly uninspired to write. It’s just not there. I can’t really line up my thoughts. I haven’t discovered that morsel; that little crumb that often becomes the very thing to stimulate the pouring-out-of-words into some coherent, structured narrative.
I know writing isn’t just about waiting for inspiration, but that doesn’t stop me from resenting its absence. I sit there, staring off into my laptop, watching Slack messages pop-up, waiting for a scrid of motivation. Sometimes it doesn’t come. Sometimes it never arrives, and I abandon ship.
This clog—or whatever you want to call it—fundamentally pisses me off.
In my late teens and twenties, back when I played team sports, I noticed a pattern—I had my best practices on the days I least wanted to suit up. It happened so often I’d think, “I should remember this. It seems important.” I’d walk off the field feeling better than when I’d begrudgingly stumbled onto it. Something was at play—something obvious, but hard to pin down.
With my days of organized athletics behind me, I’ve become a runner—mostly as a way to burn off built-up animosity and societal angst, but also because I’ve fully subscribed to Team Murakami and what running can be for both spirit and general fitness. I love it. In fact, I hate how much I love it, because I know how obnoxious it is to say out loud.
And yet, in my life, I’ve applied the same lesson all over the place. I take out the trash when I really don’t want to take out the trash. I make the kids dinner when my energy is on empty. I happily jump on Zoom meetings when being virtually-social is the last fucking thing on Earth I can imagine doing well. And yes, I set off on a run even when I don’t want to.
The same pattern shows up in my writing, in fatherhood, in producing podcasts for clients, and in showing up for friends even when I feel especially stretched thin. The resistance is always there. I don’t think it will ever not be. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that pushing through tends to matter more than I expect.
Because, in the end, the push itself—the act of peeking over the wall—matters more than whatever's on the other side. It’s not just about the result. It’s about the getting up, the setting off. What you find isn’t the point. What matters is that you went.
Do you remember the Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska back in 1989? I was about 5 when that happened, but the images of the wildlife covered in oil forever burned themselves into my memory. It was my first taste of a feeling I’d come to know well, but at that time in my life it was impossible to understand. The weight of unfairness felt criminal— and it was.
That heaviness is back, at least for me it is. But I’m not guessing at that on behalf of others; I keep hearing people—on the news, on podcasts, in line at grocery stores— talk about this tonnage that is pressing itself into us. Things (add link to bottomless list here) feel unfair at the moment. Many of us have a president we don’t want. Some of us have lost homes in wildfires, floods, or whatever else a disgruntled Mother Earth throws our way. We are disconnected and discontented. We are exhausted. And yes, we are fundamentally pissed off, hence widespread division, remission, and pablum.
We—if I can speak for the collective for a second—feel exactly like that oil-covered bird did. Like, “what the fuck, guys? I was literally just being a bird and you dumped 11 million gallons of crude oil on my fuckin’ house.”
“Pushing through” may mean biting down on a leather belt for the next four years. It may also mean giving each other the benefit of the doubt. It definitely means resisting the urge to check out entirely (or take up arms on the opposite side of the argument). The weight is real, the unfairness is real, the oil has spilled. You don’t need to question that any longer. I’ll confirm right now: What you’re feeling is real.
But the only way out has always been through.
Waiting for the perfect moment—scrolling, stalling, hoping for a sign—won’t cut it. It’s all practice. The perfect opportunity doesn’t exist. The right leader won’t untangle our cultural suplex.
It’s about getting up. Lacing up your cleats, your running shoes—or fuck it, going barefoot if you have to. Standing up, and setting off. Running anyway. Writing anyway. Showing up anyway.
Because resistance isn’t what stops us—it’s what proves we’re still here.