The messy business of detoxing hustle culture.
Moving to Lisbon, I knew I wanted to evolve as a person. What I mean by this, is I wanted to learn how to abruptly withdraw from my body’s addiction to stress, and resuscitate the things I truly love. Personal passion artifacts such as writing, travel and photography for my own personal pleasure.
As it would be, detoxing old stress addiction and patterns is, at the very best, a messy business. My type A tendencies, propagated by American hustle culture, and Enneagram three-ness doesn’t understand how to naturally nurture oneself.
What I do know how to do is hustle: start a thriving business from the ground up, learn a new profession, survive on six hours of sleep a night, train like an athlete. There was once a time I thought this admirable. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. As it would turn out, living like this is just a cover-up.
On some level, I knew this. There was a yawning grief inside of me; a voice telling me I’m not living the life I am meant to live. The cells in my body were crying out to make traveling my lifestyle, to pick up my pen and write, to use my camera to tell my own story; instead of someone else’s.
Back in Nashville, I never allowed myself time to be inspired. In my mind, this was frittering away time, and I only had X amount of time until I was too old to make something of myself. Having children young, I spent my thirties trying to make up time career wise. My peers had degrees, impressive resumes and career accolades coming out of their ears. The yearning I felt to catch up was palpable.
When we arrived in Lisbon, my body took control of my narrative, without my consent. No longer did I have the energy to work fourteen hour days, to survive on little sleep, to create without giving myself time to be inspired. Most days, I couldn’t pry my eyes open before nine a.m. So, I slept. Reducing my gym time to half of what it had been previously, and I felt so much better physically. Everything I once did, as it would seem, my body demanded I cut in half.
Growing up, I was enthralled by fiction. Staying up all night, I would pour over books; dreaming one day of writing my own. Finishing a novel, I’d embrace it close to my heart, and at once re-read it all over again. No one had to convince me to read. Fiction was my oxygen.
Then I became an adult, had children, and everything became excessively practical. If it wasn’t self help, moronic parenting books, or something to help me in my career- I didn’t have time for it. There was just too much to get done in one day. Fiction was indulgent, and I only allowed myself the indulgences of maybe one audio book a month, whilst driving and picking up the kids from school.
A month or two after we had been here, we were in downtown Lisbon in the historic area of Baixa Chiado. There is a bookshop in Chiado which holds the Guinness World Record of oldest operating bookstore in the world. My daughters have inherited the gene for vivacious devouring of books, so we decided to stop in. On a whim, I bought a novel, a thriller by Lucy Foley. The cashier stamped the inside of my book, this book was purchased at the oldest operating bookstore in the world. Actually, Kyle had accidentally declined the stamp when he was purchasing our books, and I made him go back inside and get the honorary stamp.
When I arrived home, I plopped on our tweed gray Ikea sofa in our tiny little Lisbon apartment, and begun reading. Something cracked open in me; an old passion, scarred over with tissue of obligation, stress, and responsibilities. I devoured the novel, like I hadn’t eaten in years.
It was the first week in January, and I remember this because I had also purchased a couple of books for my youngest daughters birthday. Now, it is March 9th, my eldest’s birthday, and I am currently reading my fourteenth book of the year. Twelve being fiction, one memoir, and one phenomenal book of poetry by Kate Baer.
Gathering creativity and brilliance around me like a cloak, I learned how to be inspired again. Rediscovering my passion for the written word, and how you can arrange them on a page, choreographing their story.
When I was young, I like to imagine I was Jo March in Little Women. Someday, I knew, I would also lock myself up in an attic, lit only by candlelight, and obsessively write my novel. Other times I was Anne Shirley sitting by the ocean, pen in hand, papers cyclonic around me.
I didn’t grow up to be Anne Shirley or Jo March. But sitting in my tiny, musty Lisbon apartment, three stories up, I started to write again.
Allowing myself to be inspired; I was giving myself the indulgence of time, imagination curiosity, failure and creativity. Countless times I have attempted to quit the addiction to mindlessly scrolling on my phone; cringing every time I receive the weekly feedback of how much screen time I have consumed. What I am trying to say is I am no longer numbing out to avoid the screaming in my cells to live a life I love.
This hasn’t been easy, although it sounds indulgent. Sometimes the feeling of falling behind, of not advancing, of not being enough eats away at my bones. Exhausting myself is a language I am very familiar with. Old voices in my head seethe out accusations like lazy, or you will be forty soon, with nothing to show for the years you have lived.
I know this season of reading two, maybe three books a week will not last forever. This may be temporary. There will, undoubtably, be seasons of effort and push again. What I would like to keep forever, however is the wisdom of inspiration. Like Mary Oliver writes, let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
To be clear, I’m not quitting my job, and sloth-ing my way through the day. I do have work and children. But I am learning to cut ties with the numbing out, the “shoulds”, and the race to be well accoladed by forty (whatever that means). What I am saying is, if I was mirroring Eat, Pray, Love, I would be happily gobbling down pasta without thought to my waistline, whilst buying bigger pants right about now. (If you know, you know.)
This was a very long winded way of saying, I thought I would share some of my favorite reads this year so far with you. If there is enough interest, I’d be happy to start a no-commitments-read-what-you-love online book club, as well. (Let me know if you would be interested.) The following titles are all written by outstanding, fascinating women.
Our Missing Hearts By Celeste Ng
If you read one piece of fiction this year, let this be it. Celeste Ng has always been a phenomenal author, but Our Missing Hearts is simply exquisite. The story is about the relationship between an enstranged twelve year old boy, and his poet mother. It explores a dystopian future of what could happen to the AAPI communities in The United States if supremacy and racism is left unchecked. Ng, and her style of writing and storytelling has made her my favorite author by far.
A Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’ Farrell
Typically, historic fiction is not my cup of tea. This book flipped my preference on its head, I’m happy to say. A Marriage Portrait is set in the era of the Italian Renaissance, following the story of Lucrenzia, a political pawn in a forced teenage marriage to a ruthless Duke. This story is based on true events, and I couldn’t put it down.
The Book of Form and Emptiness by Ruth Ozeki
If you read TWO novels this year, allow this to be one of them. Ruth Ozeki is a former horror film art director and producer, and is now an ordained Zen Buddhist Priest and Author. The Book of Form and Emptiness follows the grief and mental health of a boy when his beloved father unexpectedly dies. You will never look at a physical book in the same way again, as it is narrated from a viewpoint of an actual book. It will make you examine all the physical possessions you have, and question who possesses who. Storytelling at its absolute finest.
Circe by Madeline Miller
Previous to reading Circe, I had zero exposure to Greek Mythology. Thinking I wouldn’t have any interest in the subject, but decided I need to try all genres of fiction at least once. I am happy I did. Circe follows the daughter of Helios who is exiled to a remote island to spend eternal punishment in solitude. Her encounters with menacing, and complicated characters throughout the story, along with her own transformation and empowerment is stunning.
Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason
You know those books you read and you think about often, even years after you have read them? For me, I know this will be Sorrow and Bliss. Meg Mason explores the complex relationships between family dynamics, mental health, and those who are in relationship with those struggling with mental health. Few books make me cry, but I wept at the end of this book. It is transforming, and it will remain one of my top five favorite reads of all time.
Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner
While this book is a memoir, not a novel, it reads like a novel. Crying in H Mart is the story of a multifarious, strained, and beautiful relationship between a daughter and her mother dying from cancer. This was by far the most honest and moving memoir I have ever read.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin
To be honest, the first half of this book had a hard time keeping my attention. By no stretch of the imagination am I a gamer, unless you count a hardcore stint with the original Mario Bros. in the mid nineties. This novel is indeed about gamers, and the programmers who created games in the late nineties (which, in and of itself was beautifully nostalgic). My beef with the first half was the language of how the characters communicated, and how it didn’t feel how children speak to one another, regardless of the generation they belong to. YET, that being said, the second half of this novel was some of the best fiction I have read in years. I cannot recommend this book enough.
Oh, William by Elizabeth Strout
I don’t think I have ever read fiction by an author who can take such normal everyday occurrences, and turn it into an interesting commentary on life’s complexities. The no-nonsense way Strout writes is incredibly approachable, and invites you in. This particular book is about the relationship of Lucy and her ex-husband William, decades past their divorce. It follows them as they are unexpectedly thrown together to flesh out dark secrets about their family, and how their marriage failed, but their friendship survived.
The Paris Apartment by Lucy Fowley
Prior to reading this work of fiction, I was unaware I loved reading thrillers. This was my first introduction to Fowley’s work, and it didn’t disappoint. A classic who-done-it story of a brother and sister, and a mysterious family they are entangled with. This is a perfect thriller read for those of us who don’t like things to be too frightening (clears throat).
There have been so many wonderful books I have read this year, but these above have been my favorite thus far.
Let me know about the books you are reading right now, or what is inspiring you.
Give yourself permission this week to explore what your heart loves.
x. Mandy In Lisbon
All photos are copyright of Mandy Hanson Reid. Do not use without permission. Several of the photos featured are available for download or fine art physical prints on Etsy. Travel Manifesto x Mandy in Lisbon t-shirts will be returning to the shop soon.
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