Why do we record so much of our lives?
Does it preserve living well or does it distract us from it entirely?
I’ll never forget when my eldest nephew learned to talk.
Endlessly inquisitive and attentive like his mother – my elder sister – he had an insatiable curiosity and voracious appetite for learning. He especially loved learning about the natural world and could listen for actual hours to anyone who discussed it.
When my nephew first learned to talk, our family text thread transitioned from global news and political op-eds to one devoted to pictures of him seeing the world for the first time. It was a welcome change, and although I can’t find the picture just now, I vividly remember the photo of him standing in front of a tree, looking up at it as if it held the secret to life. He loved more than trees, though. He was fascinated by beetles, plants, and bugs galore, and day after day, my sister would share his awe, his wonder, and his deep adoration for this world as he bore witness and learned it as his own.
Seeing my nephew’s absolute reverence for our planet offered a refuge of sorts for me — one I sought after often — and on many occasions. The train to New York. The plane to a speaking event. On the bus to Harvard. And every time I flipped through the photos of him seeing, learning, and growing into this place, I would always smile, imagining him saying his one favorite word to my sister:
Why?
This past April, I joined their family in Mexico for a vacation. It was quite an undertaking — far more complicated than just booking the ticket and filling out the paperwork for my service dog Tugboat. I was having fugue states at an all-time high cadence — sometimes even twice a day — and this increase implied that I could experience a far longer one, one that might last for weeks or even months at any time. Understandably, my care team was nervous, and my husband and parents were nervous too. I couldn't blame them for feeling that way. I shared the fear. Fugue states were terrifying, especially to me.
I remember sitting at my parents’ table a week before I was scheduled to fly out, discussing them with my dad. My safety was of utmost concern, and he mused that maybe he or my mom could cancel work to go with me. Or what if we could find someone else to be your travel companion? We both were near tears reckoning with this reality of mine — this neural pathway born from a decade of psychiatric violation and harm that was so well paved and worn that when my body was triggered, it just disappeared before it did anything else.
As my Dad entertained the idea of canceling the trip — the idea that maybe Tugboat was not yet ready for the 24-hour workday it would take to get me to Mexico, my tears finally caught up to me, and I interrupted him.
No Dad. I’m going. I am going to spend time with my nephews. I am going to live a big life, even if it’s not a safe one.
He joined me in tears then — so acutely aware that I was right — that the only way to ever live the life I wanted — a life beyond the bounds of my bed with this condition was to live one that danced with danger.
And so — a week later — I went. I went to Mexico to go on vacation with my sister, my brother-in-law, my nephews, and of course, trusty Tugboat by my side.
After 24 hours of traveling, Tugboat and I walked out of customs in the Puerto Vallarta airport. My sister was there to greet me. Beaming and running straight to us with wide open arms, she exclaimed, You did it! You guys did it!
I collapsed into her embrace as Tug wiggled in full-body glee. Tug knew the power of that moment – the dream she had made come true. We had done it. And it was a big deal. After a 24-hour day, we were safely in Mexico with our family.
A few minutes after arriving, amidst the colorful chaos of arrivals, we spotted the van that held my brother-in-law and the boys. Schlepping my obscenely large duffel full of Tug gear and gifts for them, my sister and I made our way over and hopped in. It was a greeting so bright it practically required sunglasses, and as we finally buckled in and headed off to the supermarket to stock up for the week, Tug’s smiling face said it all.
And there began the beautiful onslaught of curiosity that would guide my week to come.
Why is Tugboat smiling, Auntie? My nephew asked, a twinkle in his eyes. Why?
At a complete loss for how to explain fugue states, owner training a medical alert service dog, and what a big deal our day was to a six-year-old in simple terms, I couldn't help but laugh. My sister joined me in doing so, and for that moment, our giggles of relief and joy were enough for him. But the many giggles we shared that week weren’t always sufficient to my sweet nephew's curiosity.
On the fourth day, determined to satiate at least a bit of my eldest nephew's fascination with the natural world, we went on a hike with a guide through the jungle. The guide began the adventure with a story of who came before us – of who lived and grew the land into what it was now. Casually picking up a coconut seed, he bent down beside my two nephews and explained that this is where coconut oil comes from. He then cracked it open and, with a smile, invited them to slather it on their lips before pointing far above him. See this tree, he ushered. This tree is from where it came.
The guide shared story after story like this – mixing touch, taste, and the power of sight into each new plant, tree, and beetle he shared. Watching from afar, I was reminded of all the times I had scrolled on my phone while in transit, determined to see my nephew like this – my nephew watching – my nephew learning – my nephew living for the very first time.
A bit down the trail, amidst swaying trees and vibrant succulents, we came across a nest of termites so large that it wouldn't even fit in the back of a pickup truck. The guide poked one of the termite’s covered pathways and beckoned us in close to see these tiny bugs rebuild the hole he had just created. We all stood transfixed, enamored with how small these little insects were and yet how large their nest was that hung above us. As I took out my phone to record it, my nephew tugged at my T-shirt and asked:
Auntie, why do you always do that? Why do you always record the world with your phone?
The question landed like a sucker punch to the gut. I paused in reckoning. I was no stranger to this question. It was one that I asked myself a lot — one that had especially tortured me the last few years at The Dogist.
Why was I putting life on the internet instead of living it?
Why was I so determined to capture life instead of experiencing it?
Why did I need to preserve life for tomorrow’s viewing pleasure instead of living it in the here and now?
As the weight of his question took hold, I tried to catch my breath — to self-regulate — to stay in my body. I repeated over and over. Kate, you are safe. You are safe here and now.
And I was safe. I was safe indeed and I was also living that big life I always dreamed of. So I put my phone away, and instead, I grabbed his hand as he asked once more, that twinkle still oh-so bright in his beautiful young eyes:
Why?
Why Auntie?
Why?
That day, I never found the words to answer his question. The guide ushered us along before I could. But the question lodged deep within me, and after I safely returned home to Vermont from the trip I will remember with deep joy for a lifetime, I began a self-examination so deep that I haven’t even written about it until now.
Because the truth is — I don’t know why.
I know why I began.
I began capturing photos after I had electroconvulsive therapy and lost two years' worth of memory. Photos became my virtual memory and it was how I kept living and going to school.
I began recording and sharing Waffle on Instagram ten years ago because my memory was still so damaged from ECT and psychiatric medication that Instagram offered an easy way to keep track of our adventures and also share them with family and friends.
And I began recording and sharing my life on Kate Speer at the same time a decade ago because I hated the highlight reels I saw online when I posted Waffle’s shenanigans. No one showed up in their mess or talked about mental illness on social media back then, so I set out to do it myself. I didn’t want other people to feel as alone in their fight as I did.
But those acts capturing life and preserving it all served a purpose — they were time capsules that could stabilize my present and advocacy that could serve my future and other people like me.
But why I have continued isn’t clear to me anymore.
Why I should record my life instead of live life isn’t clear to me at all, actually, especially when so many people are now bravely doing the advocacy work I once did alone.
And it is why I find myself here – beginning this new chapter of Healing Out Loud right in front of you.
To live well means to live on purpose and to define it on our own terms.
And right now, all I know is I want to live a big life — a life where I get to watch my nephews in the real live jungle stand in awe of a coconut tree instead of seeing it on a phone screen.
Yes, all I know is I want to live a big life — one where Tug smiles brightly after a 24-hour travel day because we didn’t just know the truth or record it – we also lived it fully in mindful presence:
A big life is always worth dancing with danger for.
Yes, a big life is always worth dancing with danger, even if the jury is still out on why we need to document that big life at all.
Everyone, save the date — Healing Out Loud Together is next Tuesday, September 24, 2024, at 7 pm EDT!
We will spend the first fifteen minutes writing together — free-write or with the prompt I provide for the session.
We will then spend the remainder of our time together, sharing our stories and holding loving space for them.
Sharing is not required whatsoever and nor is being on audio or video.
To bolster the accessibility of this community, Healing out Loud Together is now free and open to everyone. I so hope to see you there!
See below for the Zoom invite.
Invite for September 24, 2024 at 7pm
Katharine Speer is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.
Topic: Healing Out Loud: Tuesday, September 24, 2024
Time: Sep 24, 2024 07:00 PM Eastern Time (US and Canada)
Join our Zoom meeting by clicking the link below with this password: 361611
International numbers are available here.
This week’s invitation
Look at your calendar and identify something you can safely do without your phone that you would usually be inclined to record. If you can’t find anything, schedule something. It could be as big as going to a concert or as small as a trip to your neighbor’s garden. Leave your phone behind when you go. Pay attention to how it feels, and if you care to, keep track of how many times you reach for it. When you reach for it, ask yourself what my nephew always asks me — why?
This week’s writing prompt
Engage with this week’s invitation or the last time you left home without your phone, and write about the experience. Was it empowering? Or was it deeply disturbing? Did you miss your phone? Or did you feel liberated by not having it? Were you more present, or was the anxiety of not having it there more distracting?
Write us through the adventure of leaving your phone behind and what came up as you did so. Include your bodily reactions, thought processes, and the physical pull you felt to engage with it or record something when the phone wasn’t there. If you are ready to explore it, write about the why of it all - the reason you feel that pull to pick up your phone and the reason you want to record or preserve the present moment and what came up when you couldn’t.
And that’s it from us this week! Tug and I are off to care for this sweet bear who is fighting her way through the nausea of chemo treatment number five. One more treatment to go for this super survivalist of mine. How lucky we all are to have her still fighting beside us.
With love, we wish you a day. For a day, just like you — is always enough.
Kindly,
Kate
beautiful thank you for sharing, I needed this reminder. My school just suffered a massive loss, one of my students died, and I want to be present in my grief and life, but also hide away from it all. This reminded me that living and feeling is dangerous and beautiful and complex
You are brilliant, brave and brazen to challenge me to leave my home without my phone!! The whole damn world might fall apart if I’m not there to hold it in my fingertips! (Ha!!!) thank you for sharing all that you do. For advocating for yourself and others. For teaching so thoroughly and adeptly. So much love and admiration and please love on the girls for me. Missy