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If you have ever seen L’avventura, the iconic film by Michelangelo Antonioni about a yachting trip off the coast of Sicily, or read The Neapolitan Quartet, Elena Ferrante’s famous novels about two friends growing up together on the outskirts of Naples, then you will know exactly what I mean when I say I am feeling a very Italian urge to disappear. In the film, Anna vanishes from her group’s boat with no explanation, and a search ensues, and in the books, Lila erases herself from her own life, and from her friend Lenù’s, without leaving any trace of her existence behind.
Every year, after months of showing up here each week to create something and share whatever is percolating in my brain, I start to crave a break. Our entire culture is built around output, and as a result, our worth is measured by our capacity to produce. As creatures shaped and sustained by that culture, for better or worse, it is easy to forget how necessary it is to do exactly the opposite. To stop producing anything for a while.
For me, taking an annual break is critical. It refills my cup, so to speak, and helps me recharge so I can offer something from that cup again. It creates an opportunity to simply experience the world without cultivating the urge to write about it.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE just celebrated its third birthday, and the first year, my break aligned with a trip we took to Italy after John was accepted by two conducting competitions. The second year, I took time away when we drove to Maine for two weeks of camping in a post-Covid, pre-vaccination world. Last year, I disappeared into the American West for a spell after we packed ourselves up and drove across the country, and this year, I am taking the month of August away from writing to settle into our new home in Connecticut and start divinity school.
Each time I take a break from this space, I come back refreshed and delighted to rejoin the conversation. I also come back a little bit changed.
Italy gave me new dreams for our future, and Maine put me closer to nature as a teacher and spiritual guide. Going west shook me loose creatively, and stepping into a new community at divinity school will change my life in ways I cannot yet predict.
I do not know entirely what it will feel like to be a student again this fall, though as John and my mother both seemed giddy to remind me, I have always loved school, and even made my little brother play school, as a game, for hours on end as a kid. Still, my gut has asked me to create some space for input and integration on top of my usual output in the months ahead.
And if I have learned one thing this past half decade, it is that I should always listen to my gut.
[See my zine; see the whisper that led me to Yale Divinity School.]
With that in mind, I am changing the cadence of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE for the fall semester. I will see you here, as usual, with bells on, every other week. That means you will receive two essays every month instead of four. And I am thrilled about it; I anticipate having much to share.
It is hard to know how necessary this shift will be until I actually live these changes, so I am leaving space to return here full time in the spring, once I have found my divinity sea legs, or keep the new cadence in place if it works. WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE will be my primary job throughout school, which is one reason I ask for sponsorship and may consider a paid model in the future.
There are other people who keep their wheels of production spinning through all manner of burning the midnight oil: going back to school, starting families, holding multiple jobs. You name it. So I asked myself repeatedly if I should do the same.
But then I recognized that trap for what it was — the comparison monster; our cultural obsession with busyness; our need for productivity; our tendency to define our worth by work rather than anything else. Like existing, or loving, or learning.
And in response to that question and the pressure I was putting on myself to avoid change, I realized that for me, it is imperative to stick to my values in this space, which means prioritizing quality over quantity, living over working, and natural rhythms over a breakneck pace.
This is a bizarre time to step away, because we have so much to discuss: our new apartment! living in community after years of isolation! the way we hope Connecticut leads us straight to Jacques Pépin!
Come September, we will discuss those things and many more. But first, I will assemble some furniture. I will organize some closets. I will show the neighbor’s little girl, who loves Herbie, all his toys.
I will do my best to stay grounded, even as I disappear.
Between you and me—
This week, Herbie and I drove from South Carolina to Connecticut. John was in a moving van ahead of us. The whole thing felt fun, and exciting, and right. It just felt right. Which is a truly wonderful place to be.
Our life is still in boxes, and I am typing this from an air mattress. But the real bed arrives today, and that is always a critical turning point in moving: the moment a real bed arrives.
At the risk of sounding cheesy, or sentimental, but also accepting that one of my great tasks in life is to be willing to sound cheesy and sentimental when no one else is, I have to say that I will miss you this month! I will be excited to catch up when I am back.
Thank you for being here now, and for always being there on the other side of these (critical) breaks. I will see you on September 3rd. Till then, always, forever: Take care out there.
The audio version of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is published every Wednesday. Last week’s, which was about a pathway to saving ourselves that actually makes sense, and recorded in a hotel room in Bethesda (lol), is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Can you help us grow? Send this to a friend and ask them to subscribe. Share it on Instagram and tag @lauren_only. If you enjoy this work become a sponsor, which makes this publication possible and keeps it free for all. Thanks so much for your contributions!