What are we doing?

A great question raised by a less-than-great person.

Earlier this year, a month or so after my father died, I had a strange meeting with the Head of Sales at my company. His back had been bothering him, and when he joined the meeting from home, he told me he had taken some muscle relaxers. Very quickly the conversation devolved into him moaning, “What are we doing? I mean, what are we doing?” At the time, I read it (benevolently) as a question about the future of our company and the business strategy (or lack thereof) that was guiding my work. But zooming out, it’s a perfect question for anyone to ask at any time: What are we doing?

At that time, what I know I was doing was grieving my dad and still showing up for work every day. Work made me feel less emotion, gave me something to occupy my mind. A child of the Midwest, I clung to my work ethic like a life raft—a friend’s mother used to say, “Maybe you can’t control anything else, but you can clean the dishes in your sink.” People at work quickly forgot I was grieving—a different exec around the same time asked me how I was at the start of a meeting and seemed unclear on why I wasn’t doing well until I reminded him my father was dead. But of course, I chose to be at work because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. So that’s what I was doing. I know that much.

A charity bike build event I facilitated at work approximately 12 hours before my father died.

Some friends and I went to see Jersey Shore’s Pauly D play a DJ set late last year. We are re-watching Jersey Shore (a problematic fave), and we were thrilled to finally experience one of these nights we’d seen on the show so many times. As we were leaving the venue, my friend Sarah said to me, “Pauly was having as much fun as any of us — he’s just happy to be here.” It was so true, and it made me realize how rare it is to see someone whose dream came true who still remembers that this is what they used to want. Sarah said that was the energy she wanted to bring into 2025: I’m just happy to be here.

It makes me think of the end of American Beauty (another problematic fave) when Lester Burnham says he can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of his stupid little life.

Lester Burnham reflecting on his life. Credit to Sam Mendes, American Beauty, 1999. Sorry about the spoiler.

There’s a poem that I love called “The Gate” by Marie Howe, about her brother who died young. It ends this way:

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This, sort of looking around.

The next time an executive on drugs asks me rhetorically what we’re doing, I hope I have the presence of mind to just say, “This.” It’s the only honest answer.