Nothing at All — Left Hanging

Let’s talk about self-help.

You know, the books—all the books. Entire sections of them, stretching aisle after aisle, crammed so tightly together you can almost feel their collective earnestness vibrating off the shelves.

Hundreds of thousands of titles, each one promising help—of the self kind.

As a storyteller, a so-called “writer,” and an aspiring author of a book of some kind (not sure that’s the right section for me—we’ll get to that later), I can’t help but be intrigued. What does it mean, this vast literary landscape dedicated to fixing, improving, soothing, and reworking the self?

What does it say about us, about humanity?

It’s like a mirror, held up to the deepest ache we all seem to share: the need for more. More clarity, more peace, more purpose.

We must be aching for it, for all of it, or why else would there be so much written on the subject? Why else would we keep buying it? Reading it? Hoping, as we turn each page, that this time, this one will have the answer?

And let me be clear: I’m no stranger to these books. I’ve been a consumer—ahem, a reader, a student—of many of them along the way. Still am. They’ve had their place in my life, but not for long.

I don’t keep many books. I pass them along, hoping they’ll get passed along again and again, making their way to someone who might need them more than I do. Also, I like a tidy home, and piles of books tend to unravel that vibe. Perfectionism is hard to shake…working on that still.

I can’t list all the titles for you, and I also can’t say I haven’t picked up an insight or two along the way—because I have—although none of them really stuck. Not in the way that lingers, deep down, reshaping something fundamental.

Maybe it’s because I feel pretty okay with the person I am, already. I like to think that’s the case.

Nevertheless, one book that got passed along to me recently is No Bad Parts. (Quick summary, because I know you’re curious: it’s about this idea that all the little voices in your head—the ones that criticize, overthink, catastrophize—aren’t your enemies. They’re just parts of you, trying to help in their own, sometimes hilariously dysfunctional way. The book is based on something called Internal Family Systems, which sounds more like a corporate org chart than a therapeutic model, but stay with me.)

Now, if you’ve read this book or know all about IFS and have Opinions-with-a-capital-O, I respectfully request that you keep them to yourself rn.

Seriously. I’m not soliciting them. I haven’t even cracked the cover yet and want to go in with a fresh perspective, untainted by hot takes or “let me save you some time” summaries. But here’s what I do know already…

There’s a word that keeps popping up: compassion. Compassion. Compassion. And thank goodness—it’s a word I’m familiar with. I think it’s safe to say I’m a compassionate person. (At least, I hope so.)

Let’s define it, though, just to be thorough. Compassion is the ability to recognize suffering in others and to have a deep desire to alleviate it. It’s empathy in action—an acknowledgment of someone else’s struggle, coupled with the urge to help, support, comfort, or simply be present.

And being familiar with this? Well, I’ve got it covered. As a mother, I’ve wiped tears, kissed scraped knees, and listened—truly listened—even when I was running on fumes. As a wife, I’ve tried to show up with patience and understanding, especially on those days when life feels heavier than usual.

As a devoted lover of my dog, Sadie, I’ve knelt in the grass to untangle her paws, soothed her when she’s whimpering in a late-night dream, and made space for her on the couch and bed (even when she takes more than her fair share).

As a friend, I’ve been the late-night listener, the bringer of comfort and support, the “tell me everything” text sender, and “call me rn, I’m up!”

And as someone who loves building community, I’ve been the first to say, “Let’s do this together,” because there’s something profoundly human about showing up for each other.

So, compassion? I’ve checked this box. I don’t need to read this book, nah. Another one to pass along, to someone who really needs it. Because clearly, it’s not me.

Am I right? (hint, I’m not)

So before I handed it off, I figured I’d better pick it up, skim a few pages, you know—just to make sure I had all the facts straight before sending them out into the universe via this story.

And, well… whoops. Turns out, I had it wrong. The book isn’t about compassion for others.

It’s about compassion for self.

Wait—what? Compassion for me? That can’t be right. I mean, isn’t compassion something you give? Something outward-facing? Something you practice with your kids, your spouse, your friends, your dog (Sadie would definitely back me up here).

But for myself?

That’s a new one.

So, I tried it. Right now. Here, listening to Everything i Wanted by Billie Eilish, with Sadie stretched out (BIG) on the bed beside me, coffee cup balanced precariously on my chest. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and summoned…

COMPASSION FOR SELF, FOR AMY (please show up! Reveal yourself. You powerful feeling of all feelings…present yourself! I command you!!!!)

And... well…

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Not even a wave.

Not a glimmer.

Not a hint.

I waited, tried upping the effort, really leaning into it, leaning back in to it, and still—nothing.

Nada.

Blank.

So….what now?

(not a rhetorical question, now is the time for Opinions. I am actively soliciting them).

Maybe I’m not supposed to know.

Maybe the point isn’t to figure it out or get it right but to let the question hang in the air, unanswered, just sitting there and staring back at me.

It’s hanging, for sure.

And that feels a little unsettling. A little thrilling.

Like standing at the edge of something I don’t fully understand.

I can’t wait to find out what it is.

And I’m a little (a lot) scared to find out what it is.

What I do know is this: Billie’s still singing poetically (on repeat), Sadie’s still snoring (also on repeat), and the coffee’s probably gone cold.

And for now, that’s where I am.

Left hanging.