At the beginning of 2024, my dear friend invited me to join her in writing a letter to myself every day for the year.
I did not succeed in writing a letter every day because my discipline for these sorts of daily assignments peaked during my adolescence (that era of practicing four hours a day and memorizing biology definitions in the shower and powering through self-mandated yearly Bible reading plans and literally scheduling every waking hour—all fueled by my terror of non-productivity). However, I managed a few lines to myself about half of the time. (Cheers to post-therapy, chilled-out Amy!)
A few years ago I wrote down a vague new year’s resolution to “love myself more.” At the time, not knowing what concrete steps to take towards that end, I (unsurprisingly) didn’t make much progress. But at last, through this letter-writing exercise, it seems I’ve found a genuine practice of self-compassion.
Letter-writing in the third person has proven to be remarkably helpful compared to journaling in the first person. Quite a few years ago I learned that labeling emotions significantly lessens their power over the mind. Since then, I’ve made a modest effort to mentally label strong emotions, but it has been somewhat inconsistent. This letter-writing practice has provided me with a more regular, intentional opportunity to hone this useful skill.
Each morning I observe my inner state with curiosity, sort of taking the temperature of my mood. For a moment it’s just mindfulness meditation, but then, significantly, I respond to my observations in writing. Depending on what I notice, my response may take the form of coaching, or I may offer myself a simple blessing.
These responses have allowed me to direct goodwill towards myself (I cannot overstate the power of experiencing self-directed goodwill) and establish new norms for relating to myself (for instance, addressing myself with the same respect that I would show to anyone else). Aside from transforming my self-relationship, these letters have also allowed me to observe long-term trends and patterns in my emotional life.
If you’d asked me, at the beginning of the year, whether I feel frustrated all the time, I would have said, “No, of course not.”
But… a couple months in, it became very apparent that I do, in fact, feel frustrated all the time.
1.14.24
Dear Amy,
I notice weird frustration inside you directed at yourself. Let’s notice it. Let’s be patient with our frustration and show it love and understanding.
2.6.24
Dear Amy,
I sense you are so frustrated right now. I love you and I love your frustration. It’s ok to feel frustrated. What’s it coming from? What is it like? What can you learn from your frustration?
2.20.24
Dear Amy,
I notice your frustration. And that feeling like everything is pressing in, way in, claustrophobically closer. Let’s sit with it. Welcome it. Hello, frustration. How can I love you today?
3.19.24
Dear Amy,
May you understand and love your own frustration. Don’t resist it. Welcome it, observe it, listen to what it is telling you.
(Sidebar: what am I frustrated about, anyway?
Well, if you’re curious, the common theme tends to run along these lines:
Why do I still need to expend so much effort to learn music really well? Am I just stuck at my skill level now? Have I maxed out? Have I even actually improved at sight-reading in the last ten years? Why isn’t the quality of my composing more consistent? Why do I feel so much horror at the thought of marketing myself? Why can’t I just be fun and awesome and comfortable on social media? Why do I constantly undermine myself? Why do I procrastinate even on stuff I want to do? Why is it so much easier to have ideas for what my students should do than to figure out what I should do? Why can’t I just be brilliant? Or at least, why can’t I be… different?
You know, just the general hum of insecurities and self-doubt that has persisted in my semi-conscious for most of my remembered life.)
The meditative moment of observation before writing allows me to break my self-identification with thought so that I can notice that I’m actually experiencing whatever I’m experiencing. I find that tiny space between stimulus and response that offers me the chance to inhibit my instinctual urge to push the frustration away. Then, I choose another response.
And I choose to respond by welcoming my negative emotions, a concept I’m grateful was planted in my mind some time ago. Self-correspondence has allowed me to make an intentional and habitual practice of it.
Alright, so that’s what I did. What was the result?
5.29.24
Dear Amy,
I’m happy to see you remembering to respond with curiosity to your feelings of frustration about the things you don’t like about yourself. Keep at it. Also I’m so happy to see your metta practice actually having some effect in the outside world that’s quite tangible. May you be well and happy and have great interactions today.
I’ve markedly improved at noticing when frustration rears its head, including when it does so outside of my letter-writing time (which is like all the time). And because of this increased awareness and the new habits I established during the letter-writing, I have more opportunities and ability to meet my frustration with compassion and curiosity.
When I think, “Maybe I’m just never going to improve at improvising because of my frustratingly low-risk, high-need-for-clarity personality type; maybe I’m just fundamentally not set up for this,” I now respond with interest instead of judgement. “Hmm, it looks like I have a lot of assumptions. I wonder where they came from? I wonder why I assume I have a certain personality type? Could I be wrong? And if not, could my assumption about that personality type not being able to improve be wrong? …In any case, I’ll keep working on this skill, and it will be interesting to see what happens. Perhaps I’ll be surprised.”
Has my frustration gone away?
No, not entirely. But it seems to have made a partial retreat. Looking over my letters, the theme of frustration ceases cropping up around August.
However, even as I write this, I am noticing my frustration that I’m not a faster writer.
Why can’t express myself with the ease and clarity of which I feel I should be capable by now? Why do I obsess over word-choice and sentence structure to the point that I end up choking out my original intention? Why does it take me so freaking long?
Oh, hello again, frustration.
But it’s ok to feel frustrated. It is truly no failure, because I am truly here to welcome that feeling and listen to it. I can thank the part of me that wants me to be a faster writer for desiring my improvement. I can ask it why this is important. Maybe I’ll even learn something from it. What will I learn? I don’t know. I’m curious to find out.
But I am convinced that this way of responding to emotions holds the only possibility for relief. Any judgmental response immediately compounds. Ugh, I failed at not feeling frustrated and now I’m frustrated that I’m frustrated!
…Switching to the pedagogical perspective, here’s a related topic I’m pondering.
I recall, when I was a student, feeling music-related frustration that I had no outlet for. I felt that I either couldn’t verbalize my frustration at all, or, if I could, that there was no proper time or way to bring it up with my teachers.
I don’t blame my teachers for this; it wasn’t their responsibility to monitor my suppressed frustration levels. However, I would like it if my students did not feel the way I did, and I am interested in identifying steps to take to mitigate my students’ potential frustration even if such steps go beyond a teacher’s typical responsibilities provided they are still appropriate to the nature and professional boundaries of our relationship.
How do I make it clear my desire is to offer a safe space to a student wanting to voice their frustration? How can I communicate to my students that I am open to hearing them? How can I set an example of curiosity and non-judgement, especially when I’m confronted (and frustrated) by my own shortcomings as a teacher? Or when I’m frustrated by the student’s self-acknowledged lack of effort outside of lessons? …As always… how do I get to the heart of what’s going on?
Questions to explore in the new year…