The Risks We Take, The Risks We Teach
Hi, hello. It's me again.
We wake up to a day the sun doesn't rise in San Francisco. We search for ways to describe the indescribable pain searing its way across the western states and this country. The color on the outside matches what we have all been feeling inside. Throbbing. Redish orange. The weight on my chest, I know it is on yours too. We are each tiny tops spinning in our own little dread circles.
Hello hard thing, you're here. Hello hard thing, you're here. Hello hard thing, come on inside. There's just enough room for one more.
Without a direction to march in, a bigger picture to grab onto, we crack. We cannot go outside, so we go deeper in. We are tasked with the responsibility of recognizing each crisis and the spiral seems to be going only down. We lost any ability to compartmentalize a long time ago. Everywhere needs all of our energy, urgently. I'm here to reach out and gently stop the spinning for a minute. We all need a break from the dizziness.
You feel it. I feel it too. I am sorry. You feel like you are breaking. You will not break.
I lost my words for a month. Deciding to close The Assembly (or coming to the inevitable conclusion) felt like washing up on land gasping for air, even if it wasn't the land I wanted to find. For five months, the waves in my head ebbed and flowed, crashed, and crashed again. It was relentless. Being in the middle of an impossible decision can feel a lot like trying to swim against a current.
It was like the old saying about the swan: stay serene where people can see you but below the surface paddle for dear life. And then, I couldn't do it anymore. How are you? I'd try to smile. "Okay, all things considered. Sad and grateful. Lucky and heartbroken." And then, I'd keep going, "I cry a lot. Like all the time. I'm not even sure where the tears are coming from anymore. I'll probably start crying right now if we keep talking" I started to take this risk because without it, what was even the point? If I'm going to start cracking, I may as well own it.
We cannot be the calm swan anymore. Flap your damn wings. ALL of this is impossible. Every piece if it. This is a big, hard struggle of a paddle. We left serene behind a long time ago.
After announcing the closure of The Assembly, I was overcome. I was a blubbering wreck. And then. You sent me stories I never knew (and probably never would have known) about your divorces, job losses, miscarriages, babies, post-partum depression, times of self-doubt, failures, abortions, abuse, medical scares, wins, losses, affairs of your own and otherwise. You told me about how you healed, sometimes through sharing and sometimes just by being there. You brought these experiences to your community and lay them out on the big beautiful tables. In quiet rooms, in sweaty workouts, in woodland hikes, you said it out loud, often for the first time. You fell in and out of love. You stayed sober or stopped your cycles of destruction. You started something new and asked for help. You talked about your fuck ups and mistakes, replacing shame with something that looked a lot more like acceptance. We don't judge for any of it. We have all slipped. We're still here. We keep healing.
You came to The Assembly and you told someone about your things because the risk felt less risky there. And it paid off. When I was in my deepest defeat and failure, you showed me the story of how you gave yourself something you didn't think you deserved. It was the story of all of us and I got to see it all at once. What a magnificent gift. Thank you. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. We weren't calm swans secretly churning the waters. We were holding each other up.
As the world is burning, breaking, cracking wide open, and demanding the most from us, we can't keep diving inward. We are not done, not even close to done, learning and dismantling and regrowing. And in the middle of that, our own experiences person-to-person keep us here. Risk it all to share that; it's all we've got.
As took 449 14th street apart, I came to realize that I was wrong about the source of its magic. I had a favorite moment of every tour. It was that second of awe when we came up, around the corner on the stairs, and got our first glimpse of The Assembly clubhouse. The spark of excitement would catch every time. "Oh, I've seen photos on Instagram but..." "Yes," I would say. "I know. She is so much better in person. Photos just don't do it justice." The room felt like possibility. It was a once-in-a-lifetime space. This place, steeped in history, was holding us together, protecting us.
But, they were just walls. They were the beautiful part. All of us stirring up the water below, seeing each other paddle, that was electric. Everyone could feel it — the collective permission granted for the struggle to bubble above the surface. Always, always. We were the ones protecting each other.
This isn't meant to be a sob story about my pain, truly a tiny drop in a year of so much sadness. It is a simple reminder that when we step over the line into the risky waters of our true experience, we don't just stop not only our own endless spinning cycle but someone else's as well.
When we show our cards, it frees up our hands to pull someone else in.
We felt limitless because we lifted each other up. The things we are ashamed of aren't our whole stories. They can't be. In an era of uncomfortable and painful evolution and revolution, there is nothing more urgent than this. There is deep belonging in staying in these vulnerable spaces together. Over the past few weeks, you have taught me so much. As I've said before, creating The Assembly was a chance worth taking. In my experience, they usually are.
It is what brought me back right here. And I thank you for that. This is the story I will keep telling as long as you'll have me.
The world is big and hard. Don't miss the chance to tell someone, something, someplace that you love it. Tell a small business that their sandwich is the one you get when you're happy OR sad. Tell a neighbor that their succulent garden is your favorite one to walk by. Tell a friend a time she inspired you. Tell someone you haven't talked to in a while how much they meant at a time in your life when you needed it. Thank a teacher from many years ago who treated you with kindness or challenged you more than you wanted. It can be anything but tell someone. Take the risk.
Tell them. Tell them. Tell them. Don't wait until the end. We don't know when the end is coming. And I mean that in the most optimistic way possible.
We are not at the end of the dark and difficult days. We're also not at the end. Remember, we're in this to see where it goes together. And we have a lot of work to do.
A couple of final thoughts for today: remember that social media a really good way to lose sight of how much you actually like people (even your real-life friends), so give someone a call. Remember that we are each so much more than our singular stances. Remember that nature can heal itself — in fact, it always has. Remember that any tree you can see outside your window is doing so right this second. Remember that the way your pants fit has no bearing on the good you bring to the world. Remember that tomorrow is coming, and the next day too. We don't know what that looks like, but let's stay to find out.
As my mom said, I needed a break because a part of me did break when The Assembly closed. I am back here now and I'll stick around. Yesterday, I went on a short walk in an area burned by last year's wildfires. There was already new growth. Remember that.
This newsletter will be moving to a new platform soon, so it will look a little different in your inbox. It will be easier for you to share and if you like, I would love your help spreading the word. IT WILL ALSO BE SHORTER THAN THIS (usually, no promises).
What do you want to hear about? Please tell me how to make all of this even better. Do you want advice? Do you want more about The Assembly — building, opening, closing? Business things or life lessons? Things to watch and buy? Ways to get involved and actions to take? Do you have questions I've never answered? Do you want to hear more about each other and people in this community? You can always reply here right to me.
I'm aiming for a weekly send on Fridays. You know me, though, and that may be a bit ambitious. We'll see. Thank you for being here.
Today is September 11, so give remembrance and honor to this day. The election is 52 days away. Fight. Fight. Fight.
I hope to see you soon. Thank you.
xo,
Molly
Permission Granted
I'm focusing on doing something tangible every day related to the election. You don't need me to emphasize just how monumental November will be. The current administration is doing everything in its power to ensure that the system is stacked against us, so we will need all the effort we can muster. Don't get stuck worrying about not doing enough, just do something. If the air is good, join me Monday for my first shift in my friend Manny's Victory Booths down on Valencia street.
The effects of climate change are visible in the weather all over this country, but nowhere more than California. The earth will continue to care for us if we care for it. In an effort to reduce my personal plastic usage, I've switched over to Zero Grocery, a zero-waste delivery service in the Bay Area founded by my friend Zuleyka. Use the code THEASSEMBLY for your first month free.
Things to watch: If you missed or skipped I May Destroy You, get your hands on an HBO login and do yourself a favor. Michaela Coel is nothing short of genius. On the other end of the spectrum, Teenage Bounty Hunters on Netflix is like candy for those of us who love a witty teen show like Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Also Chef's Table: BBQ. Tootsie is a treasure!
I'm excited to get my copy of Do It For Yourself a motivational journal by Kara Cutruzzula and illustrated by one of my favorite graphic artists Tessa Forrest. This is selling out quickly, sooooo...
Fly by Jing Sichuan Chili Crisp on everything.
I'm focusing a lot of my time and excitement on all of the local micro food businesses popping up. Unfortunately, there is some crackdown happening on these businesses (file under: is this the most pressing issue right now?). For those in the Bay Area looking for amazing bread, cookies, pizza, etc, I'm saving them all in an IG highlight "food for u".
I recently got a terrycloth sweatsuit. It's not Juicy, but it totally could be. It's sold out so there's no product page to link to, but as we look toward a Cottage Core fall where our nap dresses won't keep us warm, remember the humble terrycloth.
Know My Name, the stunningly gorgeous memoir by Chanel Miller, is out in paperback with a new afterword. I also really love the art she is creating and sharing on instagram (and in SF!).
Take a moment of appreciation for the green spaces closest to you, however large or small. Even a tree through a window is a salve. Send love. Be kind to your brain. See you soon.
