Year Three Perspective 🎂
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Hello, hi. Welcome.
We open on a scene from the before times. Sunday, January 19, 2020, 9:55 am, Berkeley, CA: What do you mean the sound isn’t working? This event starts in 5 minutes and a hundred women are waiting out there in the cold. There is no f-ing way the sound can’t work.
Be kind to your past self for what felt like a crisis; she didn’t know what was coming.
Perspective certainly is persistent.
This weekend would have been The Assembly’s 3rd birthday. It would have meant a three-day-long festival with cake, singing, lots of workouts, visiting instructors, crafts, astrology, surprises, and the minorly-frenetic yet endearing type of itinerary we excelled at. There was nothing small about the way we did birthdays.
Last year to kick off our ambitious 2020 plan for Assembly events around the country (ha), we decided the birthday weekend would culminate in our biggest offsite class ever. It sold out in hours. We were working with longtime partners who expect excellence…and very, very loud music. We were confident in our planning; we had been sound checking for days. And yet, minutes before the event start time, with the lucky ones who scored spots shoulder-to-shoulder clamoring to get in, we couldn’t get the sound system to work. Like, at all. Ten seconds of sound, it cut. Again. And again. The deafening silence. No music = no class. No class = a disappointed community, thousands of dollars of refunds, a tarnished relationship with valued partners, weeks of work and planning down the drain.
At that moment, it was the worst we could imagine. Perspective doesn’t come in the moment.
We scattered to problem-solve: Lauren sped from Russian Hill to the Mission to grab a cord and bring it to Berkeley; Gina ran to the closest Best Buy for whatever self-contained amp we could find; Lee Anne woke up the sound engineer with an office next door to convince him to drive over from home on a Sunday morning; Dani and Justine plugged and unplugged and restarted everything; Rachel, Raquel, and Evan tried to keep the masses updated, happy, calm (I am forgetting people, I know). I made calls, talked to everyone, paced. In the end, we made do with less than what we wanted but enough to create magic. The show went on. It started late. It was imperfect. It felt like our reputation was on the line and we narrowly escaped. It was exhilarating. I miss it so much.
Catastrophe was still coming our way. Perspective was barreling right behind.
Of course, that was to be our last Assembly birthday together for a while. This trip down memory lane feels self-indulgent and insignificant now. At the same time, this milestone still means something to me. We all have things like this — oh, to look back at our silly worries and resolutions and plans and the lines we drew about when we did/didn’t wear leggings. Those things don’t disappear when you downplay them (other than the rules about leggings, which definitely can vanish into thin air!).
Dismissing our own experiences because there has been so much (bigger, worse, more critical) since then doesn’t change that truth. We can — and should — look back and laugh with the perspective of time. With that though, there’s the jolt of truth: we feel that when we care the most. We shoulder the weight of those experiences because we care about putting our best out there. When our efforts meet the real world, every reaction has an impact. Even risks that are small in the scope of the world are still big in our own lives.
Our brains are wired to give the one negative comment far more weight than a hundred positive ones. Thanks, brains! But along with that we also get to keep shimmers of levity amid the darkness. I remember sledding in fancy outfits outside the funeral home at my grandmother’s memorial service. We took a break from crying to laugh, just because it had snowed. When the class finally started and the day moved on, we got to celebrate that we did it.
Even with the distance of perspective, I will not forget the snapshots of those critical minutes that Sunday morning. Memories of the class will fade, but I will remember the crisis. They say “never waste a good crisis” but I prefer to never forget the taste, smell, feel of one. I got to have that energy, bottle it up, and keep it close by. It felt alive.
The people in the class that day knew that something had gone wrong and probably knew that the music wasn’t at the quality it should be, but almost every single one of them stayed. It was an hour late, interrupting their plans for the day. Their Sundays had to wait. They were thankful still.
We all know what happened in the months that followed. While we danced and sweat on mats mere inches apart, a virus was spreading. All of those amazing people who worked to fix that moment lost their jobs — as did I. The Assembly went quiet and then went dark. It was a tiny speck in a sea of grief where we tread water to this day.
Perspective isn’t done yet, so don’t get too wrapped up in it.
Last year I wrote about unpredictability and the jolts of electricity it brings. Uncertainty has certainly visited each of us since then and all too often I have felt disconnected from the energy that comes from cheering someone else on, or putting something new out there. So many of us are still in free fall, which makes me want to put even more weird creative shit out into the world (and support the weird creative shit from others), because why not. Take stock of everything you have made happen — even at 70% of the desired volume because you’re working off of a mediocre speaker you just frantically bought from Best Buy and are going to try to return in an hour (reader, we did that) — and give yourself the credit you deserve.
Do it because you might fail. Do it because you’ve gotten to see people fail (Need an example? It me!) and you realize it’s worth it every time. Do it because not doing it is an altogether more painful future. I promise, perspective will teach you that as well.
Perspective is your friend, but don’t get so comfortable with it that you forget to push the limits. Your past crises made you feel like you were on the edge of disaster (maybe they did become a full blown disaster!) and yet, you are here.
The Assembly’s life was a lot shorter than I ever expected. This one day wasn’t the worst of it — not by a long shot — but it’s a birthday that will stay with me. Worth it. 10/10 would do again. Even this day. Even with the shittiest speakers. Happy anniversary, ol girl.
And now for the questions! The most frequently asked question that has come in is “what are you up to?” which seems to be coded with “how are you making a living, if at all?” and “literally what are you doing all day?” As a certified nosy person, I often find myself trying to figure this out about other people (sorry, people!) and appreciate any glimpse I get into that world. So I figured I would periodically tell you.
First, I am very lucky and grateful to have a partner in life with a stable career. I have not made a salary since this all started and the privilege of being able to do that and remain afloat is absolutely not lost on me.
25% of time on Permission Granted. The paid subscriptions from Permission Granted cover the expenses of this all staying alive (keeping theassembly.com website up and email address open). Other profit is split between projects I am working on to expand the scope of this newsletter and paying myself a small amount. When I bring on other writers, they will be paid, so I want to make sure I can do that.
40% of time on helping entrepreneurs and businesses. I am taking on a few advising and consulting projects. I am trying to make sure I can really be helpful to anyone who wants to engage in that way, so I am in the early stages of this. So far this looks like helping folks at established companies think about community, entrepreneurs looking to launch/create decks and fundraise, and working with founders to develop early go to market strategies. Always reach out if you want to chat about ways I could potentially be helpful to you: askaway@theassembly.com
15% of time moving my body. I am running and walking a lot. When the time is right and we are able to again, I’d love for you to join in some outdoor activities.
20% of time totally doing nothing. I am also procrastinating a lot, if we’re being honest. And writing with the hopes of it becoming something larger.
Goal: writing percentage goes up (we can put that under Permission Granted for now), procrastination time goes down. I’d like to increase the paid subscribers here and am continually thinking of ways to make this entity worthwhile. If you have an idea for that, my line is open: askaway@theassembly.com
Finally, thank you to everyone who reached out (or even thought about it) after last week’s newsletter. As promised, an update: the family member with covid was my mom. For two weeks, the situation was unpredictable, volatile, terrifying. She tested negative for the virus last weekend and is on the mend (back to swimming a mile a day). I feel very lucky. I hope your loved ones are safe and your parents/loved ones in the age bracket are getting vaccinated.
Currently wearing: new leggings and sports bra from Matek at the recommendation of Lauren (founder of the fantastically curated Confidants). She sent this to me after last week’s ask and here we are! That’s service (for me, and maybe you too).
Have questions about any of this? Something I can answer or help with? Email me and I *will* respond: askaway@theassembly.com
Take good care.
Thank you, thank you.
xo,
Molly
P.S. Our next book for our (virtual) book club is Outlawed by Anna North. We’ll meet at 4 pm PST on January 31. The book is under 300 pages (and I have not started it as of sending this out, so there’s still time). THE REGISTRATION LINK WAS WRONG LAST WEEK (oops). Here’s the right one to register: sign up and join us here!