Suit Up and Show Up (+ Bangers Only, Vol. 4)

I used to be your worst nightmare.

When I was in my late teens and early 20s, bouncing back and forth from Orange County to San Francisco like a 120-pound pickleball, I treated all plans as optional for both work and play. If my body had an iPhone setting, it was frequently stuck on “Do Not Disturb.” It also loved to hit snooze.

On one occasion, I slept through my alarm and missed a flight I’d been gifted, waking up alone and panicked in my Carrie Bradshaw-inspired studio apartment. (Ya snooze, ya lose.) Friends would walk by said apartment and call to see if I wanted to go for a walk or take the BART to Mission Dolores Park for the afternoon. Another wanted to come up. I’d let it ring, peer out my top-floor window and watch them walk away.

For context, I was struggling with a YA cocktail of depression, disordered eating, and alcoholism at the time. I knew binge drinking and body dysmorphia didn’t count as valid excuses for skipping my shift at Anthropologie in Union Square, so I just didn’t show up. Or I’d see how often I could call in sick. Turns out, not often.

And when it came to getting a buzz, I preferred to do it alone—or while watching Mad Men with Pad Thai on a TV tray. The less I showed up for others, the less others showed up for me, too. My Blackberry (remember those?) got quieter and quieter until I was finally truly alone. Just me, Jon Hamm, and a bottle of whiskey.

I ghosted my way around California until I got sober at 23—one of just a few 20-somethings in the AA rooms of Laguna Beach. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the crunch of gravel as I walked toward the front door.

Quitting alcohol was the key that unlocked the kind of follow-through I’d always craved but hadn’t yet known how to achieve. I was taking the long way with my higher education, but I learned so much in those rooms of spectacular weirdos. It was like taking a master class in Getting Thy $hit Together 101, but the only requirement to pass was to not drink, one day at a time.

One of the foundational mantras of AA is to “suit up and show up.” It doesn’t just mean being physically present; it means mentally and emotionally engaging with your life, too. This practice, combined with a clear head and a stronger sense of self, changed my life. Once I learned how to put my metaphorical suit on and become someone people could trust, the rest of my 20s became significantly easier. Surprisingly, a lot more fun, too.

Following through feels second nature to me now, but I’ve been thinking about that mantra recently when it comes to Substack.

It’s been nearly two years since I sent my first newsletter, and I’m still eager to hit publish every single week. It feels brain-nourishing and deeply satisfying to work on something outside of full-time parenting. Right now, writing here is unapologetically The Thing. I know this will evolve as my chapter as a stay-at-home mom comes to a close for something new—that something will have to give. But in the meantime, treating my newsletter as a weekly commitment has kept me afloat.

Suiting up and showing up is easiest when you’re feeling motivated and seeing growth, the momentum cheering you along. In early sobriety, they call that feeling “the pink cloud.” A stretch where everything feels hopeful and possibilities seem endless. Like you’re walking on, well, pink clouds.

It’s more of a challenge when it feels like you’re putting in more than you’re getting back. Or when your family’s been sick for over two weeks, your toddler’s regularly waking up at 3 a.m., and you spilled an entire bottle of whole milk across the kitchen floor before noon (welcome to my life). That’s when showing up becomes more about putting in the reps, trusting the process, and believing that today’s efforts and sacrifice will reward you later. (I believe!)

I was sick while writing the first draft of this. My mom came over to help with the kids and cautiously suggested I let this weekend’s post go. My husband started to say the same thing but stopped while he was ahead. “Just…don’t kill yourself.” He knows how much this place means to me. How much I value showing up no matter what. How much I need it!

One of the things sobriety taught me is that consistency pays off over time.

When I started showing up for my own life and rebuilt trust in myself, good things slowly began happening. I finished school, built an exciting career that took me to Tulum, New York City, and Miami, and formed genuine relationships for the first time since high school. None of these things happened because I got lucky, but because I finally became someone who kept her word. I stopped pressing snooze.

Maybe that’s why I feel so stubborn about my self-imposed deadline. Really great things have come through consistency here, too. I’ve made meaningful friendships I’m certain will last forever, been given opportunities I never would’ve found otherwise, and regained confidence in my ability to write. Those are life changing things.

I don’t know exactly where Bang Voyage is headed, and I don’t know what might come from another 52 weeks of writing. It’s hard to know much when I’m not even clear on what my full-time job might look like a few months from now. But I do know what happens when I commit to showing up, even after the “pink cloud” wears off.

Substack isn’t just another replaceable app to me. It isn’t a side project I dabble in when I have extra time, and it’s certainly not just a fun way to make extra cash. It’s where I’ve spent the last two years consistently brainstorming, creating, and remembering who I am outside of being a stay-at-home mom, while slowly building the runway for what’s next.

Not every week is going to be a banger, but it means a lot to me to show up anyway. Nobody cares if I miss a week, but I do.1 And I think that’s enough.

Ultimately, writing a shitty first draft and staying up too late to make it worthy of your inbox2 is about keeping a promise to myself. And if there’s one thing I know for sure about myself today, it’s this: I’m someone who keeps her promises.

It’s Sunday. I hit publish. That’s what suiting up and showing up looks like to me now.

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