How to Not Hate Everyone (A Story of Small Rituals)
Am I even meant to exist around you? Or do I just need to take a shower and juggle my hula hoops.
As most people can relate to, there’s a version of me I wouldn’t want you to see. I’m pretty much an expert at keeping her tucked away so you don’t know about her existence. And honestly, I consider it a public service that you don’t have to interact with her.
She’s fragile, suspicious, and short-tempered. She winces at notifications like they’re insults and scoffs at being reachable. Worst of all, she believes that everyone is annoying—making honest efforts to inconvenience her. She doesn’t want to talk, connect, or even be perceived. She doesn’t want to eat or shower, or move her body. She just wants to cocoon in silence and snacks, and be left alone in the most dramatic way possible.
Some people call this state the pits. And sure, sometimes that’s true. Depression has hit me hard, many times. But the older I get, I’m starting to understand that something more tender is forming here. Something I am asking you to witness.
If you read my first two essays, you learned that my childhood was made of two very large, but equal halves of imagination and loneliness— something I’m only beginning to process in my mid 30s.
Between those early reckonings and what came next, the years moved quickly—each one layering new joys and new griefs before I could fully make sense of the last.
The end of my 20s for instance, were welcomed by the pandemic. I also became a mother shortly after experiencing a previous pregnancy loss (so this is the deepest of treasures I’ll never stop being thankful for), but life didn’t necessarily soften after that. It kept coming—fast and unrelenting. My friends moved away, and so did I. Making it harder to schedule meetups, and our lively, weekly juggling & flow jams came to a close. (I’ll write more about that chapter soon, because they were the best days of life.)
But in this new chapter, after losing my friends and rowdy evenings, I found myself immediately embedded in my partner’s family, a separate galaxy so tight-knit, it made me feel like an outlier. Truth be told though, I was over the moon about starting a life with my partner and renting our 1st home together, but I was not over the moon about everything that came with it.
I used to think I didn’t belong in his family. Everyone was around all the time, orbiting each other like planets with predictable gravity. It annoyed me, and would become the subject of more therapy sessions. Although my parents weren’t A1, I somehow missed the sparse rhythms I was raised with, where family showed up only on occasion—holidays, graduations, or during a crisis—just enough to keep it bearable. But this gritty feeling of being suffocated, would easily send me back to what I was battling my entire life, which led me to write my first piece, reflecting on my adoption story, inherited hate, grief, and joy.
I worked so hard to build a community of full of love, and skill-sharing, but it was gone now. It will never be liked it used to, and I grieve this. Vivid moments of glory and self-discovery turned into memory— walking around aimlessly in my brain, trying to find a place to sit, like the overcrowded movie theater you arrived at too late.
Those memories found their place though, cozying up next to the generosity of my other core memory—my childhood home—that I still wander in my dreams.
Here’s where I actually get closer to the point about how not to hate everyone. I appreciate you hanging around for this backstory.
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Because of all of this abrupt change and new set of faces, I craved space. So much space, in fact, that I slowly started to disappear. I stopped showing up for gatherings. The thought of family dinners, group chats, or sporting events, made me want to catapult myself directly into the above-mentioned pits. I began going back and forth on what it means to isolate vs. actually taking the time you need to repair something.
At the time, I told myself, Maybe I’m just an introvert. Maybe I’m not meant to get my energy from people. Or, maybe this is just what adulthood feels like. You lose your friends, become a mom, and your life becomes boring. Now—being a new mother was a monumental joy to partake in, but the bubble of people to share that joy with was small. Doomed to listen to endless conversations about sports, or pressing family issues that required constant attention— which ran parallel with an extreme lack of juicy, raunchy conversations that were so present in my past life. I missed talking about weird shit with weird hearts that didn’t care too much about being very buttoned up. People I didn’t have to mask around.
I couldn’t comfortably talk about the time I dressed up as Brak from Space Ghost just to go to a rave, or the time my friend and I were so deep in psychedelics, that we decided to paint our T.V. because we were so pissed at all of the messages it was sending us via the news.
And to make it even more challenging, as someone who is AuDHD, I began concocting these little stories in my head—that told me I was too “out there”, too fragmented for his family, or that no one would understand me anyway. That when I finally spoke, I’d biff it. That my thoughts would spill out in the wrong order, or worse, not at all. And most times that happened. Still does.
It became easier to not try. It felt like I was avoiding any opportunity for connection and hermitting away instead, because I felt like I had nothing to offer these new people in my orbit, and I felt too embarrassed to share what I did have, because of how wild I used to be, and afraid of being written off by “the normies,” who drained me of my creative juices. They weren’t actually normies though, and I’ve come to feel sad that I used that term throughout my life. What I was really doing—was rejecting others before they had the chance to reject me. (Shoutout to my therapist for that one!) because my entire life I had been rejected. From my birth mother to my adopted mother, and all of the people I would pine after just to get their attention.
I thought I was doing someone else a service by not showing up to things, and because I also thought it was a kind act to mind my energy before I entered someone else’s space.
I even became a workaholic at the new nonprofit I was hired at, trying to excel at everything, because diving fully into my work and a new set of humans made me feel like I could press pause on my home life, but the only person I was hurting was myself by ignoring my needs.
Through therapy, I made an important connection. Maybe it’s not about other people who drain me—it’s how little I pour into myself before I face them. That brushing my teeth, getting time to write, juggle and dance—can be the difference between feeling like an absolute pile of dogshit or a real-life human beaming with curiosity.
These acts of care, or things I would come to enjoy—started out as hobbies, but then were nurtured into lifelines. Small rituals that remind me I’m allowed to take time away or tap back into the parts of myself I missed. That I’m allowed to want closeness or aloneness—so long as I don’t abandon myself in the process.
You may have heard the below wisdom:
When you feel like you hate yourself, take a shower
When you feel like you hate everyone, eat something
If you feel like everyone hates you, sleep
If you feel like everyone hates everything, go outside.
This piece isn’t intended to launch into some cheugy self-help thing, and I’m not interested in preaching this “put yourself first, because everyone else sucks, and I’m healing now” kinda thing, but I realize now that when I don’t take care of myself, I start to hate people who’ve done nothing wrong. I sign up to volunteer and immediately regret it. I agree to a plan and then resent the person who invited me.
I had jack for boundaries because I was always trying to make others happy and probably avoid pissing off my parents, but lately with some work and introspection, I think I’ve done exceptionally well at communicating what I can and cannot do, or what I need—especially when I’m deep in overstimulation—because being a parent of a toddler is no easy task. You can’t just frolic off the way you used to. (And damn do I want to frolic!)
So in order to make room for a good frolic and time spent with myself or others, here are the small rituals that help me have more capacity. (Executive dysfunction and personal hygiene be damned!)
I’ll borrow the wisdom from above and apply my own learnings in hopes that we can connect over it, not because I have the answers:
When you feel like you hate yourself, shower, but then write about it. Don’t smoke so much weed... Give yourself time to be alone with your thoughts so you can explore and understand yourself—separate from what others are thinking about.
When you feel like you hate everyone, eat, but then take time to make something physical or do something delightfully slow and sensory. Juggle, listen to that angsty playlist from your younger years, and let it move you as you reflect on the person you have become. If you have a young child or maybe you’re an aunt, uncle or friend, play with some of their toys to remind yourself that you too, are deserving of wonder and play.
If you feel like everyone hates you. rest—maybe even with a lovely movie like the below that makes you feel warm and safe, and enjoy some time under a weighted heated blanket, but remember that they don’t hate you. I understand maybe something happened that negatively affects some of your relationships, but for most people, we are battling ourselves and the current systems that put barriers around our ability to thrive.
Gah, I love the movie Ponyo so much. If you feel like everyone hates everything, especially in this current time where are our rights, safety, and livelihood are being dangled in front of us at every turn, taunting and agitating us, take a deep breath, and talk to a child or an elder, go on YouTube to see something wholesome , or travel as much as it is accessible and/or exciting for you, and allow yourself to see and feel—something different. Depending on what’s available, you can take a plane, train, a bus, or a long walk to a new space, try a new class, or sit by a tree, and pay attention. Ask for help if you need it.
Or * bonus *—if you feel like no matter what you do, you can’t seem to find a consistent routine you can stick with that keeps up with your hygiene (which totally prevents you from doing any of the above.) Find an out-of-the-box way to access it. I’ll share some of my own funny strategies below.
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One of my greatest life lessons, though not very profound, has been this: The environment around you will determine whether your mind feels like a safe or comfortable place to be—whether in the quiet, everyday moments or in the face of something far more serious.
For improving my own environment, I’ve really been into habit-stacking. I know that if I can just get myself to the shower, I will feel brand new in my mind, and put on an outfit I like to give me a lil dopamine boost. In that newness, I am inspired to clean the kitchen, and if I clean the kitchen, I am inspired to get around to do that exciting or hard thing I was avoiding when I couldn’t think or feel clearly.
This is all reminding me of the book “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie”—except for me, it’s—if you give a silly goose an idea, it will give them space and permission to care about themselves and others.
Aside from habit-stacking, I’ve heard Gen-Z use the term camp. This is a hack I find especially amusing, and I am so happy it exists— Take brushing your teeth for example. Maybe it’s really hard to do. Maybe it’s a sensory issue. But what if you did it so obnoxiously, like pretending your Jim Carrey doing a bit, and getting toothpaste all over your mouth just to make yourself laugh. Or maybe you are trying to sing this absolute gem whilst brushing. You may have turned this process into a joke, but hey—you brushed your teeth. And maybe it even cheered you up a little bit. I take that as a win. (I share even more ideas at the very end from my favorite book)
To me, all this feels like the secret sauce.
My once private, and avoidance-fueled bubble with a “no bullshit” sign on the front— turned into something more manageable. I was finally resting in my bed, instead of rotting in it. (Not everyday is a grand slam, but hey I’m proud of what I’ve overcome!)
Through this process, I learned that I am neither introvert nor extrovert. Though I catch myself falling into that trap sometimes when I talk to people. I kept trying to put myself into some box to understand myself better, but it just confused me more. The truth is, sometimes I need myself. Sometimes I need others. Simple as that.
This is why my husband’s family became a group I would come to embrace rather than an obligation gnawing away at me. I’ll quote my first piece:
It was actually through this journey that I have since opened myself up to them to share my art, and bring them deeper into my life, as much as I have been into theirs. I’m just not used to this dynamic, but I’m learning. And with their help, I’ve met even more life-long lovers and found a sense of arrival within our community.
And so that version of me that thought everyone around was annoying—was really just me. I was the annoying one. Numbing and avoiding just to get out of the things that were too hard or unglamorous for me to face. This is something I’ll be in relationship with for the rest of my life—trying to do the small, inconvenient things that keep me “in it.”
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At the time of recording the audio for this, I hear my own voice, and I see the voice memos app on my phone doing its thing. I have my headphones on, and as I speak, I hear a polite, but robotic voice chime in and say, battery low. And my god—if that’s not what this entire thing is about—the thing that happens when I don’t recharge. Apparently that applies to my devices too.
But anyway, I’d like to offer some final perspective, and what I tell myself now:
When your capacity decides to open up, like a fresh flower in the spring—shy and possibly hungover from a ground so crusted and cold—take it very slow. Don’t rush to make up for what you think you’re behind on. You’ll just fall back into it again. The people who truly love you, understand. Your boundaries, your moments of sweet intentional care, are something to nurture and protect (and truthfully- they are much needed in what we’re up against right now. If it helps you to frame this care as a form of resistance and rebellion. Please do that.)
But when you are ready, reach out to that friend you feel like you left hanging, and check in with them. Send it as a voice message too, if you can. Let them feel your heart, and hear your voice. Because in this digital, divisive world, we need that.
Hold onto your small rituals like the baby blanket that soothed you to sleep, or that trusted treasure that never disappoints.
The more you do this, the more capacity you have to be present with your family, your community, and your work load, and maybe even find some relief while that difficult Presid—I mean person, who is trying to hurt you or take your joy.
And I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge how this isn’t always possible for everyone, depending on the severity of what life is dealing you. If this is the case for you, just know I see you. I may not know your story, but we are all connected through it—so we all feel it.
A very wise friend once told me that when you do something nice for yourself, no matter the size, you do it for the collective too.
Thank you <3
If this moves something in you, or if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee.
I love to keep my resources free, but a donation is warm nudge that I am onto something good here.
Love and solidarity,
Resource: Little Weirds a book by Jenny Slate.
Your words moved with the weight of lived experience and the grace of someone who’s clearly done the hard, often invisible work of paying attention to their inner world. What you’ve written isn’t just a reflection on burnout or grief or even ritual—it’s an ode to the messy, non-linear work of becoming. There’s something so deeply human in your acknowledgement that the version of us we hide is often just trying to keep us safe, even if she scoffs and recoils and hermits. The compassion you extend to her, and in turn to your reader, lands like a balm.
The connection you draw between environment, identity, and small acts of self-respect feels both gentle and piercing. There’s a rare power in how you hold the contradictions—wanting closeness and needing solitude, being joyful and resentful, wild and worn down—and invite us not to fix them, but to sit with them, curiously. Thank you for articulating so honestly what it’s like to be a person right now, and for making it feel a little less lonely.
There’s a rare kind of bravery in writing that doesn’t ask for applause. This piece pulses with that kind of courage: a soft, unflashy honesty that doesn’t strive to impress, but simply exists, raw and unhidden. What makes it so powerful isn’t just the confession of struggle, but the way the author dares to witness their most avoided self, not with disdain, but with growing curiosity. They peel back the performance of functioning, the mask of pleasantness, and make space for a version of themselves that’s often hidden, not because she’s shameful, but because she’s tender, unfiltered, and begging not to be misunderstood.
What rises to the surface here is not just a story of depression or overstimulation, but one of grief migration, how connection, once lost or reshaped, lingers like phantom limbs aching for what once was. The juxtaposition of a creative, deeply lived past with a structured, more domestic present speaks to a very human dissonance: what happens when our new life chapters don’t hold the same language as the old ones? The rituals, the raunchy joy, the weirdness, all of it was not just preference, but belonging. And that loss is not trivial. It's a holy kind of mourning.
And yet, amidst the ache, there’s exquisite wisdom. Not the kind born from tidy healing arcs, but the hard-won kind, grown from repeatedly facing the temptation to disappear, and choosing instead to stay in tiny, silly, creative ways. The “habit-stacking,” the shower jokes, the reclaiming of play, these are not small acts. These are sacred rites of self-rescue. The gentle reframing that healing is not a mountaintop, but a slow rotation of effort and surrender, is medicine. Especially the truth that how much you pour into yourself determines the energy you have for others, not because others are unworthy, but because you are not an afterthought in your own life.
What’s most beautiful, though, is the humility: the tender surrender to the idea that you can be both “the annoying one” and the hurting one. That you can be healing and still hiding. That you can hold contradictions without abandoning yourself. This piece is not a manual, it’s a mirror. A compassionate invitation to anyone who has ever felt like too much or not enough at the same time. And in that, it becomes not just personal, but universal. Thank you for writing this. You’ve given us all something luminous to carry.