The Problem with Being a Person: How an Existentialish Philosophy Can Ground Us in Modern Chaos - Hardcover

Pollock, Talia

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 059342090X ISBN 13: 9780593420904

Verlag: Tarcher, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

Escape the race to happiness, build a life of value, and resist the pull of self-help

You’ve heard this story: outwardly, woman was living the dream. Inwardly, woman was drowning in despair. It's what happened next that sets this tale apart.

Many of us go through life believing that something about us is not normal enough. So, we devote ourselves to the endless pursuit of self-improvement. That’s what Talia Pollock decided to do. In her quest to feel better, Talia Pollock got seduced by self-help trends that offered fleeting solace but failed to soothe the depths of her inner turmoil. Conventional remedies, like medication and therapy, provided a semblance of relief but didn’t ease the angst she felt inside. 

It wasn’t until she discovered Existentialist philosophy that she discovered that what we’re told is abnormal is actually entirely human, and it’s our attempts to cure ourselves of our humanity which will eventually drive us mad.

Echoing the timeless wisdom of philosophers and the timely research of social scientists, Pollock offers a modern take on finding the courage to create your own version of satisfaction.

Pollock’s sincere retelling of her own experiences urges readers to

• question conventional notions of happiness
• embrace contentment as a lasting source of well-being
• navigate the challenges of a comfortably uncomfortable life 

Whether you’re grappling with existential questions, seeking to break free from societal expectations, or yearning for a deeper sense of fulfillment, The Problem with Being a Person offers a powerful message for prioritizing self-acceptance over self-improvement.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Talia Pollock is a writer, speaker, and armchair philosopher. She infuses humor into wellness discussions to navigate life's complexities. Her debut book and podcast, Party in Your Plants, promote light-hearted, healthy living. She's modernizing existentialism to liberate her generation from the self-help industry. Her work has been celebrated on platforms like Good Morning America, The Dr Oz Show, Bustle, and PEOPLE Magazine. Talia lives in Brooklyn with her daughter, husband, and doodle.

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1

Normal°

We were going on hour three of our Zoom hypnobirthing class when Cynthia explained that a relaxed throat equals a relaxed vagina.

"Once you've reached ten centimeters of dilation," she said, "you should start deep breathing through your nose all the way to the lower back of your throat and down through your body behind baby." I closed my eyes to practice visualizing my baby gliding out of me like a kid on the blue tarp of a slip-and-slide positioned perfectly on a bright green grassy backyard hill.

It must have been the image of our daughter's ejection out of me that had ejected Jesse off the couch, down the hall, and into my office, which we had begun converting into our nursery, with a tape measure in tow. When the virtual birthing class ended, I headed for bed to listen to my peaceful-delivery mantras and visualize my relaxed vagina as I fell into a deep slumber. As I passed by him, I caught a glimpse of Jesse maniacally taking measurements.

The next morning, we rendezvoused at the kitchen table, where he, straight-faced like he was presenting possible solutions to the very distressing beaver overpopulation problem continually brought up at our small town's meetings, walked me through his assessment of Our Floor Situation.

"I didn't know we had a Floor Situation," I said as I shoveled cereal into my mouth.

"Option A," he replied sternly after sipping his coffee and placing the light gray mug with black, ironic "This meeting sucks" lettering on it, on the table. "Pay a ridiculous amount of money to install carpet wall to wall."

"Uh-huh," I replied.

"Option B," he offered with a furrowed brow. "Get a still very expensive custom-sized rug to fill the entire floor since it's not a standard size."

"OK," I said, wondering if the difference between a custom rug and a custom carpet is like the difference between a padded bra and breast implants, where one just lays on top while the other gets permanently affixed.

"And option C," Jesse asserted. "Order a cheapo, wrongly sized, crappy toxic rug [my words, not his], sight unseen."

I paused-the amount of time I guesstimated gave the impression that I was considering Our Floor Situation with as much thoughtfulness as I'd given to my Grow Out My Terrible Layers Cut by a Dangerously Persuasive New Hair Stylist Who Said They'd Make My Hair Easier to Style but Was Full of Shit Conundrum. Then I told Jesse that I agreed option A seemed like an unnecessary use of funds, but I couldn't offer input on options B and C without actually touching rugs to understand the differences better.

He looked at me as if I had said we were out of dish soap while he was eating off a fork I'd let my dog lick clean instead.

I reminded him that I can't make decisions without involving all of my senses. He should've remembered when I couldn't pick a bathtub without getting into it in the store (he was in the right to stop me from getting nude in Home Depot for the full bathing effect) and how I couldn't choose a wedding cake without three tastings or a mattress without a scabies scare.

He looked at me and said, "Why do you need to go roll around on a bunch of carpet samples to make a decision?"

Five free-shipping days later, I'm rolling around on a gray, lightly toxic carpet with off-white embossed stars and a ninety-day return policy.

On the other side of the nursery, Jesse, too, is face down on the carpet. His left eye, cheek, and measuring tape are sideways in a critical investigation of which increment of one eighth of an inch would be the primo thickness for a rug pad over which the closet door can still open.

I turn over to lie on my back, where my daughter's crib will soon be stationed, and my eyes meet the ceiling. There's a crack and some faded markings where the former owner's light fixtures have been patched up.

Suddenly I time-traveled to my childhood room with my younger self back on my bed. All these years later, the image of my off-white ceiling covered in stucco popcorn stayed intact in my mind's eye like an old friend. And with that ceiling above came a familiar feeling within: a pit in my stomach, a lump in my throat, and a question in my head-am I broken?

I embarked on a mental road trip, bringing myself back below all sorts of ceilings from my past. I saw my first college dorm room, where the ceiling reflected my loneliness; then my first college apartment, with a new view but the same feeling; and then my second college apartment, too.

I flashed back to a couple of college boys' beds, where I'd stare up, dehydrated and dizzy and full of Bud Light, wondering if this was the "college dream" I'd been told to expect.

I saw ceilings of summer where, amid the endless black, above me was the moon and some shooting stars and the overwhelming feeling of insignificance.

I recalled the ceiling above early career-girl Talia, which reflected the ambition in my eyes right back at me, and then the later successful Talia, suddenly comfortable with the two essential forms of currencies (dollars and followers), who gazed up wondering if this is what success was supposed to feel like. Maybe success is like cilantro, I thought. Maybe to some people it just tastes like soap.

When I think about the ceilings I've looked at, I recall the thoughts that kept me awake. Sometimes I'd be brainstorming how I could try again to fix myself. Other times I'd be overcome by shame for how broken I was. I'd lay in feelings of fear that I was beyond repair or send secular cries up there for help.

I can't remember the first time I felt broken. I think it was during moments I'd question why something that was supposed to make me happy did not make me happy. Eventually this incongruency built up enough that it became unignorable, strengthening in all sorts of surprising ways.

Like every time I'd pass a magazine headline at the grocery store checkout counter telling me "Three Ways to Be Happier NOW!" I didn't need to be a word nerd to understand that the -er on the end of happy insinuated that I wasn't currently happy enough. I also didn't need the added anxiety that if I didn't get that magazine, I would miss out on the three ways to be happier and would be less happy forever. And this was just a trip to the grocery store.

Sometimes I'd brainstorm what more I needed to do to get it right, to feel satisfied. Work harder? Have more gratitude? Even though none of them were mirrors (except for that one Sigma Chi fraternity guy's), those ceilings seemed to reflect my deepest truth right back at me every night: I don't matter. And then, if I don't matter, what does?

I've spent much of my life hoping to find an answer to my inscrutable angst by connecting the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and I'm far from alone.

One day, my daughter is going to lie on her back staring up at this ceiling, inevitably feeling broken in some way. How many hours will she spend with this view, her eyes concentrated on the white plaster, wrestling with herself? Will she, too, wish to "just be normal"? Oh god. Would sorrow over her own insignificance take space in her sweet head like it did mine?

And I got to thinking: How do we wind up looking at ceilings for clues on how to fix ourselves? What gets us to that place?

I pictured my beautiful daughter lying here someday looking up at the same cracks and rings in this ceiling. I imagined a perfect little human lying on her back, snuggly swaddled like a burrito, with her perfect teeny eyes squeezed closed. I envisioned her growing inside a world that, no matter what, will tell her she needs to fix herself. Tears welled in my own eyes as I imagined that one day she would gaze at this ceiling afraid that she'll never fix herself enough. Wondering how she could change so that...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Tarcher
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 059342090X
• ISBN 13: 9780593420904
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Auflage: 3
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Tarcher; https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/search/tarcher?page=1&q=TARCHER; ; Attn: Andrea T Sheridan 1745 BROADWAY; New York; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: eucomply OÜ; hello@eucompliancepartner.com; ; Pärnu mnt 139b-14; Tallinn; 11317; Estland