Hi there,
Not to state the obvious, but a lot of social media makes us feel like we’re doing it wrong — not going to the right places or wearing the right thing or doing the right workout (or any workout tbh). Like we said, obvious, but this essay by contributor Alex Dobrenko has a deeper takeaway: The feeling at the root of “we’re all out here living but somehow I’m doing it wrong” is shame. Woof.
We’ll let him take it from here – and into the sauna, the site of an unlikely epiphany about his metrics-driven shame spiral.
See you in the steam,
The Prism Team
Alex Dobrenko is a writer, comedian, and lil guy who lives in Asheville, NC with his two kids and wife and dog Robert. He writes Both Are True, a newsletter of funny, weird, vulnerable stories about his life as a writer, comedian, and lil guy.
One thing that makes Alex feel well: “My friend told me about this ancient Jewish tradition of literally talking out loud to god for 20 minutes without stopping and I tried it yesterday morning but only lasted three minutes. This morning I did it again, this time outside, and lasted a full 10 minutes of chit chat with god. That made me feel genuinely very nice.”
Me, my shame, and I (plus the metrics that won’t save me): Confessions of a guy addicted to the numbers
"Alex Dobrenko, 89, was a loving father, husband, and friend. But we'll remember him most for his seven New York Times bestsellers, an impressive Substack conversion rate of 3.4%, and his unwavering commitment to staying at his target weight of 146 pounds."
No one’s going to say this at my funeral. Why would they? There’s too much other cool stuff to talk about — that I’m a silly guy, humble, and great at “needing to do some work.”
The stats, in the rearview, won’t matter at all. Yet, I track and obsess over them like a religion of my own self-worth.
How I measure me, let me count the ways.
The other night, I performed live at a storytelling competition called The Moth. It was my first time up on stage in over a year, and I got second place!
That’s how I tell people about it, leading always with second place.
Not, “It was cool, I improvised my way through the story and felt super connected to the audience, like I could tell I really had ‘em hooked, and how, seeing my wife Lauren’s reaction, how into it she was, made me feel so attractive and reminded me of the early days of our love when she’d see me perform all the time,” but second place.
“Ohhh, second place, that’s awesome!” people said. No faster way to make my mom proud of me than second place.
Well, there is.
First place.
My email signature reads “both are true (absurd comedy + vulnerable stories -- my top 10 humor newsletter with 17k subscribers.)" Impressive, right? Also a stretch. I’m not in the top 10 anymore, and I’ve recently dipped back down below 17k. Why not update the numbers? Why have them there at all?
Because the numbers feel objective. True. Shorthand for value and worth. Otherwise, what, I’m supposed to…trust my feelings? Like a goddamn psycho?
And of course the big number, literally, my weight.
Every morning at the gym, after completing my patent-pending routine of pooping+working out+pooping again+sauna, I’d head downstairs to the locker room scale, tucked away in a little alcove like a confessional booth for my body. Two weeks ago, I weighed in at 151 pounds.
A new low, but still way too high. I immediately bought a scale to weigh my food but forgot to use it.
Is the shame in the room with you now?
The other day, I hosted the first cowriting group for paid subscribers of my Substack. Ten people showed up, ready and excited to hang and get some stuff done. I couldn’t enjoy a single minute, edging a panic attack for the entire two hours. There was a brick in my stomach and I wanted to vomit, to turn off the computer, to make something different happen because this wasn't good, this wasn't enough. This was small potato bullshit. There weren't enough people here. It felt like a giant, disappointed gorilla was squeezing my chest. I was useless and this was for no one.
Lost, I went to church aka the gym, worked out, skipped both poops, and hit the sauna, upping my time to twenty minutes to maximize weight loss as directed by the pallbearer of all things data, Dr. Andrew “Protocol” Huberman.
After about fifteen minutes, even with my wool sauna hat on, I started getting light-headed. My breath shallow, nose hairs burning, the heat roasting me from the inside, I needed to get out, but some part of me demanded I stay there and surrender to the experience.
It was right then that I had a bit of an epiphany.