Don’t F*cking Tell Me What to Do.

The competing values of authenticity and gratitude.

Hi friends. It’s Carissa (duh) and this week I wanted to talk about how I hate being told what to do and feel - I question why that might be? Below is the story of growing up in a family culture that valued personal agency and authenticity over imposed emotions. When my grandfather died last summer, I spent a few days with him while he still knew who I was. I found myself adopting his gratitude practice despite years of skepticism. This is all very complicated and messy, and grief is a sneaky shapeshifter. I hope you can relate.

Don’t Fucking Tell Me What to Do.

I am someone who, under no circumstances, likes to be told how to feel. What I should feel. Let’s be honest—does anyone? Does anyone like being told how they should feel? Does anyone like receiving answers from other people? Is that even possible? I can’t imagine a world where it would be, and yet, we all do it. We offer advice, tell others what they should do, and assume we know how they should be—all the time.

When my parents divorced when I was ten, we moved in and out of my grandparents’ home until I left for college. Both of my parents were present, but our working-class finances meant that, at times, we needed temporary housing. My mother liked to build houses. I’m not sure why—maybe because she found hope in the idea of change. A fresh setting, new Room & Board furniture, all financed on credit.

On the first occasion, I slept on a couch in a loft in my grandparents’ townhouse for an amount of time I can’t accurately recall. It was a lovely townhouse, situated on a slough (a Minnesota word for swamp), with three floors and enough bathrooms for two of us to shower at the same time—if the hot water allowed. Their dog barked constantly. He wasn’t happy we were there. But my grandparents were. They were our special people, our “yes” people.

"Grandpa, can I eat two 100 Grand bars right before dinner?"
"Of course, Carissa. You know where they are, right? I can get them for you..."

"Grandma, I would love some new Nikes, but Mom says I can't get the black ones that everyone at school has..."
"Let’s go after school. I know Dayton’s has them."

I would come home after school to hot chocolate and microwave popcorn on cold days, Sprite on warm days, and Saved by the Bell on TV. This was a time when outfits were planned a month in advance to avoid repeats, lest you risk social exile. Clothes were financed on credit at The Limited Too. Apparently, there was this thing where you could buy back-to-school clothes and have them sit in the store until you could pay for them. That’s what we did. I never went hungry or without the latest trendy sweater.

At the time, I didn’t think much about where things came from or why our family functioned the way it did. Everything just was. Being young, you have this strange acceptance that fades with age. It’s hard to describe, but I remember the fights.

In my mother’s family, the culture was one of outbursts. Yell, scream, and move on. Say what you want, and then pretend nothing hurtful happened. The pattern was simple:

Someone got upset. They were left at the bus stop. They wrecked a car. They didn’t pick up the dog poop. They bought the wrong mac and cheese.

"I wanted Kraft, goddammit."
"__________, calm the fuck down."

__________ freaks out more. Maybe slams a door. Maybe storms up to the loft. Maybe stays and loses it in front of everyone. There was no shame in yelling. Frustration and anger were just part of life. At least, that’s what I assumed at ten years old.

"DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. YOU CALM DOWN."

Conflict rises.

My mother told me recently that my grandfather had told her to calm down all her life, and she hated it. She never explained why exactly. Why does anyone hate being told to calm down? Or how to feel?

The story I tell myself these days is that I don’t like being told how to feel because I value authenticity. I like to listen to my moods, and any intentional cognitive shift to feel better in any way feels like a scam. I want life in its fullest, messiest, realest form. Even if I’m miserable.

Someone out there has to love me.

There is someone out there who will never tell me to calm down or to be something I’m not. Because I, for one, am so unique and special—why would they ever want to change anything I’m feeling, no matter how ridiculous?

The problem with being told how to feel—calm down, be thankful, whatever—is the inherent knowing better in it. Like they know what’s best for you. Like they’re critiquing you. Like, I’m going to smack you if you don’t control yourself because I am an authority and you have no agency.

I am a rebel.

It’s so ingrained in me that even if I wanted to change, I couldn’t.

Agency makes us feel good. Like we can trust ourselves. Like we are free to make the best decisions available at any given time. Like we can trust our gut—whatever that actually means. After all, I am the expert in my life.

Not you, Grandpa.

---

My grandfather died a few months ago. I wasn’t there for the moment he passed, but I made it out to see him before it happened. Not like my grandmother, who passed while I was on a plane the year before. My mother had cried wolf on her passing so many times that we had no way of knowing this time was real.

I learned from that. People don’t live forever. And seeing someone you love is a nice thing, regardless of whether they are approaching imminent death.

When we lived with my grandparents the first time, sometimes I slept with them, or they would put us to sleep. I hid this from my friends at school. I only told someone in undergrad, and they responded, “Well, that’s weird.” I guess I made the right choice all those years keeping it to myself.

For me, it was just what we did. It didn’t matter who was putting me to sleep—my grandma or my grandpa—but their bedtime rituals were very different.

My grandma told stories from when she was young and beautiful and thought about leaving my grandpa. She gave us advice: Always fall in love with someone who loves you just a little bit more than you love them. That’s the secret to a happy life.

My grandfather was that person for her.

My grandpa’s bedtime ritual was different. He slept with the window cracked, even in the dead of a Minnesota winter, with only a sheet for cover. We said the Lord’s Prayer—or a version of it he learned during the Great Depression, which still haunts me in ways I don’t understand through my DNA. And then we talked about all the ways we were blessed, who we were grateful for, and sent love to those struggling.

He believed in God. Everyone else was spiritual.

It was sweet. I fell asleep thinking of others, hoping their suffering would end. I didn’t see it as forcing positivity. It was just what we did on nights when my mom was out.

I slept with him again when he was put on hospice. The window cracked. His breath varied, sometimes violent, as though he was struggling without words.

People avoid planning for death. My grandfather planned to live forever. He was also an anxious man.

I read to him—a book about James Cook. He loved historical fiction. I never understood why until I read with him. It was like reality TV for pirates. An adventure romance novel with a misleading cover I would never have picked up otherwise.

He was still dreaming of his new car. He asked if I lived on a lake.

"No, Grandpa. There aren’t many lakes in California."

He moaned.

"What hurts, Grandpa?"

"My whole being."

Our final exchange is hard to describe. I don’t remember it in words, only as a sinking feeling in my stomach. I trust he knew who I was, but I can’t be certain.

"Do you know that I love you, Grandpa?"

"Yes, I do."

---

Someone telling me to be grateful has never worked for me. It makes me angry, defensive. But it doesn’t have to.

I’m trying to respond to my reactions differently. Who knows if it will be better?

Throughout his life, when asked how he was doing, my grandfather always said, “Ohhh, every day is a good day.”

I scoffed at that most of my life. Bullshit. We’re allowed to have bad days.

But after people die, you start to remember only the good things. And I don’t want to do that.

Still, I can feel it creeping in.

I’ve started my own version of his gratitude practice.

"Every day is a good day. I’m just grateful to be alive."

---

Thanks for reading, and being here with me. Sending love and acceptance and a little hope even tho hope has a bad rep at the moment, Carissa

PS People I’ve Loved made a Gratitude Journal a couple years ago. IT IS EASY. I made it when I was so depressed after having a kiddo, but also had totally brain fog. It is here if you need a frictionless place to start your complicated journey with gratitude. If the stars align and you need a gratitude journal AND want to support this substack, get one for yourself.