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 | Welcome to The How to Live Newsletter, where we uncover the hidden psychological forces shaping our lives—and holding us back. Through deep research, personal storytelling, and hard-won insight, I challenge the myth of normalcy and offer new ways to face old struggles. This newsletter is reader-supported—if it resonates, please consider a paid subscription for deeper insights, exclusive content, community, and an ad-free experience. ❤️ You can also donate any amount. |
On May 7, 2025, I Wrote About The Nature of Taste.
There’s no accounting for taste.
Why do some images stop us in our tracks, and some annoy us?
Why does some art stir or hook into the lonely crook of our deepest internal essence, which we can’t otherwise access?
Music does this also.
Books too.
For instance:
Why this:
But not this:
Both are by the same artist and feature trees, which I love. So why does only one reach me while the other doesn’t?
Perhaps it’s down to color or the different materials used. Maybe it’s something altogether different that I can’t quite name. I don’t always know why I like something, but I always know what I like.
As I recover from hand surgery and cannot work as I want, I’m looking at art and book covers, which stir the places writing does.
Today, I’m sharing the book covers that reach me in vague and/or profound ways and wondering if they also reach you.
I was lucky to be invited to the first annual Well Festival as a VIP guest by Lori Lebovich, editor of the Well Section of the New York Times.
It was an all-day event, and today, I’m sharing all the notes I took and some of the thoughts I had.
On May 21, I Published the Annual Wildly Comprehensive Mental Health Resources Guide, in honor of Mental Health Month.
It’s actually so comprehensive, it won’t repopulate here, so click the link below for access:
If you follow me on Instagram, you know: I’ve spent ten hours a day for seven days trying to recover my life’s work.
Dropbox unlinked itself. My user folder disappeared. So did my desktop. Entire parts of my life—gone.
GUYS.
I found a single chapter of my novel in progress in a folder with a file structure like: priv/var/141814/235/c/b/sve/435.
This suggests that whatever is left is fragmented and scattered. Like dropping printed pages from a moving plane, then trying to find each one.
I cried more last week than I have in years. I canceled everything. Ignored everyone: emails, texts, phone calls, and appointments. Just tried to stay upright and get everything back. I still haven’t responded to many of you; I’m sorry! I will.
A digital life is fragile. It promises permanence, but things can vanish without notice. When my work disappeared, so did a record of who I’ve been.
So today’s post is an ode to what endures. To books, in their original form. These are just a handful of the ones that changed how I think. The ones that held when nothing else did.
Until next week, I will remain…
Amanda
P.S. Thank you for reading! This newsletter is my passion and livelihood; it thrives because of readers like you. If you've found solace, wisdom or insight here, please consider upgrading, and if you think a friend or family member could benefit, please feel free to share. Every bit helps, and I’m deeply grateful for your support. 💙
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Share Quick note: Nope, I’m not a therapist—just someone who spent 25 years with undiagnosed panic disorder and 23 years in therapy. How to Live distills what I’ve learned through lived experience, therapy, and obsessive research—so you can skip the unnecessary suffering and better understand yourself.
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