Reason for Living #7: Witnessing Humanness
guest essay by Breeann Adam
Today’s guest essayist on REASONS FOR LIVING with Esmé Weijun Wang is Breeann Adam.
Breeann Adam is a writer and former special education teacher. She is a mother to many through foster care, adoption, and biology. As a child, she wrote tiny books by hand and snuck them onto her elementary school’s library shelves. She is currently writing her first (actual) book in the midst of nap times and late nights. You can find her on Substack at
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It’s got to be ridiculous to keep living just because of all this—right?
Hope. Like the way hope isn’t classified as one of the eight basic human emotions, but it’s an invisible thread in our shared human DNA. It binds our wounds and holds us together as ourselves and one other. It links us from who we were to who we are to who we can be. When the world, politics, evil, and disaster try to shred us to pieces, the mysterious and indomitable spirit of hope keeps us alive. Hope is holding vigil, lighting candles, and reminding us we’re here. We’re still here, dammit.
Joy. Like how I smile at six o’clock in the morning when my baby smiles at me. I shouldn’t be smiling. I have been kept up all night, all day, many whole nights - for months and months and months. I am a walking zombie, and I am a shell of my former self in so many ways. I want to sleep and for these raccoon under-eye circles to go away, but even these things are far from the only things I yearn for from my pre-baby days. Yet, the way I smile at her during these early wakings is a smile I could give to only her. It comes from a place deeper than sleep, more profound than nostalgia for a former life, and deeper than any conscious place of myself.
Sadness. Like how tight my chest felt when I said good-bye for the final time to my foster son. My eyes burned, my throat ached, and then my body collapsed into the couch for days. I knew I had loved him as much as I could because when he left my house that day, I felt my whole heart leave with him.
Fear. Like that voice message I listened to in my car when I was 27 and it was my mom, who never admitted she was sad. She was hardly able to speak the words that my dad now had blood cancer. Her voice wobbled, and she said she didn’t want to worry me but thought I should know. I sat in my car watching snow land in mockingly pretty flakes on the window. The feeling of my head floating above my body and my body drifting like some unfamiliar blob beneath it wouldn’t leave me for days.
Anticipation. Like at that one party when I was nineteen, and I was doing a newspaper crossword puzzle half-drunk standing at someone else’s parents’ sticky kitchen counter. A random guy who would become my husband one day walked by and looked at me some kind of way, and it was the first time I felt like someone was staring right through to my soul.
Disgust. Like when I see I have, again, again, again, lost my mind to social media/phone/tech for hours and hours and hours. When I again see my to-do list untouched, my house uncleaned, my body unmoved, my dreams unpursued, my people unloved, my self uncared for. When I again look at the glass rectangle in my hand and knowing even what I know and feeling what I feel, I’m still sure as hell not giving it up. Doesn’t mean I won’t try a thousand times over, though.
Anger. Like how my cheeks felt hot and my fists were balled up while hearing the hollow words and sharp tone of the nurse who cooly dismissed every single awful thing she could have instead offered space and empathy and validation for. Unlike the doctor who came in after her and sat on the literal floor before me. So very unlike the doctor who was a portrait of compassion so intense she melted every ounce of my white-hot anger right then and there as I sat in the room.
Trust. Like how those fried chicken strips and fries tasted on my 9th birthday when they plucked from the warm styrofoam box sitting on my lap and dunked in the good kind of ranch dressing. I sat shotgun, warm and content, and my Grandma drove the two of us back home from Yellowstone National Park. The sun visors had to be flipped down as we drove straight into the blazing Montana sun, staring down nothing but mountains, fields, and wide open roads.
Surprise. Like when I was five years old, and I watched my tiny four-year-old friend accidentally fly off her swing at the park at its highest point. Her little lemon-printed dress flew open like a defective golden parachute that couldn’t save her. Right before her itty bitty body hit the sandy pit like a rag doll, her emotionless father showed all the emotions he ever would in a whole lifetime in those few seconds, and I’ve never forgotten his expression since.
It’s got to be ridiculous to keep living just because of all this—right?
10% of the proceeds from each REASONS FOR LIVING newsletter go to an organization of the guest essayist’s choice. Breeann has chosen CASA of Missoula. In her own words: “If you could donate to CASA of Missoula, that would be great. As a foster parent, the organization is very dear to my heart. Here's their link.
Here is their mission quoted from their site: "CASA of Missoula provides independent, trained advocates for the best interests of children within the judicial system who are at substantial risk or have experienced abuse or neglect. We provide consistent, long-term advocacy until every child resides in a safe, permanent home."
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Filling Station
by Elizabeth Bishop
Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
Consider an ordinary event from this day that’s opened your eyes to the beauty of humanity. Write a paragraph (or more) about the event—using all the senses—that includes what it is, precisely, that moves you so much.
Building Your Author Platform (When You'd Rather Be Writing)
📅 Date & Time: March 15, 2025 at 11 AM PT
Maybe you've heard that agents and publishers want to see a platform before they take on a book.
Maybe you've tried to build one, but the thought of posting on Instagram or tweeting every day makes you want to disappear into the woods.
Or maybe you've put off building a platform because it feels like an impossible, soul-sucking task.
Here's the truth:
You don't have to go viral to build a powerful platform.
In this 90-minute live workshop, I'll show you how to create an engaged, meaningful audience that supports your writing--without forcing yourself onto social media platforms that drain your energy.
By the end of this workshop, you'll walk away with:
✅ A clear understanding of what "platform" actually means (and what agents & publishers really look for)
✅ Practical strategies for building an audience without relying on social media
✅ The best platform-building tools for introverts, deep thinkers, and non-marketers
✅ Ways to grow your readership through newsletters, podcasts, partnerships, and more
✅ A step-by-step plan to start building a platform that feels sustainable and authentic
This is for writers at any stage--whether you're working on a book proposal, publishing personal essays, or simply want to grow your audience in a way that feels aligned with your values.
Who This Is For:
📖 Writers working on book proposals, memoirs, essays, or newsletters who need a platform but dread traditional marketing.
🖊️ Authors who want to build an engaged readership without feeling like a content creator.
😌 People who are introverts, neurodivergent, or exhausted by social media but still want their work to reach the right audience.
Also!!!
We now have Academy notebooks! They’re blank and perfect for your doodles and notes; I’m already obsessed with mine. The art on the cover is of the Academy Journey, drawn by Gracie Klumpp. Grab yours here.
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