The Days That Still Count
On October 24, I had the pleasure of attending the Mid-Hudson Library System Annual Meeting. I love libraries. In fact, libraries are the only bureaucratic function that I love. Well-run, intelligently maintained, community-based resources, information hubs—what’s not to go on and on about? As a Library Director, I often forget that I love libraries. The daily grind kills the wonder, at least for me. But on days like the Annual Meeting, when most of the 66 library directors are gathered alongside trustees and, of course, the fabulous MHLS staff, I remember that libraries are special. They’re the vital pulses of our communities.
At the Annual Meeting, Sam Helmick, the President of the American Library Association, spoke. They described themselves as the Johnny Cash of Libraries because they were attending speaking events across the United States. Sam’s presentation was about Storytelling in Libraries—how to get folks invested in our stories, how we interacted with libraries when we were younger, how we interact with them now, what they mean to us. Sam was a fantastic speaker who knew their story well: a young person growing up in the Midwest, homeschooled, lifting books with blacked-out lines to the sun so they could read the censored language. How they came to libraries is a story you can read here—and you should, it’s fantastic.
What struck me most wasn’t just Sam’s storytelling, but their presence. They were clearly travel-worn, a little weary from the endless news cycle. And yet, they spoke like someone determined to shore up the rest of us. To remind us why we show up. Why it matters that we do.
At the end of the talk, Sam said something that has been lodged in my mind ever since:
“Show up even when you’re tired. Even if you have a C+ day, that still counts.”
I’ve been sitting with that. It hit at a moment when I’m reading other writers’ Substacks about exhaustion, burnout, dread. I think we’re all feeling it. Maybe we’ve always been tired, but only now feel safe enough—or desperate enough—to say it out loud.
Because the truth is, it all feels a bit surreal lately. Realities we never imagined, threats we can feel but can’t quite name. And meanwhile, life goes on. We put on wool socks, kiss our cats goodbye, and say, “All right then, I’m off to work!” We still eat, move our bodies, send emails, write—while feeling, at some subterranean level, like we should be defending something. Everything.
For me, this dread could be depression, burnout, weariness, or all three braided together. The label doesn’t matter. What matters is the way it dims things. It makes it harder to show up, to smile, to work, to write. I haven’t written anything of real substance in a while. I’m still opening Microsoft Word, still relishing the click of the keys (one of my favorite sounds), but my stories feel as aimless as I do.
I’m going to allow myself C+ days, weeks, maybe even a C+ year. But I’m going to keep showing up—not because I’m expecting brilliance, but because showing up keeps the door open. It keeps the practice warm.
Writing, like libraries, doesn’t reward perfection; it rewards persistence. The work, whether it’s a story or a community program, only finds its shape if we stay present, even when we’re tired.
Maybe that’s the real takeaway: we don’t show up because we feel ready. We show up so readiness has a place to return to. For our stories, for our libraries, for our lives.
Even on C+ days, it still counts. Especially then.
