When Bre Kanak, an art teacher in northern Wisconsin, was invited to join a nine-day sea expedition to Antarctica, her husband Dan stayed home to watch their snakes and chickens. He felt a bit of FOMO, he admits, but mostly he was excited for her鈥攅specially because he got to follow along vicariously. Dan remembers keeping a close eye on Antarctic weather as Bre鈥檚 ship crossed the infamous Drake Passage, a stretch of circumpolar ocean known for having some of the roughest waves in the world. 鈥淚 remember being so proud when I got a text during the passage,鈥� Dan told me over the phone. 鈥淏re was standing outside in the wind, vlogging for her students. If I鈥檇 been there, I鈥檇 want to be the guy out on deck with a cigar, chatting it up with the crew. And minus the cigar, that was Bre.鈥�

鈥淲hen you choose your person, you think, 鈥楾his is my adventure partner,鈥欌€� Bre told me. 鈥淭he whole trip, I kept thinking how much he would have loved it.鈥� But every adventure partnership has limits, and the more adventurous a couple, the more likely that each partner will have to negotiate doing big things solo鈥攐r, sometimes, being the one left behind. If one person encourages their partner鈥檚 adventures but feels unsupported on their own, that gap can undermine or even end a relationship. But when the support is mutual, it sets up both partners for adventures they never would have managed otherwise.

It鈥檚 a dynamic I know intimately. My husband and I are both long-distance dogsledders, and while we train our team together, we race separately, taking turns embarking on multi-week solo expeditions while the other keeps the home fires burning. This past winter, he raced in the Iditarod while our kids and I stayed with my wonderful in-laws in Chicago. I felt incredibly proud, excited, and worried all at once, and flip-flopped between wishing that I, too, was on the runners in forty below鈥攁nd relishing the joys of eating takeout in a climate-controlled suburban house. More than anything else, I knew he was embarking on something extraordinarily difficult, and I wanted him to feel unequivocally supported and loved.

How do you have your partner鈥檚 back when they鈥檙e doing something big without you, whether it鈥檚 embarking on an expedition, running a marathon, or pursuing some other private dream? What if it鈥檚 a dream you can鈥檛 relate to鈥攁nd what if you wish you were doing it, too?

Put everything else aside: first, you have to believe in them. Believe in their preparation, their dedication, and their ability鈥攅ven if the journey doesn鈥檛 go as planned鈥攖o integrate what they鈥檝e learned and move forward stronger regardless. 国产吃瓜黑料s can go all kinds of ways. Your partner might fare far better than they hoped, or they might get injured, homesick, or caught in a storm. But believing in them doesn鈥檛 mean expecting a certain result; it means trusting their intention, their heart, and their hard work. Let them know you鈥檙e proud to bursting, every step of the way.

If you鈥檙e not familiar with their adventure or their sport, learn the language. You don鈥檛 have to be an expert, but if they鈥檙e, say, attempting the Appalachian Trail, you should know the difference between a thru- and section-hike, and understand terms like zero day, bonus mile, and blaze. Care enough to read a book about what they鈥檙e doing, or watch movies with them, even if it鈥檚 not a passion you share yourself. Is Dan specifically interested in Antarctica? Not really. He鈥檚 more into machinery and heritage apples. But you can bet that after Bre鈥檚 trip, he knows more about penguins than he ever expected to learn.

Part of the beauty of a public adventure鈥攚hether your partner鈥檚 on an expedition they鈥檝e advertised on social media, or running a big-name marathon all their training partners know about鈥攊s that you can be a container for other people to support them, too. If they鈥檙e out training for a race, buy some markers and poster boards and invite friends over for a beer-and-signmaking night. Then hide the signs until race day, when you can stage them along the route. Your partner will get a boost of encouragement from supporters they might not have expected, and you鈥檒l be building your own network of people you can call if you start freaking out over, say, split times. 鈥淏re鈥檚 dad found a website where we could see in real time where the ship was, how many miles out of port, the sea conditions, all of that,鈥� Dan says. 鈥淭hat was definitely a way to feel connected to her trip, and it kept me connected to her family, too.鈥�

The connections that form through a big endeavor can be surprising. After one of my first successful dogsled races, I got a note from a legend in the sport, Lloyd Gilbertson, who said he鈥檇 noticed my win and that I鈥檇 done a great job. I was flying high. I drove out to meet him, and we鈥檝e since become close friends. It took me a few years to realize what should have been obvious: there was nothing exemplary about my race in particular; that wasn鈥檛 why he reached out. He simply had a practice of noting up-and-comers and being generous with encouragement and praise. Lloyd is a dogsledding mentor to me now, but more than that, he鈥檚 a mentor in building and holding community鈥攖wo things that are vital when it comes to big adventures, whether it鈥檚 you or a loved one doing the adventuring. And being the person at home often means you have more time and space for communication, not less. Try to follow along with other athletes or adventurers doing the same thing as your partner, and don鈥檛 be afraid to reach out unsolicited to let them know that you care. Good energy comes around, and putting goodness into their community is a way of looking out for your partner, too.

And what if you get that restless feeling that you wish you were out there yourself? Try to distinguish between jealousy and envy: jealousy means wanting something just for yourself, while envy means that you see what someone else has, and you want it, too. It鈥檚 non-possessive, and luckily, there鈥檚 no scarcity of adventure in the world. Do you feel that your partner supports you, too, when it鈥檚 your turn to do something big? If not, that鈥檚 a bigger conversation鈥攂ut if so, now鈥檚 the time to breathe deep, refocus, and work on your patience. There are journeys enough for all of us, and yours will come, too.

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In college, I brought guys into the forest at night because it was a place where I was less scared than they were. As a woman, dating鈥攐r even just being alone with a man鈥攆elt vulnerable. I wanted to flip the script.

I remember the second time in particular, with a man I really liked. We were a mile deep in the campus arboretum, following a trail through faint moonshadows and then, as the trees grew thicker, into a tunnel of black. My flashlight was dim. He held my arm as I led the way.

Something rustled in the dark to our right.

The man jumped a little, chuckled once, and grabbed my arm with his other hand. He squeezed.

鈥淵ou nervous,鈥� I said.

I sensed, rather than saw, his nod.

鈥淲hat are you scared of?鈥�

鈥淲hat was that?鈥� he said. He meant the rustle. Probably a mouse, I thought, but I didn鈥檛 answer. I imagined what he鈥檇 do if I said the flashlight had burned out. He wouldn鈥檛 panic, at least not outwardly, but his breath would quicken. He鈥檇 stay close; he鈥檇 squeeze my arm tighter. He鈥檇 trust me to lead the way out.

Still in blackness, I stepped back so we weren鈥檛 touching. He didn鈥檛 move. I thought about reaching back toward him, but instead I waited. Counted. One breath. Five, ten. When he still hadn鈥檛 moved or spoken, I stepped back toward him. Took one of his hands, then the other, and rose to my toes for a kiss.

鈥淭hat would never have occurred to me,鈥� he said later, back inside. 鈥淕oing into the woods at night. I just never think of it as an option. I don鈥檛 know how you weren鈥檛 nervous.鈥�

The secret was that I鈥檇 been nervous, too. But unlike him, I was used to it.

As a kid, I dreaded getting home at night because I hated walking in darkness from the car to the front door. I鈥檇 run past the roses and thuja trees by the driveway鈥攆earing that at any moment, hands would reach from the thickets and grab me tight鈥攁nd I didn鈥檛 calm down until I鈥檇 reached the bright artificial light of the entry. In the daytime, I loved being outside; I made passageways in the bushes, and tossed seeds to lure squirrels close. But at night, the yard turned into something different. It became a place I didn鈥檛 understand.

By my late teens, I spent most of my free time outside, bushwhacking through mountainsides and forests with a backpack and a map. I felt that my fear of the woods at night鈥攖hough common, normal鈥攚as one of the last barriers between myself and the wild life I wanted. But the dark wasn鈥檛 dangerous, I told myself. It was just scary. And fear, I hoped, could be fixed. It was with that intention that I tried solo backpacking at 18, laying my sleeping bag on the moss at the edge of a mountain lake called Sick Water, where I planned to spend two days. But I panicked the first night鈥搇ying frozen, eyes open in blackness, barely able to breathe鈥揳nd then hiked five miles home at three in the morning. I climbed into my own bed as the sun was rising, weak with relief.

Later that year, I tried again. It was winter. I skied uphill to the same lake, which was smooth and white, and found an open creek at the edge, barely a foot across and bounded with deep banks. I drank the water by cupping it in my bare hands, though the cold hurt my skin, and then I built a fire for warmth. I鈥檇 brought a book of poems鈥擯rufrock, I think鈥攖o read for distraction, but I never opened the book at all. I didn鈥檛 need it. For some reason, that time I wasn鈥檛 afraid.

In retrospect, I think the cold helped my nerves. Winter鈥檚 always been my comfort. The world quiets; animals sleep. And the snow doesn鈥檛 lie. At times, lying in the darkness, I imagined creatures creeping toward me. But when the sun rose again, I saw from the untouched snow that they had not.

By the way, there was nothing sick about Sick Water. I don鈥檛 know how the lake got its name. It was good fishing, so maybe that鈥檚 why. Some fisherman tried to scare folks away and claim the whole lake for his own.

My husband and I live deep in the Wisconsin woods; we take all our city friends outdoors. It鈥檚 a running joke that we can teach them dogsledding, kayaking, fishing, skiing鈥攁nd when we bring them back to the cabin late, by headlamp, and they鈥檒l say, 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know I could do that.鈥�

And we say, 鈥淒ogsledding?鈥�

And they say, 鈥淣o, being in the forest at night.鈥�

Why is this fear so universal? I looked up science, studies. I wanted to tell you facts about what we鈥檙e afraid might happen, and how to push through. But I found almost no research at all. Only stories. Fairy tales, myths, legends, warnings. Don鈥檛 go in the woods at night, characters tell each other, or else. Or else what? In the forest, power shifts. We鈥檙e not in charge anymore. We have to face the fact that we never were.

Stories don鈥檛 create our fears; they reflect them back to us, shimmering with layers of unease. One reason humans are scared of the dark woods, wrote scholar Dr. Elizabeth Parker, who studies ecogothic literature, is because we fear nature鈥檚 appetite, even when it pales before our own. In the forest, 鈥渨e fear being eaten: be it by literal predators such as wolves and bears, or by the many monsters that we imagine within it.鈥�

In the dark, in the trees, anything can creep toward you.

You won鈥檛 see it coming.

It will open wide its mouth.

It might consume you, or might just stand there watching.

We鈥檙e scared of the dark woods, Dr. Parker writes, because they hold a secret we鈥檙e not sure we want to know.

Over the years, I have, in fact, been approached by animals at night. One time, alone in a lean-to of sticks in Florida, something huge blackened the night nearby. I imagined it might attack me. I saw from its tracks in the morning that it had been a cow.

In South Africa, I was surrounded by a pack of hyenas for several nights in a row. They circled, barking and grunting, for hours on end. I had no weapons, but I built my fire high. They didn鈥檛 dare enter the light.

Hyenas eat people. Big cats do, too. Some bears. Sharks, I guess, with all those teeth. But the fear of being consumed isn鈥檛 just a fear of dying. It鈥檚 a fear of recalling that you鈥檙e an animal, too, with warm soft flesh like the rest of them. We鈥檙e not afraid of the woods at night because we don鈥檛 belong there. We鈥檙e afraid of them because we do.

It takes practice, time, to accept that. After my stay at Sick Water, I didn鈥檛 spend a night alone outside for several years; I鈥檇 just needed to know that I could. But when I finally did venture out again, it was for weeks straight. I was visiting a Norwegian village, and needed somewhere to stay, so I set up camp in a grove of sparse birch, a few minutes鈥� walk from the nearest road. Each night I lay on my back in my sleeping bag, watching heart-shaped leaves flicker against the sky. That was the Arctic, in summer, so the sun never set. Darkness only came when I closed my eyes.

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In February, I joined four strangers on an overnight dogsled expedition for beginners. They ranged in age from their twenties to sixties, and sat long hours around the campfire鈥攍aughing, roasting marshmallows for each other, and petting a yellow dog who squeezed along the snowbanks behind them, nosing for snacks. Each attendee had signed up for the trip alone; they鈥檇 never met each other before. But the mood鈥攁nd the conversation鈥攃ouldn鈥檛 have been better. If you鈥檇 told me right then, sitting around the fire, that we鈥檇 be extending the expedition for a month, I would have looked at my companions鈥� eyes sparkling in the firelight and thought: Yes. Bring it on.

Recently The Atlantic published a , which is caused鈥攊n part鈥攂y what we might call an epidemic of individualism: our own ongoing choices to stay siloed in tiny worlds. We work from home; we eat at home; we stream instead of going to the movies鈥攁nd the problem, as diagnosed in The Atlantic, isn鈥檛 so much that we鈥檙e lonely as that we鈥檙e not. We鈥檙e alone by choice, and we鈥檙e OK with it, in part because of the ways that technology intrudes on what used to be solo time. Let鈥檚 say you choose to take a quiet evening to recharge. But your phone鈥檚 lighting up constantly, and you owe so-and-so a text and so-and-so an email, and you should probably check socials just to see what disasters are happening in the news鈥� and by the end of the night, you haven鈥檛 spent quality time with other people or yourself. So you鈥檙e hungry for quiet, and stay home the next night and do the same, with the same result. As author Annie Dillard says, how we spend our days is how we spend our lives鈥攁nd a life of neither solitude nor companionship can leave us feeling consistently wrong.

The article strikes me partially as hand-wringing (I鈥檓 rarely compelled by arguments that other people are choosing to live their personal lives wrong) and partially as terrifying (it鈥檚 easier to hate people for their differences if you rarely encounter them). But I also wrote an outdoors advice column for almost a decade, long enough to notice deep grooves of recurring themes in the questions that readers sent in. Many readers鈥� problems were steeped, above all, not in solitude but in true loneliness; the theme came up so often that it was sometimes difficult to find questions to answer that weren鈥檛 about being alone. People struggled to make friends as adults, or after a move to a new location; they mourned when relationships drifted apart, and weren鈥檛 sure how to fill the gap. And yes, when you鈥檙e a hammer鈥攐r an outdoors columnist鈥攅verything looks like a nail, but it鈥檚 hard to ignore the degree to which time outdoors can heal these ills, at least when it comes to the particular forms they take in modern life.

When we go outside with someone, whether that means joining a meetup or organizing a trip with friends, we鈥檙e committing to spending time together in bulk: a two-night camping trip with a buddy means logging as many waking hours together as two years鈥� worth of monthly coffee dates. Researchers have found that the closeness of a friendship can, : that it takes roughly 50 hours to build a casual friendship, versus 200 to be in someone鈥檚 inner circle, and 听that involved locking male strangers in a room together for ten days resulted in the men becoming, well, basically besties. If you鈥檝e spent any amount of time traveling or hiking with strangers鈥攐r even sitting around a campfire鈥攁nd experienced the intense bond that results, then this degree of rapid closeness may not surprise you at all.

I spoke to Jenny Baker, the founder of Sheventures, an outdoors camp for women in Tennessee, about how her campers make friends. She tries to make sure that 35 percent of the slots at each camp are saved for people who don鈥檛 know anyone else, so that they can meet and connect with one another. The strategy is so effective that now, nine years on, it can be hard for her to find enough solo travelers: previous years鈥� campers are now friends with each other, and choose to return together as a group.

鈥淚f we want to combat loneliness,鈥� Jenny told me, 鈥渨e can鈥檛 just find the places where people are connecting. We have to build those places intentionally. How do we ease the hurdles that people encounter when they鈥檙e making new outdoor friends? How do we make space for deep connection?鈥�

Jenny鈥檚 found that not all outdoor activities are created equal when it comes to making friends. Paddleboarding and mountain biking require too much solitary focus, even when a group does them together. 鈥淗iking is great for introverts,鈥� she told me, 鈥渂ecause you don鈥檛 have to make eye contact while you鈥檙e talking.鈥� But the best activity she鈥檚 seen for building friendships, by far, is rock climbing. 鈥淵ou鈥檇 think it鈥檚 a solo sport, but it鈥檚 not. At camp, we might have three women on the wall and 20 women on the ground cheering for them. A climber might be scared. Maybe she鈥檚 tried for the next hold a few times, and keeps missing it. As women, we try not to take up space, so she鈥檒l say she鈥檚 done and someone else should go. But the women on the ground will literally not let her off the wall. They鈥檙e calling out, helping her. They鈥檙e completely invested. And when she succeeds, the cheering that erupts in the woods is incredible. It鈥檚 like everyone succeeded together.鈥�

But what about after camp? How can people keep those intense bonds from drifting apart?

It turns out that the science of friendship can guide us here, too. For one thing, it鈥檚 OK for friendships to drift apart; we benefit from companionship at any level, and just because a friendship is short-lived doesn鈥檛 mean that it鈥檚 not important, or that it won鈥檛 be rekindled later. But if you find yourself making an outdoor friend that you really want to hold onto, just remember to do the opposite of what every true crime podcast tells you and go to a second location. Going from the trail to the pub, or making plans to meet up after camp, helps you to see each other in a different light, and also lets your new pal know that you care about them beyond convenience. And that choice鈥搕hat intention鈥揷an make all the difference between an outdoor friend and a friend for good.

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Last fall, at a dryland dogsled race in Pearson,Wisconsin, one canine athlete stood out from the rest. While her competition鈥攎ostly pointers and Alaskan huskies鈥攔an one- to three-mile sprints, then rested, she entered multiple divisions in such quick succession that she once hurried straight from the finish line to the starting line without slowing down. Her gaze is stoic. Her fur is orange. Her legs are four inches long.

Musher Betsy Heidt of Wausau, Wisconsin, didn鈥檛 plan for her 18-pound dachshund mix, Muppy, to become one of the most recognizable sled dogs in the Midwest. As it turns out, that was all Muppy鈥檚 idea.

鈥淚 could never get Muppy to walk on a leash,鈥� Betsy told me over the phone. (I鈥檓 a dogsledder myself, and cheer for Muppy at races, but I don鈥檛 know Betsy well; I reached out to learn the full story.) 鈥淪omeone commented that I should walk faster, so I walked faster, and then Muppy started running, so I started running, and then she started running faster. I don鈥檛 have the cardio for that, so I hooked her up to a bike and off she went. I was like, oh, I guess this is a thing.鈥�

Betsy grew up on a dairy farm in the southern part of the state. As a kid, she sometimes hooked up the farm collies to a plastic sled with bailer twine, then threw snowballs for them to chase so they鈥檇 pull her. But those experiments, plus the movie Snow Dogs, were the only context she had for sled dog sports. So she turned to YouTube for urban mushing tutorials, which explained the basics of , , and : dogs pulling bikes, scooters, and human runners, respectively. The videos were helpful, but geared toward folks with huskies and other big dogs. They didn鈥檛 address many of the problems she encountered, like that Muppy was so short that she had to swim through puddles. Plus, where do you find a good harness that size?

But Muppy loved pulling so much that Betsy was determined to figure it out. She contacted a harness company called , ordering their smallest adjustable size, and got some goggles so that Muppy鈥檚 eyes were protected from sticks and burdock. They trained on deer trails in the woods by their house. Muppy was ecstatic to pull, and her never-ending energy felt like magic鈥攅ven when she turned to chase critters, and Betsy went flying. 鈥淚 got really good at reading her body language,鈥� she told me. 鈥淚 can tell by the way she holds her tail if she鈥檚 locked into something ahead of us, whether it鈥檚 a person in the distance or an unsuspecting rabbit.鈥� Betsy learned to brace herself, and Muppy learned not to swerve: 鈥淪he throws into the harness even more to get out that frustration.鈥�

When Muppy was four, in 2021, Betsy posted a picture on Facebook, and a page called Twin Cities Dog-Powered Sports liked her post. 鈥淚 sent some messages to their page, asking them 900 different questions, and they were super helpful.鈥� When she saw that they were hosting a first-time race in Minnesota, she signed up for the 1.3 mile bikejoring event. She was terrified.

For one thing, Betsy didn鈥檛 know if other mushers would accept her. 鈥淏ut my biggest fear,鈥� she said, 鈥渨as that someone would pass us.鈥� That summer, Muppy had been attacked by three golden retrievers at a park, and she鈥檇 been sketchy around strange dogs ever since. How would she react to a team coming up behind them? Betsy made a plan: if another team approached, she would veer off-trail and sit on the ground, holding Muppy, until they were gone. As it turned out, she and Muppy both had so much adrenaline鈥斺€淲e were pedal to the metal!鈥濃€攖hat no other teams came close. They finished the course in just five and a half minutes, averaging over 14 miles per hour. The duo didn鈥檛 make the podium, but they weren鈥檛 on the bottom, either.

After that, they were hooked.

When most people picture sled dogs, they imagine huskies racing 1,000 miles through snowy wilderness. But in dryland racing, an ever-growing corner of the sport, teams consisting of one to six dogs compete in parks, cities, and small towns worldwide. Mushers gather at trailheads and parking lots for long weekends of racing, with world-champion sprinters (often huge, muscular pointers with legs a mile long) competing alongside teams of purebred Siberians and assorted mutts. When Betsy and Muppy first started showing up at races, people assumed that Muppy belonged to a spectator, or that she was a pet accompanying another team. But it wasn鈥檛 long before they took her seriously, as both a friend and competition.

Muppy鈥檚 not the fastest dog on the race circuit, but she鈥檚 among the most recognizeable, and crowds will sometimes gather to chant her name. The affection is mutual: there鈥檚 a bar on the country road that leads to one of the race sites, and whenever Betsy makes the turn in her car, Muppy starts screeching with excitement. In the starting chute, while the judge counts down, she wails, eyes glued to the trail ahead鈥攁nd the moment Betsy releases the brake, they take off at top speed. She鈥檚 become a pro at some of the more technical aspects of racing, like getting passed鈥攐r, just as often, passing. 鈥淭he dog parts of the other team, sometimes they just stare as they鈥檙e running, trying to decide if she鈥檚 food or friend,鈥� Betsy recalled, laughing. 鈥淎nd their mushers will say, 鈥楥ome on, Snowball! You鈥檙e getting passed by a wiener dog!鈥�

For the past four years, during dryland season, Muppy races frequently, and trains by pulling Betsy or her husband two to three miles up to four times a week. Betsy works at a composting facility, and even brings Muppy to work sometimes, so she can practice running up and down the compost rows鈥攚hich smell enticing, making them perfect practice for resisting distraction. Until this year, winter鈥檚 been Muppy鈥檚 off-season; she spends the snowy months digging and shredding sticks. But Betsy recently bought a fatbike, and the duo have been training for fatbikejoring races on snow.

Last May, Betsy and her husband adopted a second dog, Journey, who鈥檚 a terrier-shepherd mix. Journey鈥檚 bigger than Muppy, and not that into pulling, but she does love running, so sometimes they enter two-dog races together. Muppy pulls, and Journey simply runs alongside her. Betsy doesn鈥檛 mind. The point of dog-powered sports, as she sees it, is to make dogs鈥� lives richer, and that means embracing each dog鈥檚 skills and interests鈥攕o as long as Journey鈥檚 happy, she鈥檚 happy too.

As for Muppy, she鈥檚 fully embraced her role as an icon; she prances when fans call her name. Betsy鈥檚 thrilled to be her ambassador. 鈥淚f someone has a pet with boundless energy, a sport like this is a great opportunity for them,鈥� she told me. 鈥淓ven for a dog who doesn鈥檛 pull a lot, like Journey, being out in front and making decisions seems to tucker her out more than games of fetch ever did.鈥�

But Betsy鈥檚 favorite thing has been seeing how much joy and inspiration Muppy鈥檚 athleticism brings to people. 鈥淚 want to show that little dogs can do things,鈥� she said proudly, 鈥渁nd help more dogs live enriching lives!鈥�

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Leslie Gaynor, 68, loves survival shows. After she finishes her day鈥檚 work as a therapist, she makes herself some tea and puts on an episode of Naked and Afraid. By the time the show鈥檚 over, it鈥檚 dark out. Her dog has to pee, but she doesn鈥檛 like to go outside at night. What if there are wild animals in the yard? One time last year, her dog ran out and saw a possum, and the possum flopped over dead, and when she went out a few minutes later it was gone. So it wasn鈥檛 really dead, but the whole thing was traumatic anyway. Not for the possum. But for her.

Leslie鈥檚 my aunt, and my husband and I were both on Naked and Afraid; we鈥檙e outdoor folk by trade, and when we were invited to apply for the show, we couldn鈥檛 resist the opportunity to step into a ready-made adventure. That鈥檚 not why my aunt watches it, though. She was a fan first. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 really explain it,鈥� she told me after we watched a scene together of a proud, hungry woman plucking a grouse for stew. 鈥淚 just think it鈥檚 relaxing!鈥�

Leslie鈥檚 not the only one who finds survival shows addictive. Ever since Survivor premiered in 2000, and promptly became one of the highest-rated shows on network television, survival-themed reality shows and their spinoffs have reproduced like rabbits. In addition to Naked and Afraid, there鈥檚 Alone, Survivor, Dual Survival, Survivorman, Ultimate Survival, Man vs. Wild,, Race to Survive, Outlast, and Celebrity Bear Hunt, not to mention numerous spinoffs and international versions. (My personal favorite title? Naked and Afraid鈥檚 Shark Week special, Naked and Afraid of Sharks.) Sure, some of their viewers are outdoorsy, but the shows aren鈥檛 just made for survivalists any more than shows about serial killers are made for, well, other serial killers. No: what makes survival shows so popular is that, while they depict extreme situations, the feelings they tap into are damn near universal.

There鈥檚 pleasure in seeing someone succeed despite hardship鈥�and there鈥檚 also pleasure (maybe more) in watching someone fail spectacularly, particularly if they went in cocky. Whenever a survivalist鈥檚 intro includes them sayingany version of the phrase 鈥渕aking nature my bitch,鈥� you know they鈥檙e gonna get their ass handed to them. It鈥檚 just a matter of when and how.

鈥淪ome guy鈥檚 hungry, or cut himself with his knife, and it鈥檚 time to tap,鈥� says my husband, Quince Mountain, who survived 21 days鈥攎ostly alone鈥攊n the Honduran jungle. (We were on the show at the same time, but were sent to different locations.) 鈥淗e鈥檚 crying because he misses his wife and kids too much, but he says it like, 鈥業t鈥檚 really unfair to them, me being out here鈥︹€� Is that his epiphany about how his wife does massive amounts of invisible labor to keep his life comfortable, and now he鈥檚 going home a changed man, a grateful, devoted, humble partner鈥攐r is it his excuse because he鈥檚 hungry and lonely and doesn鈥檛 know how to take care of himself? You decide!鈥�

In one of the most popular survival shows, Alone, participants film themselves in complete isolation without knowing how many of the other contestants are still out there. The show premiered in 2015, but viewership soared in 2020 when select seasons became available on Netflix and Hulu. 鈥淲ith COVID, there was a lot of interest because of the isolation aspect,鈥� recalls Juan Pablo Qui帽onez, author of the survival book , who won Alone鈥檚 season 9 after surviving 78 days in Labrador with a strategy of fasting, drinking unboiled water, and hunkering down to rest. 鈥淭here aren鈥檛 many shows that are really truly unscripted, and where you can see real emotions, like craving for fish, or craving to be with a loved one. How often do we get to see someone catch a fish after five days without food? These moments are super powerful.鈥�

He believes that we鈥檙e all hunter-gatherers at heart, and that survival shows鈥攁nd wilderness survival in general鈥攃onnect us to an ancestral legacy that feels both vital and familiar. 鈥淭here might be strong feelings on The Bachelor, but it鈥檚 definitely not as real.鈥�

As much as skeptics in online forums might debate the authenticity of their favorite shows (a common theory centers around the idea that when people are getting too weak, production will leave a dead animal in one of their traps), it鈥檚 hard for viewers to dismiss the fact that at least something real is happening onscreen. People don鈥檛 lose 20 pounds in three weeks without going awfully hungry, and a lot of the effects of survival鈥攕unburn, frostbite, open wounds鈥攁re physically undeniable. There are even ways that being on a show can be harder than plain old survival. Camera crews inadvertantly scare away game, and interrupt survivors for interviews, even when they鈥檙e beyond exhausted. Plus, the survivors are usually limited by geographic barriers that have little to do with what鈥檚 actually practical or effective. You鈥檙e ravenous, searching for any darn calories, and finally spot some berries in a clearing that鈥檚 off-limits? Too bad, so sad. This isn鈥檛 just survival, it鈥檚 a show, and you gotta perform for both.

Another factor in their proliferation is that survival shows鈥攁nd reality shows in general鈥攁re economical to produce. 鈥淭he reason that unscripted TV came out of the gate so strongly is that it鈥檚 cheaper,鈥� says Rachel Maguire, who鈥檚 been an international showrunner and executive producer for Naked and Afraid and Dual Survival. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have high-paid actors. There are no writers. The cast is generally not union.鈥� Although, she adds upon reflection, Naked and Afraid does have awfully pricey accidental death and dismemberment insurance.

Her theory as to why the genre鈥檚 so popular? People are increasingly aware of instability in the world鈥攊ncluding a steep increase in natural disasters due to climate change鈥攁nd watching survival shows helps them feel prepared.

I agree with Qui帽onez and Maguire, but I also think there鈥檚 another instinctive appeal. We worry about extraordinary disasters, but we worry about problems in our lives just as much, and usually more. Survival shows are addictive because much of our daily life is also about struggling to meet our basic needs, and we feel that stress even when we can鈥檛 name it. Negotiating jobs, health insurance, child and elder care, housing? That鈥檚 all survival, viscerally so. And so watching people get shelter by building it from scratch, and food by catching it in a handmade trap, isn鈥檛 about watching them go through challenges that are completely disconnected from our own. It鈥檚 about watching our everyday adversity reflected back to us, but distilled into a pure form. We empathize when TV survivalists want to tap out; we cheer when they succeed. It鈥檚 relatable. It鈥檚 therapeutic. We know鈥攄eep down鈥攖hat we鈥檙e all just trying to survive.

The post My Experience on 鈥楴aked and Afraid鈥� Showed Me Why We Keep Watching Survival Reality TV appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

My favorite Tough Love question from the last eight years, the one I (somewhat inexplicably) recall most fondly, was from a woman whose boyfriend was grossed out that she used a pee rag鈥攁.k.a. reusable toilet paper鈥攚hile camping. We got a lot of impassioned reader feedback about that one: Pee is sanitary! Pee is gross! Bodies are normal! Women鈥檚 bodies in particular are gross! (OK, dude.) And though I鈥檇 phrase my answer differently now, I stand by the gist of it: If you don鈥檛 want your boyfriend weighing in on your wiping habits, don鈥檛 tell him about them. Wherever that couple is now, together or apart, I hope they鈥檝e figured out how to pee in peace.

The secret about an outdoors advice column, of course, is that it鈥檚 basically a regular advice column with the words 鈥渨hile camping鈥� tacked to the end of each question. Consider:

Should I break up with my boyfriend? He鈥檚 ignoring my boundaries while camping.

How do I stop hating my body while camping?

I鈥檓 desperately lonely. While camping, I mean. Obviously. Right?

鈥淲hile camping鈥� is 国产吃瓜黑料 magazine鈥檚 鈥渁sking for a friend鈥�: a framing that distances us just enough from our problems that we might gather the courage to speak them aloud. The questions that readers sent to Tough Love were almost never uniquely outdoors-specific. Rather, the outdoors served as both backdrop and shared language between asker and reader. A number of thru-hikers, climbers, kayakers, skiers, and runners wrote to me over the years, but their problems weren鈥檛 about, say, the best way to dry long johns over a campfire. They were about grief, illness, heartbreak, anxiety, and love. 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 community, more than anyone, should know that wherever we go, our shadows follow. And it鈥檚 often in the most spectacular places鈥攁 mountaintop at sunrise, a bonfire with friends鈥攖hat our worries are cast in the greatest relief.

And yet there is something unique about an outdoors advice column, less in the specifics of individual problems than in the way those problems reveal the contours of bigger, communal ones. By far the most common questions I received, again and again, were variations on two issues. First: I am a man, and I鈥檓 struggling to find and date women who are outdoorsy. Second: I am an outdoorsy woman, and men won鈥檛 date me because I鈥檓 better/stronger/faster than they are. It would be too simple to suggest that the writers of these letters meet, date each other, and thus solve all their problems, because it鈥檚 precisely the contrast between these two categories that reveals the root of the issue. What is it? Misogyny (or to phrase it as generously as possible for individual men: the sexist pressure on them to be more accomplished than their girlfriends or wives). Men, if you want to date outdoorsy women, there are plenty available鈥攂ut you might need to work on your insecurities first. As for women who date men? At least some of us are outta luck.

At the core, advice columns are gossip. It鈥檚 a myth鈥攁n excuse we tell ourselves, as part of the writer-columnist-reader triad鈥攖hat their purpose is to deliver wisdom to the letter-writer. Instead, the whole dynamic is a collaboration, an exchange. Readers rubberneck, reassuring themselves that although they make plenty of mistakes, they would never make that one. Alternately, they take comfort in the fact they鈥檙e not alone. And the letter-writer shares something vulnerable, under cover of anonymity, in exchange for being seen.

I never shared letter-writers鈥� identities, even with my editors. A few questions were written by celebrities. Some were sent by my friends. Some people were so cautious that they wrote in under fake names, from fake email addresses. And at least one question was my own. (A great exercise, in a tricky situation, is to imagine that you鈥檙e an advice columnist and someone sent in a letter about your exact situation. How would you reassure them? What would you recommend they do? And if you happened to write an actual advice column, wouldn鈥檛 you be tempted to publish the exchange?) There were questions, too, that I never had a chance to answer, either because they were too similar to ones we鈥檇 already published, or because they lacked context. 鈥淲hat do I do next?鈥� someone once wrote, as the entirety of their email. I just wanted to give them a hug.

Sometimes readers sent in advice for other letter-writers, pouring their hearts out over shared experiences, and I passed the messages along. Other times, folks corrected my takes, explaining details I鈥檇 missed or ways my response was short-sighted. Regarding a woman with asthma whose boyfriend accused her of abandoning him when she had to leave a campground due to wildfire smoke, I received, to Tough Love鈥檚 email address, this phenomenal piece of reader feedback: 鈥淭he fact that your advice to this poor woman was decent enough does not justify your presuming, as a dogsledder, to answer her deeply concerning plea.鈥�

I texted my friend a screenshot, delighted by the implication that dogsledders are uniquely bad at giving advice. 鈥淒oes she think that advice columnists go to鈥� advice column school?鈥� she texted back.

In fact, at the time I started writing Tough Love, I was just out of grad school, living on $18,000 a year and supporting a fledgling sled dog team. I鈥檇 written an essay鈥攁 love letter, really鈥攖hat went viral, and got passed around 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 editors. When they approached me about writing an outdoors relationship advice column, I felt like I鈥檇 won the lottery, and in a way I had: a steady freelance gig is practically as rare. I was on a road trip when I got the email. To give me practice, my now-husband read letters from Cosmo magazine aloud, tweaking details to make them outdoors-specfic. I still remember: 鈥淲hat do you do if you get cum in your eye,鈥� he asked me, 鈥渋n the woods?鈥�

I had no idea. Stick your face in a river? I googled it. Then I regretted googling it. I probably wouldn鈥檛 get that question, I reassured myself. On the other hand, what if I did? I didn鈥檛 want to guide people wrong. Or make their eyes hurt. I felt then about the column, and always have, an intense pressure to do no harm.

I suspect my primary strength as an advice columnist is that I don鈥檛 think I have all the answers. For some questions, I dug deeply into my own experience.Those columns are still raw and near to my heart, whether they鈥檙e about grief, being a woman alone in the wilderness, writing a memoir, or the fear of losing a dog. But more often, I used the questions as springboards to approach and interview people鈥攆amily members, friends, even strangers I admired鈥攚hose wisdom I wanted to both learn from and pass on. With particularly puzzling situations, I even brought up the questions at dinner parties, asking folks around the table to weigh in. It was in response to these strangers鈥� questions that people close to me shared some of their most tender truths. For that, I鈥檒l always be grateful.

At the close of the column, I think its greatest lesson, at least for me, is this: we should ask each other for advice more. The questions don鈥檛 even have to be our own. Share situations you鈥檝e read about, or heard about, or even seen on TV, and ask your loved ones what they鈥檇 recommend. Problems are inherently vulnerable; they invite vulnerability in return. You鈥檒l be surprised by how often people will take the invitation to say what they鈥檝e needed to say.

The post What Writing an Outdoors Advice Column Taught Me About Relationships appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

When I first started dating my boyfriend, he mentioned that he had a group of friends who went 鈥渃amping鈥� every month to practice skills for the future. I asked for more details and he said that they practice orienteering, tracking, and survival skills like that. He鈥檚 a really sweet, caring guy and nothing seemed like a red flag. Actually, my ex was less social and very clingy, so I remember thinking it was a green flag that he spent time with friends.听

We鈥檝e been together for a year now. In that time, this group has become a bigger part of his life. They meet up almost every week. They also started meeting at a gun club. When I asked why, he talked about social unrest and wanting to make sure that he can protect us. He鈥檚 also been obsessively watching the news about in New Jersey.听

I was looking for something in the basement last week and came across a duffel bag filled with packaged food and ammo boxes. It was upsetting because I鈥檝e asked him before if he鈥檚 a prepper. He told me he isn鈥檛, but that he doesn鈥檛 want to be a frog in boiling water who doesn鈥檛 notice when things start to heat up. But I don鈥檛 want to be a frog in boiling water either. I really love him, but I鈥檓 starting to think there might be more under the surface that he鈥檚 hiding from me. How do I know when it鈥檚 getting to be too much?

Question: Does your boyfriend seem to enjoy all this? Is it fun for him? If so, then I want to hold space for the best possibility here, which is that prepping (and yes, this is prepping, regardless of whether he admits it) is his hobby.

Consider historical reenactment: a broad interest that gathers a lot of different skills and pastimes under one roof. Reenactors don鈥檛 just dress up like people in their chosen era; they also learn crafts, cooking, languages, and so on. Hobby preppers do the same, but in reverse. Instead of focusing on the past, they imagine a future when their skills in self-reliance might be put to good use.

That future probably won鈥檛 come to pass, but there are plenty of realistic scenarios where their skills could come in handy. It鈥檚 not that everyone who buys a zombie apocalypse bug-out kit is actually scared of zombies. It鈥檚 just that prepping for a zombie apocalypse is more fun than packing the exact same supplies so they鈥檙e ready in case of an unusually long power outage.听听

Some people follow end-of-the-world scenarios like other people follow sports. Sometimes a bag of food and bullets is just, uh, a bag of food and bullets.

If that鈥檚 your boyfriend鈥檚 situation鈥攊f he enjoys thinking about possibilities, and trying new things, and he has a good friend group to try them with鈥攖hen there鈥檚 no need to worry. That said, you mentioned a few things that do concern me, and I鈥檇 recommend getting to the bottom of them.

First, your boyfriend said he鈥檚 going to the gun club because he wants to be able to protect your household against social unrest.

To me, that says he鈥檚 imagining a near future in which he might have to shoot people, or at the very least, scare them away with guns. Not zombies; people. He鈥檚 couching the violence of that image under a fantasy of protection, but the point remains the same.

Does that mean that everyone who learns to shoot for self-defense is fantasizing about shooting people? Of course not. And presumably, he鈥檚 practicing at a range that emphasizes gun safety and responsibility.听 But given the anticipatory subtext of prepping in general, and the other details you shared鈥攊ncluding his use of the phrase 鈥渉eat up鈥濃€擨 think this development is concerning.

Secondly, and most important, you鈥檙e worried that there鈥檚 more under the surface.

You know your boyfriend well. You鈥檝e watched his interests change and grow, and you鈥檝e seen how he鈥檚 responding to the news. You saw the look on his face when you found his bag of food and bullets. You don鈥檛 seem like a paranoid or sensational person. If the hairs on the back of your neck are going up, that鈥檚 the most important clue that something is wrong.

aIn fact, even if everything else seemed perfect, that would still tell me that something鈥檚 wrong.

I鈥檓 wondering why your boyfriend denied that he was a prepper, when the term isn鈥檛 derogatory, and it seems so clearly accurate from the outside. Is there another term he uses for his activities, or his identity? If he鈥檚 willing to tell you, it might help clarify his agenda, his priorities, and where his head is at. If he won鈥檛 tell you鈥搃f he鈥檚 convinced that his activities are so practical and universal that they have no name鈥搕hen that鈥檚 illuminating, too.

You haven鈥檛 been together very long, in the grand scheme of things. Do you really want to move into the future with someone whose vision of that future is fundamentally different from yours? If this isn鈥檛 the relationship you want, you don鈥檛 need a specific conflict or fight or reason to break up. Your feelings鈥揳nd your discomfort鈥揳re more than enough.

If you stay together, keep your eyes open. Notice what鈥檚 going on. Remember that you鈥檝e had concerns before, so if something else raises an alarm, it鈥檚 part of a pattern. If you live together, try to have a plan, and some money saved up, in case you decide to leave. After all, it never hurts to be prepared.

Blair Braverman writes our听Tough Love column. Previously, she has given advice on dating a sore loser.

The post Help! My Boyfriend Is a Doomsday Prepper. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I recently moved into a new neighborhood where everyone is involved in each others鈥� lives. (Picture picket fences, etc.) I鈥檝e noticed that when a neighbor needs to borrow something, like a snow shovel, they come to my door. In particular, there鈥檚 an older woman who lives alone across the street and seems to think that I鈥檓 her personal assistant. She鈥檒l come over uninvited to ask for things every week or so, like to take her dog out to pee when she has an appointment, or even to reach things that are high up in her garage. She does bring me baked goods, which is nice. But cynically, I feel like she does it so that I can鈥檛 say no when she asks for favors in return. I have a physical outdoor job, and when I come home I just want to relax and protect my peace. I don鈥檛 want to be rude, but how much am I actually obligated to help people just because I live near them?

Surely, your elderly neighbor is baking you cookies in an insidious plot to put you in her debt, but joke鈥檚 on her鈥攜ou never signed a contract! The answer to your question, clearly, is that you鈥檙e not obligated to help her at all. People aren鈥檛 credit card companies, measuring all interactions based on who owes what to whom, with a guarantee that at the end of the day we鈥檒l all end up exactly even (or ahead). You can accept your neighbor鈥檚 cookies, but refuse to reach things off her top shelf. You鈥檒l probably get fewer cookies over time, but that鈥檚 not because you haven鈥檛 earned them. It鈥檚 because she鈥檒l assume that you don鈥檛 like her very much.

From my perspective, it doesn鈥檛 seem like this neighbor is taking advantage of you. The help she鈥檚 requested isn鈥檛 particularly time consuming, nor has she asked for anything she could reasonably hire someone to do. Sure, she could stand on a chair and reach things herself, but if she鈥檚 disinclined to do that, it鈥檚 probably because she knows something about her balance that you don鈥檛. These are exactly the kinds of things that we should be relying on friends and neighbors for鈥攁nd if the ask isn鈥檛 onerous (and sometimes even if it is), then yes, I believe we should all try to chip in when we can. Even you.

It may be that you鈥檙e overworked right now, and feeling extra irritable because you鈥檙e stressed and tired. If that鈥檚 the case, I think it鈥檚 a reason to lean on community more, not less. That鈥檚 exactly why your neighbor brings you cookies! She wants you to know that she鈥檚 thinking of you, and that she cares. Not just about what you can do for her, but about who you are and how you鈥檙e doing. If you fell and broke both of your legs, and you couldn鈥檛 take her dog out anymore, I鈥檓 99 percent sure she would keep bringing you baked goods. In fact, she鈥檇 probably bring you more.

I鈥檓 curious what you mean when you say that you want to protect your peace. Does 鈥減eace鈥� mean sitting in your house, undisturbed, free from considering the inconvenient needs of the people around you? What would it look like if everyone protected their peace the same way you do? What if you need a snow shovel one day, because your car is buried and you need to dig it out before you can get to the store to buy one? Your peace isn鈥檛 just yours; it鈥檚 contingent on living in a world where people have what they need, and part of that means that communities and neighbors are able to rely on each other.

Unless, of course, your peace is just yours鈥攁nd it鈥檚 something you鈥檝e learned to guard fiercely because no one else has protected it for you. If you鈥檝e spent your life being taken advantage of, then it makes sense that you鈥檇 develop a laser-focus on self-protection, and would come to view apparently generous interactions through a lens of suspicion. If that鈥檚 the case, I鈥檓 truly sorry. I wouldn鈥檛 wish that on anyone. You鈥檙e welcome to continue focusing on yourself alone, especially if it鈥檚 how you鈥檝e learned to survive. But if there鈥檚 some spark in you that does crave an interdependent community, but feels vulnerable or afraid, then perhaps this new neighborhood presents a small opportunity to heal. I wonder if you even sensed this ahead of time, and were drawn to living here for that very reason.

One way to change your experience, ironically, is to learn to accept kindness. Even when that feels scary, because if it ends, you鈥檒l be alone again. Enjoying your neighbor鈥檚 cookies doesn鈥檛 mean that you鈥檙e dependent on her generosity. It means you鈥檙e peering through the doorway into a world that鈥檚 full of cookies. A world where kindness is passed freely, without suspicion. To you. And from you, too.

There are an infinite number of ways to build that kindness. Instead of just lending a snow shovel, offer to come help dig. Hold a door for someone. Toss back a frisbee that comes your way. Or just smile and say, 鈥淪ure, I can reach something off your top shelf. It鈥檚 no problem. And why don鈥檛 I bring over some hot chocolate, too?鈥�

听writes our听Tough Love听column. Previously, she has given advice on dealing with a weird neighbor.

The post Confession: I鈥檓 Tired of Helping My Neighbors appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I鈥檓 the owner of a small hiking gear company that I founded five years ago when I was 33 years old. I鈥檝e put my everything into it: long hours, 24/7 availability, and my own savings. Many longtime members of my team share my work philosophy. We love this brand and believe in its mission, so we鈥檙e willing to go the extra mile for it鈥攅ven if that means taking on additional work or staying on the clock a little longer to finish up.

As my team has grown, we鈥檝e started to hire a staff of young, fun, mostly Gen Zers, and I love the energy and creativity they bring to the table. But I鈥檝e noticed their perspective on work differs from my more senior staffers鈥�. They tend to sign off right at 5 P.M., even if it means running a little late on a deadline, and they rarely volunteer to take on any task that isn鈥檛 mapped out in their job descriptions.

On one hand, I really admire this clear boundary they鈥檙e setting between work and their personal lives. It鈥檚 the opposite approach of the 鈥渢he harder you work, the more you get ahead鈥� philosophy millennials like me came up under. But on the other hand, I spent years in the corporate world eating dinner at my desk, raising my hand for every extra opportunity, and taking zero vacation days to climb my way up the career ladder.听

I believe my work ethic and rapid career growth led to my own company鈥檚 success, but I know burnout is a real issue, too. How can I respect my employees鈥� work boundaries without resenting them or, deep down, feeling like they鈥檙e disrespecting me?

We鈥檝e all heard about love languages. But when I brought your question to two friends鈥攐ne Gen Z, one boomer鈥攊t became clear that something parallel exists in the workplace, which is that different people, and different generations, have different languages of respect.

For older generations, respect often meant giving your all. 鈥淚 remember being told, 鈥楧on鈥檛 call in sick, call in dead,鈥欌€� my friend Laurie鈥攁 Gen X/Boomer cusper who works with an intergenerational team鈥攖old me. In exchange, employees expected that they were working toward retirement, a pension, and healthcare that would last them throughout their lives. Although that social contract doesn鈥檛 exist anymore, older generations may still see signs of a healthy work-life balance, like leaving work at five despite a looming deadline, as fundamental shows of disrespect. After all, how can young employees be truly committed to the team when they鈥檙e always the first to get up from their desks?

Laurie says that Gen X and boomers often value punctuality, professional dress, respect for authority, attention to detail, and 鈥渇ormal鈥� professional communication: 鈥淲e come down on the side of full sentences.鈥� Even if Gen Z employees don鈥檛 agree with all of these values, they should understand that skipping them may create tension that they don鈥檛 intend to create鈥攁nd that, while it鈥檚 important for older people to understand how young people show respect, it鈥檚 just as important to do the same in the other direction. It鈥檚 also strategic: the people in charge of promotions are generally millennials or older.

Gen Z, by contrast, tends to value humanity in the workplace. 鈥淭he main difference I鈥檝e seen between myself and my boss is that I have multiple identities outside of my work, and she ties much of her own identity to her work,鈥� says my friend Maggie, a 22-year-old college senior who鈥檚 pursuing a career in education. But Gen Z employees don鈥檛 just value their own complex lives and layered identities; they extend that understanding to others, too. They may be unusually empathetic, flexible, and willing to take on extra work when they see that someone else is going through a hard time.

Maggie told me that she recently saw a video of a Gen Z woman resigning from her job, with her boss鈥檚 voice audible over zoom. 鈥淭he boss was saying things like, 鈥業鈥檓 so excited for you and this next opportunity. It鈥檚 totally OK听to cry. It鈥檚 the end of an era for you! Don鈥檛 worry about me for a second,鈥欌€� Maggie recalls. 鈥淭hat Gen Z employee learned that she鈥檚 allowed to look for big things, and she learned what it feels like to be seen as a human in the workplace. Isn鈥檛 that what we all are?鈥� By engaging with her (former) Gen Z employee on a deeply human level, the boss was speaking her language of respect, which made her words and excitement all the more meaningful.

If one of your employees does something that feels disrespectful to you, remember that they may be prioritizing different languages of respect than the ones you anticipate. Someone who often shows up late鈥攂ut with a bright smile and genuine warmth for their colleagues鈥攊s probably not trying to be dismissive or rude. Their lateness could still be an issue, of course, but it鈥檚 more likely to be a problem of time management than contempt. And because their intentions are good, it鈥檚 more likely to be a fixable problem, too.

In your letter, you mention that your Gen Z staff bring energy and creativity to the table. That is no small display of respect. It means they鈥檙e being fully present鈥攁nd that they care. It鈥檚 also no coincidence that the generation that most prioritizes work-life balance听balance is able to bring a unique level of energy to the team.

As for you, it鈥檚 time for some reflection. What are your languages of respect in the workplace? What were you taught by your bosses, mentors, and older colleagues? Do all of their teachings ring true? You鈥檙e in a position right now to shape the work culture that you believe in, and it sounds like you already have been doing that. Be intentional in your decisions. And know that even if times are changing, your hard work got you to where you are, with a company and vision that you鈥檙e passionate about. That鈥檚 something to be proud of鈥攁nd I respect the heck out of all that you鈥檝e done.

writes our听Tough Love听column. Previously, she has given advice on working with friends.

The post I鈥檓 Worried That My Gen Z Employees Don鈥檛 Work Hard Enough appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

It鈥檚 not that I don鈥檛 like food. I do. I carry frozen cheesecakes on winter expeditions. They鈥檙e caloric and they don鈥檛 freeze hard, so you can bite off chunks without chipping your teeth. I once ate the same dead catfish boiled over a fire for three days. Was it good? Absolutely not. I like cardamom, snap peas, and Asian pears. I eat frozen bean burritos. I hate raw tomatoes, a trait I attribute to growing up near a ketchup factory in California. Tomatoes festered on every street corner and stuck to the soles of my flip-flops. They rolled off trucks en route to the factory, then rotted in the sun.

My husband, on the other hand, was raised by an epicurean grandfather, driving hours one-way for frog legs, bouillabasse, a pastry shaped like a bird鈥檚 nest. We have twin babies now. He wants them to appreciate good food, so he’s learning to cook. In pursuit of this goal, he discovered the , a remote bed and breakfast in Michigan鈥檚 Upper Peninsula where superstar chef Lane Regan (formerly Iliana) cooks foraged ingredients for a handful of guests in exclusive weekends that sell out years in advance. This year, my husband鈥檚 been helping out at the Inn, building a woodshed and tending colonies of bees. He鈥檚 developed a new language, dropping words like 鈥済arum鈥� and fermenting wild plums on the top shelf of our closet. In exchange for his work, Lane offered us a slot on a last-minute November weekend鈥攁nd my husband, excited to share a place he loves, gave the slot to me.

The Inn lies about a mile from two-lane Highway 13 as the crow flies, and 25 miles by unmarked dirt road. Guests caravan. It鈥檚 a log cabin with a central parlor that鈥檚 half kitchen, adorned with Pendleton blankets, paintings of foxes, and Chef鈥檚 three Michelin stars. Tonight鈥檚 dinner is not the star of the weekend鈥攖hat would be Saturday鈥檚 15-course tasting menu鈥攂ut as guests gather around the three small tables, it鈥檚 clearly no less anticipated. I scoot in at the corner table with two couples, dodging a silky lump that reveals itself to be a Shih Tzu named Clemmie. George, a nine-year-old Newfoundland, sprawls like a bear rug by the hearth.

Host Rebecca, a breezy redhead with pigtails and an expression of warm concern, brings dishes of savoy cabbage with pine flower miso and milkweed flower vinegar that have my tablemates gasping. It鈥檚 meaty, complex, and鈥攖o my inexperienced palate鈥攊neffable. I feel like a phony for eating it without the knowledge to name the tastes. Like wild mushrooms, I think, tentative even in my mind鈥攁nd when a neighbor mentions the same, I feel a sprig of confidence. By the bread course, a thick warm sourdough with tangy goat milk butter and honey, I find myself relaxing. The trout in herb gribiche is fleshy and tastes like lake in the best way, and dessert鈥攁 profiterole with spruce ice cream and chaga cookie top that cracks into patches like the spots on an amanita鈥攐ffers an almost musical experience of bliss.

By the time guests sigh and lean back, the woods outside the windows are black. The nearest neighbors are more than a howl鈥檚 reach away. Rebecca did a 12-day silent retreat 鈥渋n order to be able to work here鈥攂ecause one struggles with one鈥檚 mind,鈥� she remarks of the Inn鈥檚 isolation, gliding to the table with postprandial tea. A guest inquires if she has any decaf coffee. 鈥淣o the fuck we do not,鈥� she says.

I sleep outside by choice, full-bellied in two sleeping bags, and wake to daylight in a shell of ice.

By first breakfast鈥攂anana-walnut bread with salt and butter鈥攖he guests are familiar with each other. They鈥檙e midwestern, foodies, adventurous鈥攖wo retired couples, a pair of restaurant owners, and a data scientist and millennial geriatrician from Madison, Wisconsin. Chef Lane bustles in the kitchen, answering questions and offering guidance on the wood-fired sauna. They鈥檙e slim and soft-spoken, with a teal moth tattooed on their neck, wings filling the open collar of their tucked-in wool flannel. In a minute they stir, scoop, plate, taste, give hiking suggestions, and brush Shih Tzu Clemmie鈥檚 eyebrows up with their hand, securing them with plastic barrettes. Second breakfast is tacos on green tortillas, tinged with weeds picked that week.

The day is food and leisure; some folks wander to the Sturgeon River, descending a trailless slope, while others knit, hike, or read. I sit briefly in the loft, overhearing snippets of conversation. 鈥淥ne time I got stung by a hornet on my butt cheek and [redacted] sucked all the venom out of me,鈥� someone remarks. 鈥淭hat was the most romantic thing he鈥檚 ever done.鈥� Later, thoughtful: 鈥淢y tapeworm鈥檚 the only one who understands me.鈥�

When guests stay too long in the sauna, Lane worries. 鈥淒o you think they passed out?鈥� they murmur. 鈥淢aybe they鈥檙e cooking.鈥�

Lane says that guests at Milkweed fall on a spectrum: on one extreme, foodies who rarely step outdoors, and at the other, outdoorsfolk who鈥攍ike myself鈥斺€渉ave never even had a tasting menu.鈥� It鈥檚 Milkweed that brings them together.

As an adventurer, I鈥檓 often in the position of enticing people outside, and it can be a hard sell. Not because the highs aren鈥檛 great, but because folks fear the lows: bugs, cold, bears, isolation, toilet paper made of leaves. And yet here鈥檚 Milkweed, pulling magic: calling new people into the Northwoods, not in spite of discomfort, but for pursuit of pleasure alone.

Lunch starts with a salad of fennel and carrot two ways (shaved raw, and blanched and marinated in lemon), moose garum and egg white aminos with marinated white beans and garnished with chamomile. The flavor is multisensory, euphoric; I feel it in my arms. Something鈥檚 sweet on my tongue, and tart on the sides of my mouth, and there鈥檚 a tinge of smoke, too, which surprises me.

鈥淲e fed the moose firewood,鈥� says cooking resident Jade. She鈥檚 joking, but she might as well not be, because I swear it鈥檚 all there: the soil, the rain, the antlers, the trees. And when it hits me, I almost laugh from the revelation: foraged food isn鈥檛 just about bringing people into wildness. It鈥檚 about bringing wildness into our very mouths.

We can鈥攚e do鈥攈ave nature inside us, even in the most conservative sense of the word: wilderness as nonhuman, nature as beyond control. What鈥檚 a tapeworm if not a reminder that our bodies are ecosystems, too? But this place, this cooking, this food鈥攊t turns fear into pleasure. Savoring a wild lion鈥檚 mane mushroom is no less an engagement with wildness than spotting one in the woods, and it is鈥攊n a tactile way鈥攎ore accessible to most.

I鈥檓 not proud to realize that my lack of engagement with good food was, in minuscule part, because I thought myself above it. Because, while I savor comfort, I鈥檝e always prided myself on enduring its lack, and I have in me some Puritan sense that suffering for a goal gives you greater pride. I have struggled in my life to let myself be purely content, and maybe food represents that: it turns a need into a gift. I鈥檝e spent decades chasing wilderness, when it could always be right here: on my plate, in my mouth, in the animal body that I am.

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