Shawn Powers

I’m not going to lie, it does feel a little silly when people in my meat-space life find out that while I do have a day job, the vast majority of my energy goes into creative endeavors. Being a YouTuber at 48 years old smacks of midlife crisis, and being a small YouTuber feels somehow even sadder.

This is probably where you’d expect me to get all noble, and say that I’m not creating content for monetary gain. I’m doing it because I want to make the world a better place. I want to share knowledge, and I want to provide skills in order to help other people do good things. A rising tide lifts all ships, and that sorta thing. And that is true, to an extent. But the thing is, I do actually hope to make an income in order to allow me to do all those noble things. The money isn’t really the *reason*, but it has to be a part of the process. I wish it weren’t the case, but it is. Largely because I can’t work full time and also be a creator forever. I’ve been doing it for a year and a half now, and while it’s been manageable — it’s a lot.

I also want to support my family as a creator, because I need to have some flexibility when it comes to mental health. Yes, part of that means I occasionally need a “day off” for mental health (Donna and I are staying in a cabin for 2 nights later this month, which will be the first vacation we’ve had since 2019, and even then it was a single night out for our anniversary). But more than that, I need the flexibility to fail at human-ing from time to time.

My official diagnosis is Severe Inattentive Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. (the double whammy of “inattentive attention deficit” seems a bit mean, but whatever) And while medicine doesn’t help me very much, the knowledge of the condition has helped me navigate life with severe ADHD a lot better. But while that’s the loudest part of my official diagnosis, I also have an even more insidious diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder. It’s quiet, dark, shameful (not really, but it feels that way), and it rears its ugly head during the worst possible times.

I usually just knuckle under and push through the depression. And while it both rips up my insides while also making me numb, for the most part I just accept it. Too many people are depending on me, so not showing up isn’t an option. Sometimes it’s bad enough that I can’t hide it from those around me, and they know I’m miserable — but they also don’t know how to help. Because they can’t. And if you’ve been following me as a creator, those odd multi-week stretches of really low productivity? Yeah, I’m doing my best to hang on. My dayjob is such that I can manage to keep servers going even if I’m painfully numb, but being creative is mostly not possible. Showering is mostly not possible.

And I realize the irony of wanting to be a full time creator in order to help deal with my mental illness — when I JUST SAID that I could do my dayjob even in a depressive funk. But the thing is, it doesn’t mean I’m able to heal. It just means I push it down enough to move forward. Surviving and living are different, even if the Venn diagram has significant overlap. I need to be able to flake, and still be providing value for others and security for my family. And so that’s why I’m building a library of content. And why I want to continue building that library, and the community of people who care about learning; because if I’m your employee, I’m apt to let you down. But if I can share my insights, knowledge, quirks, silliness, skills, and kindness with you? Perhaps that value isn’t tied to how many hours a day I work.

I do believe my work provides value. Some days I think that value is more or less than other days (depression, you see, is a crafty liar). And so I want to be a creator so that I can share all the valuable parts of me. My hope is that when I’ve built up enough of that value into consumable content, if I flake for a week while I stare at the ceiling, I won’t feel like I’m stealing from those people who support me. I want to disconnect my value from the hours I’m present, because I’m built in an unreliable way.

Anyway. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis. If it is, that means I’ll live to be like… 96 years old, which would be AWESOME. But whatever it is that convinced me creation was my path from here, I’m grateful. It’s scary, and uncertain — but it means I get to share the parts of me that I think others might find valuable. And every time you find value in something I’ve created, you punch my depression in the junk. Because it tries to tell me I’m a burden and provide negative value to those around me. And that is a lie. A lie which calls for a junk-punch.

So if you’re reading this, thank you for punching my depression in the junk. He’s a total douchecanoe, and deserved it.

I ran across a tweet someone had screenshotted and shared on Facebook recently, and is often my practice, I looked it up so I could give proper attribution to the original author. It turns out the tweet was from 2019, but it’s one of those tweets that only improves as it ages, proving its worthiness by how true it remains.

Now, I don’t actually believe in magic, per se. There are unexplainable things, amazing illusionists, and unimaginable technology that we just haven’t invented yet. But actual magic? In a practical sense, no. But there are a few things which come surprisingly close.

Music, and its ability to tie mathematical formulas to human emotion is about as close to magic as I can fathom. Part of it is how truly brilliant, beautiful music is defined by its perfect imperfections. And part of it is how something so mathematically definable is also pure art.

Speaking of art, it’s not just music, but all forms of art that I find absolutely baffling. Like how the human condition can be somehow quantified and expressed in a medium other than life itself. Whether it’s Mona Lisa’s smile, or Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” (often credited to Van Gogh, but that’s another story altogether) — art somehow defines the part of humanity that is more than flesh and bone.

And books. Books are basically the distilled bits of an author’s soul, inked into paper, as an indelible snapshot of that author in the moment. And books, possibly more than other artforms (for me at least), have the uncanny ability to transport the reader to another place. Another time. Another life. And I don’t just mean fiction or literature — even non-fiction, or technical books can let the reader live inside another human’s mind, even if only for a single train of thought. And that is why this Tweet resonated with me so deeply.

Like I referenced in my re-tweet, I grew up a poor kid. We survived on welfare, living in inner-city Detroit. Somehow, my mom not only got me accepted into a private school in Dearborn, but also managed to drive me there every day. There’s no way she could afford the tuition, and I don’t really know how she managed the gas money to drive the 30 minutes every morning and afternoon. But she did, and I’ll be forever grateful for the sacrifices she had to make in order to make it happen.

But we certainly did not have money for the Scholastic Book Fair books when those colorful flyers were sent home. I’ve seen them as an adult, and for a nerdy little kid who escaped into books; there just couldn’t be much more powerful marketing. But it didn’t matter, because buying books for entertainment just wasn’t feasible. That was OK, because I’d often walk myself to the library and check out books (which is how I got the love for them in the first place). Still, it didn’t make the lack of book on Scholastic Book Fair day any less painful.

I also mentioned in the tweet that due to a head injury, a car accident in 1999 specifically, I don’t remember my childhood. I don’t remember much of anything before March of ’99, to be completely honest, except for a few faint flashes of memory that my brain may or may not have recreated as a memory based on something someone told me. (Memory is a funny thing) But there are some things that managed to stick in my Swiss cheese brain, and my 2nd grade book fair experience is one of them.

Ms. Sanzo, whose first name I likely never knew, was my teacher. Somehow she knew I was a big Smurfs fan, and managed to quietly purchase some Smurf-themed book that was in the flyer that year. I don’t remember the book. I don’t actually remember Ms. Sanzo, apart from a vague mental image of an older woman who took surprisingly little crap from unruly youngsters. But I remember that she gave me the book, somehow relaying that it was really mine, and that she’d taken care of the payment. And the part I remember most is that she did it quietly. I was a poor kid in a private school. That was partially masked thanks to school uniforms, but the vast majority of students in my class were from wealthy families. Being outed as the “welfare case” would have been painful, and somehow she stopped that from happening.

Ms. Sanzo: If you’re still with us, it’s very unlikely you remember the poor, nerdy, bespectacled 2nd grader for whom you purchased a Smurf book. But your kindness, not only in deed, but in method, impacted my life so deeply that it’s one of the few memories I have of my childhood. Your act of love resonated in my life for decades, and forever changed who I became. And continues to play a role in who I strive to be.

Books are one of the closest things to magic that I can imagine. And much like a magic wand is little more than a conduit for magic itself — a book can be a conduit for kindness and generosity, assuming it’s wielded by a strong enough magician.

If you can help a child get a book, I encourage you to do so. You might just change the whole world. Or, just one small life. Either would be magical.