Life changes pretty often. We have to change, too. That’s where our hats come into play. We all wear many different hats, and when life changes, some of those hats need to change with it.
I’m Patient Zero in this whole All the Hats We Wear experiment, so I’m constantly trying things, revising my roles, noticing what works, and occasionally discovering that something I thought was brilliant wasn’t. Lately I’ve been thinking about how much of life comes down to three things: paying attention to what’s already there, giving ourselves permission to play with what could be there, and making sure we don’t build our entire identity around one part of ourselves.
PAY ATTENTION TO THE SMALL STUFF
Years ago, during my music therapy internship at a psychiatric hospital, we had a morning meeting where patients were asked about the highlight of their weekend. One patient’s answer has stayed with me all these years: “Well, I tried some of that Blue Pepsi.”
That was it. I loved the simplicity of it. He wasn’t trying to impress anybody. If you wanted to know the highlight of his weekend, that was the highlight of his weekend.
Who decided our highlights have to be impressive? Maybe you heard a song you haven’t heard since high school. Van Halen’s 5150 can immediately transport me back to senior year, driving around with my buddy Bernie, playing drums while he sang in our band and getting kicked out of places because we played too loud. Maybe it was an amazing sandwich. Maybe your dog did something ridiculous. Those things count. What was your Blue Pepsi this week?
I’ve always loved The Twilight Zone. In one episode, there’s an old-fashioned traveling salesman with “Tinctures and Liniments” written on the side of his wagon. I’m a word nerd, so of course I love those words. A tincture. A liniment. Little concoctions that supposedly make something better.
I think we should have personal versions of them. I have an eyedropper I use for vermouth when I make martinis. I keep burnt-caramel coffee syrup in my car. At work, I have a ridiculously shaggy little rug under my desk. During an afternoon of documentation, I’ll take my shoes off and put my feet on it. Why? Because it feels good. That’s enough.
I also have a tiny crab on my desk that’s supposed to hold a pen. To me, it means something else. It reminds me to advocate for myself. Even a tiny crab will put its claws up against something a hundred times its size. These little objects aren’t going to transform my life, but they might improve Tuesday afternoon by 3%. That’s worth something.
Paying attention to the small stuff also means noticing moments we would otherwise lose. In music therapy school, after our clinical sessions, we had to identify the most therapeutic and least therapeutic moments. That exercise has stayed with me. I’ve adapted it into a journaling question: What was the most meaningful moment of my day?
What’s interesting is that the answer sometimes isn’t one of the things I originally thought was important. You can make your list of accomplishments, problems, errands and conversations and then realize the most meaningful moment was a ten-second interaction you almost forgot. The question forces you to look again.
I’m trying to do the same thing with compliments. Someone recently complimented one of my music therapy groups. She noticed patients cooperating, showing leadership and helping newer members learn the group. It’s easy to hear something like that and think, Good. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Then move on. Meanwhile, somebody says one irritating thing and I can replay it for three days. Why do we do that? Don’t scan your day only for problems. Let the good stuff count, too.
Even giving can require this kind of attention. One of my Hats is Philanthropist & Giver. Recently, I donated a nice roll-up chess set to the hospital where I work. I thought it was going to the adult patients, where I’d probably get to use it with them. Instead, it went to the adolescent side. I was disappointed.
Then I realized how ridiculous that was. I gave it away.
Years ago, a young music therapy client gave me a tin of candy for Christmas. As he handed it to me, he asked if I could return the tin when I finished the candy. His mother immediately corrected him: when you give somebody something, you give it to them. No strings attached.
Apparently I still needed the same lesson.
PLAY WITH YOUR LIFE
I saw a newspaper cartoon recently that showed President Trump sitting in a sandbox surrounded by all his various projects. Forget the politics. The sandbox caught my attention. We don’t have enough play in the way we think about our lives.
Watch little kids. It’s incredible. A block becomes a castle. A stick becomes a sword. A cape makes you a superhero. Kids invent rules, assign meaning to ordinary objects, create characters and build entire worlds around them. Then they behave according to the world they’ve created.
Adults could use a little more of that.
Maybe this weekend you decide, I’m putting on my Writer Hat for two hours. What would a writer do? Open the notebook. Sit down. Write.
Kids don’t spend three months wondering whether they’re qualified to be pirates. They announce that they’re pirates and start looking for treasure. Maybe we need a little more of that. Instead of constantly asking, What am I supposed to do?, try asking: What if?
What if I became a writer? What if I learned guitar? What if I started that project? What if there’s a Hat I should be wearing that I haven’t tried on yet?
Life isn’t something you have to completely figure out. It’s something you can play with.
There’s another side to this, though. Play doesn’t always mean adding more effort. I’ve practiced Transcendental Meditation for years, and it’s probably the only thing in my life where putting absolutely no effort into doing it correctly is how I do it correctly. Sometimes I catch myself trying too hard—even at meditation. Expectation creeps in. Effort creeps in. Then I remember: do less.
That’s not a bad lesson outside meditation either. Sometimes another productivity system, another goal or another burst of effort isn’t what we need. Sometimes we need to stop squeezing so hard.
The same is true when we finally find something we’re passionate about. When I was younger, my mother dated a guy who was studying to become a lawyer. He talked about law constantly. This case. That case. Another case. Looking back, I admire his passion. But there’s a lesson there too: when you finally discover something you’re passionate about, you can become unbearable.
I know All the Hats We Wear is one of my purposes. I think about it constantly. That doesn’t mean my family needs a 45-minute update every time I walk through the door.
I think of purpose as an iceberg. The visible tip can simply be a person who is energized, fulfilled and present. Under the water can be the obsession: notebooks, ideas, experiments, failures, plans, journaling and endless thinking. You don’t have to show everyone the entire iceberg. Sometimes the best evidence of your purpose is simply the person you’re becoming because of it.
I’ve noticed that people who are really good at what they do often build their lives around supporting that work. I love hearing Jerry Seinfeld talk about his craft. He’ll work on a joke and consider it a productive day if he can remove a word or two and make the joke better. Think about that. We’re surrounded by productivity advice telling us to create more, accomplish more and check more things off the list. Seinfeld might spend his energy figuring out how to use one less word.
Instead of asking, How much did I produce today?, maybe the better question is: Did I make the thing better?
Mick Jagger seems to approach his work from another angle, but I think it’s really the same idea. When the Rolling Stones are touring, his day revolves around being at his best when it’s time to walk onto that stage. Eating, exercising, resting, napping—it all supports the main event.
Which makes me wonder: What’s the main event of your day? And is the rest of your day supporting it?
We can even create environments that help certain Hats come alive. I often have old horror movies or comedies playing in the background while I’m doing something else. I’m barely watching them. They create a vibe. Great stand-up comedians do something similar. Once they get an audience laughing, one laugh feeds the next until everyone is riding the wave. They’re priming the pump.
Maybe your Writer Hat has a particular chair, notebook, playlist or cup of coffee associated with it. Don’t always wait to feel creative. Create the conditions that invite creativity.
Which brings me to one of the strangest things I’ve been doing lately.
I’ve been working on an absolutely ridiculous creative project involving a fictional version of Martha Stewart, celebrities, world domination, a giant compound, a gorilla habitat, haunted carnival, monorail, meditation garden, amphitheater and a magical restaurant where the living can have dinner with the dead. There’s considerably more nonsense involved than I can explain here.
I’m not selling it. I’m not publishing it. There’s no business plan. It serves virtually no practical purpose.
And I love it.
I think everybody needs an unnecessary but meaningful project. Something substantial enough to stretch your imagination but completely free from the obligation to monetize it. I call these Just-Because Projects.
You make the thing because you think it should exist.
And I don’t think these projects are wasted time. When you let your imagination run without worrying about the marketplace, you discover ways of thinking that can transfer back into your serious projects. Sometimes the wild horse needs to run before you put a saddle on it.
DON’T LET ONE HAT BECOME EVERYTHING
Of course, putting on new Hats also means accepting that sometimes we’re going to be terrible at them. Or wrong. Or humbled.
I’ve learned that one the hard way.
I once received criticism about a song I used in a music therapy group. I disagreed with the criticism. I knew my field. I knew why I’d used the song. It became a whole thing, and it hurt.
Being humbled hurts.
But here’s the irritating part: my groups got better because of it.
So I’m thankful for it now. Not every criticism is correct, and we shouldn’t automatically surrender our judgment every time somebody disagrees with us. But sometimes there’s useful information hiding inside something we’d rather dismiss.
I’ve learned a similar lesson with All the Hats We Wear. I’ve been developing this company for a long time. Eventually, people don’t want another announcement about what you’re going to do. They want to see it. There’s something to be said for quietly grinding away and allowing the results to speak.
But there’s an even bigger danger with our roles: What happens when one role becomes almost your entire identity?
You’re the executive. Then you retire. You’re the parent. Then the kids leave home. You’re the athlete. Then you get injured. You’re the caregiver. Then the person you’re caring for dies. You’re the employee. Then you lose the job.
Who are you now?
This is one of the reasons I believe so strongly in maintaining a Role List. You don’t want your identity invested in a single stock. You want a mutual fund of meaningful roles.
Parent. Friend. Writer. Musician. Volunteer. Creator. Athlete. Entrepreneur. Whatever yours happen to be.
Then when one role takes a hit—and eventually one will—it hurts, but it isn’t your entire identity.
That role is part of you.
It isn’t all of you.
Maybe that’s the thread running through everything I’ve been thinking about lately. Try on new Hats. Build little worlds around them. Notice the small things that make your days better. Allow yourself to create something completely unnecessary. Pay attention to the moments that matter. And don’t become so invested in one version of yourself that you can’t imagine becoming somebody else.
There’s one simple tool I’ve started using that helps me capture all of this: the Daily Recap Card.
I use 5 × 8 index cards. At the end of the day, I put the date at the top and jot down a few bullet points. Not an essay. Not a formal journal entry. Just what mattered.
An accomplishment. A challenge. Something funny. A conversation. Something I ate. Something I tried. A tiny joy. A moment I don’t want to forget.
Imagine having 365 of these at the end of a year. Imagine having twenty years of them. You could pull out a random date and see the little pieces that made up your life—many of which would otherwise have disappeared completely from memory.
So here’s your challenge: Before you go to bed tonight, grab one index card. Write today’s date. Then write down a few things from today you don’t want to forget.
That’s it. Start with one card.
Because a meaningful life isn’t made only from weddings, promotions, vacations and enormous accomplishments. Sometimes it’s a song you haven’t heard since high school. Sometimes it’s a ridiculous project nobody will ever see. Sometimes it’s a compliment you actually allowed yourself to enjoy.
And sometimes it’s just Blue Pepsi.
Life changes. Your hats should change, too.
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