Mark: Alright, Michelle. The book we're talking about today has a title that sounds like a frustrated sigh at the end of a long week: I Call Bullshit. If you had to guess its core message in one sentence, what would it be? Michelle: Hmm. Let me see. "Stop telling yourself you enjoy kale salads and just admit you want the pizza." Am I close? Mark: You are surprisingly, poetically close. That's a huge part of it. The book was actually published under the title Didn't See That Coming, and it's by the bestselling author Rachel Hollis. Michelle: Ah, Rachel Hollis. Of Girl, Wash Your Face fame. She's a huge name in the self-help world, but also a pretty polarizing figure. Mark: Exactly. And the context for this particular book is just staggering. What's wild is that she was deep into writing this book—a guide on navigating grief—when her own sixteen-year marriage unexpectedly ended. She had to rewrite it from inside the storm, not from the safety of the other side. Michelle: Wow. Okay, that changes things. That’s not a self-help guru on a mountaintop acting as a "sherpa." That's someone writing from the valley, right alongside the reader. That’s incredibly vulnerable. Mark: It is. And that raw, in-the-moment honesty is the entire foundation of the book. It all starts with this idea that you can't heal what you refuse to look at. You have to be willing to call bullshit, not just on the world, but on your own polite fictions.

Michelle: I can see how that would be powerful. But let's be real, isn't that just a recipe for wallowing in misery? We're always told to look on the bright side, to find the silver lining. How is just sitting in the "suck" of a situation productive? Mark: That is the perfect question, and she has this brilliant, visceral metaphor to answer it. It’s the story of the avocado green bathroom. Michelle: I am already terrified and intrigued. Please continue. Mark: So, she describes buying this little bungalow, and the bathroom is painted in this hideous, shiny, avocado green. Think 1970s kitchen appliance, but a whole room. It’s just awful. And she decides she's going to fix it, fast. Michelle: Oh, I know where this is going. This is every DIY project I've ever attempted. Mark: Precisely. So instead of doing the hard work—sanding down the shiny surface, putting on a primer—she just slaps a few coats of a nice, clean, off-white paint called Swiss Coffee right over the top. And for a few days, it looks great! The problem is solved. The avocado green is gone. Michelle: It's never gone, Mark. It's waiting. Mark: It is waiting. A few days later, she takes a long, hot, steamy bath. And as the room fills with steam, these little bubbles start appearing on the walls. Then the bubbles get bigger, and the fresh white paint starts to peel and drip away, revealing the hideous, shiny, avocado green underneath. The quick fix didn't work because she never dealt with the underlying problem. Michelle: That is such a perfect analogy. The avocado green is the grief, the disappointment, the anger—all the ugly, messy feelings we don't want to look at. And the Swiss Coffee paint is the "I'm fine, everything's fine, we're all good here!" that we tell ourselves and everyone else. Mark: Exactly. The steam is just life. It's the inevitable pressure, the next crisis, the quiet moment when the facade cracks. Hollis writes, and this is a key quote, "You have to allow yourself to truly feel what you feel before you can feel what you’d like." You can't paint over the problem. You have to scrape it down to the studs and be honest about what a mess it is. Michelle: Okay, I get that intellectually. But she also tells this story about her son Sawyer being disappointed that his fifth-grade graduation was canceled during the pandemic. And she makes the point that his disappointment is just as valid as a college senior missing their graduation or a couple canceling their wedding. Mark: Yes, she argues that we do this "grief comparison" thing, where we minimize our own pain because someone else has it worse. She says that's another form of painting over the avocado green. Your disappointment is your disappointment. It’s real. Acknowledging it doesn't diminish anyone else's struggle. It just honors your own reality. Michelle: That makes sense. But this is also where she tends to get some criticism, isn't it? The message is powerful—own your feelings. But it can feel a bit simplistic when you consider that not everyone has the same resources to handle those feelings. For some, "calling bullshit" on their situation without a safety net is a privilege they don't have. Mark: That's a very fair and important critique that follows her work. The book is written from a very personal lens, and critics point out that her solutions are highly individualistic. She focuses on mindset and personal agency, which is empowering, but it can seem to ignore the systemic barriers—poverty, discrimination, lack of access to healthcare—that make "bouncing back" much harder for some than for others. Michelle: Right. It’s one thing to scrape the paint off your bathroom wall when you own the house. It's another thing when you're just trying to keep a roof over your head. Mark: A perfect extension of the metaphor. And I think it's crucial to hold both ideas at once. The principle—that emotional honesty is the necessary first step to healing—is a profound psychological truth. And at the same time, the application of that principle is deeply affected by one's circumstances. The book offers a powerful tool, but it's not a universal cure. Michelle: Okay, so let's say you do it. You take a deep breath, you admit the avocado green is there. You've called bullshit. You're sitting in the rubble of your life, feeling all the feelings. What's next? Where do you go from there? Mark: Well, once you've scraped the wall down to its ugly, raw state, the next, even more terrifying question is: "Who am I now?" And that leads directly to the second core idea of the book: the crisis of identity that follows trauma, and how to rebuild.

Michelle: The identity crisis. That feels like the real earthquake. The situation is one thing, but when it makes you question who you are... that's a whole different level of scary. Mark: It's the core of it. And Hollis breaks it down into four types, but the one that hits the hardest is the first: having an identity taken away from you. This isn't you changing your mind or evolving. This is something being violently ripped away. Michelle: Like losing a job you loved, or a core relationship ending, or getting a diagnosis that changes your physical abilities. Mark: Exactly. And the story she uses to illustrate this is one of the most moving in the book. Several years ago, she spoke at an event for the Navy SEAL Foundation, specifically for Gold Star families. She was in a room with about fifty women who had all lost their SEAL husbands in service. Michelle: Oh, wow. I can't even imagine the weight of the grief in that room. Mark: She said it was palpable. Some of the losses were recent, some were from decades ago, but the pain was still there. And as these women shared their stories, a theme emerged. Over and over, they asked, "Who am I now that I'm not his wife? What is my identity if the person who gave me that identity is gone?" Michelle: That's just heartbreaking. It’s not like choosing a new career path. It's a fundamental part of you being erased without your consent. How do you even begin to answer that question? Mark: Well, Hollis didn't have an easy answer. Instead, she reflected on the Navy SEALs' own creed. One line from it is, "If knocked down, I will get back up, every time." She shared this with the women, not as a platitude, but as a reflection of the strength they already possessed. Michelle: So, she's connecting them to the very ethos their husbands lived by. Mark: Precisely. And then she reframes their identity crisis. She tells them that their identity as a loving wife, as a partner, wasn't erased when their husband died. That love, that partnership, was real. It happened. It's a part of their story, a badge they earned with pride. The loss doesn't delete the identity; it changes its form. Michelle: That’s a powerful shift. It’s not about "moving on" or "forgetting." It's about integrating that past identity into a new future. You are still that person, and you are now also something else. Mark: Exactly. And this is where the element of choice comes in, which is so central to her philosophy. She says, "You are not defined by the pain they inflicted—you are defined by what you turn that pain into." The world may have knocked you down and taken something from you, but you, and only you, get to decide who you become in the aftermath. You get to choose the new identity you build from the rubble. Michelle: That sounds incredibly empowering, but also like an immense amount of pressure when you're already at your lowest point. The idea of having to build a new you when you can barely get out of bed feels... exhausting. Mark: It is. And she acknowledges that. This isn't a one-day project. This is the work of a lifetime. But the first step is simply recognizing that you have a choice. You are not just a victim of circumstance. You are an "ever-evolving being," as she puts it. You are not a leopard who can't change its spots. You are the artist and the clay. Michelle: I like that. The artist and the clay. It gives you back a sense of agency. It reminds me of another story in the book, the one about the couple at her conference where the wife had cheated. The husband kept saying "I forgive you," but would bring it up constantly to punish her. Mark: Yes, he was weaponizing her guilt. He was trying to trap her in the identity of "the one who cheated." He wouldn't let her evolve or become someone new, someone who had learned and grown from a terrible mistake. Michelle: And Hollis's point is that you have to refuse to be trapped. Whether the trap is set by someone else's judgment or your own guilt. You have to give yourself permission to build a new identity, one that isn't solely defined by your worst moment. Mark: That's the essence of it. It’s about reclaiming the narrative of your own life. The world will hand you all sorts of unwanted identities—divorced, widowed, failed, sick. And you have to acknowledge them, you have to feel the pain of them. But you don't have to let them be the final word.

Michelle: So when you put it all together, it really feels like a two-part survival guide for when life just falls apart. Mark: It is. And the two parts are sequential and inseparable. First comes the radical, painful honesty of the 'avocado green' moment. You have to stop pretending. You have to look at the ugly truth and admit that it sucks, that it's unfair, that you're hurt. Michelle: But you can't stay there, wallowing in the peeling paint. Because the second step is an act of creation. It's taking the rubble from that crisis and deciding, actively choosing, what to build next and, more importantly, who you will be in that new reality. Mark: It’s the difference between being a passive victim of your story and becoming the active author of your next chapter. And she’s very clear that this is hard, ongoing work. It’s not a quick fix. Michelle: So for someone listening who is in that messy, avocado-green moment right now, what's one small, practical thing they can do? What's a step they can take today? Mark: I love that question. Hollis suggests creating a "joy list." It sounds almost too simple, but the practice is profound. You literally write down a list of small, accessible things that bring you moments of joy or peace—listening to a specific song, drinking a hot cup of tea without your phone, walking in the park, watching a funny movie. Michelle: And the key is that you have to actually schedule them into your day. Like a meeting you can't miss. Mark: Exactly. It's a small act of defiance against despair. It's a way of intentionally weaving moments of light into the darkness. It’s a declaration that even if your world has fallen apart, you can still choose to experience joy, even for just five minutes. It’s a way of showing up for yourself. Michelle: I love that. It’s a tiny, manageable act of building that new life. We'd actually love to hear from our listeners on this. What's on your joy list? What's one small thing that helps you show up when things are tough? Let us know. Your small act of joy might just inspire someone else who needs it. Mark: A beautiful thought. This book, for all its controversy, is a raw and honest companion for anyone who didn't see it coming. It gives you permission to be a mess, and then hands you a trowel and tells you to start building. Michelle: This is Aibrary, signing off.