first . . .
At 5:30 am in the customs queue of Los Angeles International Airport, the narrator—traveling from Australia to research her new book—waits under flickering lights. When she reaches the front, a stocky, uniformed officer named Jose checks her passport, asks “What do you write?” and learns the working title is Wake the Fuck Up. Jose expresses interest, noting the book’s relevance to climate, youth, and collective despair, and promises to look out for it.
After clearing customs, the narrator reflects on her conversation with Jose, describing the difficulty of naming the vague, all‑encompassing sense of societal sadness and disconnection she feels—a “itch” that feels like PTSD, grief for the planet, guilt over privilege, and rage at inaction. She recounts a phone call with her publisher Ingrid, explaining that no word exists for this phenomenon, and that she must first convince readers that the itch is real before offering solutions.
She then reviews recent global shocks: frequent alarming headlines, political missteps (the U.S. leader’s bizarre hurricane directive, Brexit, Australian officials blaming horse manure, Hollywood sexual abuse revelations, looming automation), and environmental catastrophes (bushfires, species loss, reef bleaching). She frames these as contributing to a collective PTSD‑like itch and a fundamental disconnection from what life ought to be.
The narrative shifts to early 2020, when COVID‑19 arrived two days before the book’s printing deadline. The pandemic forces global isolation, amplifying the itch and prompting the author to pause her manuscript, reassess, and incorporate the virus as another “Black Swan” event. Shortly after, the murder of George Floyd ignites worldwide protests on racial injustice. As a white woman of privilege, the author debates whether to include these events, ultimately choosing to listen, learn, and hold space rather than speak for marginalized voices.
She references her earlier anxiety book, First, We Make the Beast Beautiful, which linked personal anxiety to a lack of connection. Readers’ feedback revealed that the larger societal itch persisted and even grew, mirrored by rising depression, political polarization, and climate emergencies (11,000 scientists declaring climate crises, massive species loss, and “diseases of despair”).
The author recounts an earlier encounter with the Dalai Lama, who dismissed mindfulness in favor of altruism, prompting her to shift from inward focus to outward action. She describes a parable about a monk leaving the mountain to share wisdom, using it as a metaphor for her own decision to “go out, not in.”
She outlines the book’s three‑part structure: Part 1 diagnoses the origins of disconnection—loneliness, technology, neoliberalism, climate and pandemic threats; Part 2 presents practices for reconnection, inspired by poet David Whyte’s “more beautiful question” technique; Part 3 proposes a hopeful blueprint for living a “wild, precious life” together. She mentions interviewing over 100 experts (scientists, philosophers, activists, two nuns) and the personal hardships of multiple rewrites.
Finally, she emphasizes that humanity has faced similar crises before, citing historical sources (Stoicism, existentialism, mythology, feminism, etc.) and modern voices (David Suzuki, Rumi). She invites readers to join an ongoing conversation, noting her use of marginal notes for interactivity, and frames the book as a “soul’s journey” that will continue beyond its pages.