Posted by Guest Blogger
https://brevity.wordpress.com/2026/09/01/hula-hooping/
http://brevity.wordpress.com/?p=31943
by Danya Kaufmann
I spent a couple weeks in Dharamshala one summer, up in the lush green mountains of Northern India. The village was enveloped by a magical mist, and I was in heaven. Well, a subset of heaven, geared toward vegetarian, yoga-loving, strapped-for-cash twenty-five-year-olds like me. I took every course I could find: jewelry making, massage therapy, Iyengar yoga, Indian cooking and (why not?) hula hooping.
The teacher demonstrated, swaying her hips gently, the hoop twirling around her perfectly, again and again. We each picked up a hoop from the pile and tried to do the same. We failed.
I could sense the young woman next to me getting flustered. She sighed loudly each time the hoop clattered onto the tiled floor, then turned to me. “It’s just not working,” she said. “I’m so bad at this.”
I knew how she felt. Back home, I was a law student, pulling all-nighters to get the best grades I could, so I could get into the best internship I could, so I could get the best job I could. I knew that desperate need to succeed, and the frustration and self-loathing when I didn’t.
But even though it would have been the nice thing to do, I didn’t sympathize with her or offer any words of encouragement. Instead, I laughed and said “Who cares?”
It wasn’t just that she was taking herself too seriously—I did that all the time. It was that here, surrounded by sparkly hula hoops and a magical mist, her seriousness just seemed so out of place. So ridiculous. This wasn’t “real life.” We were here for fun. We were traveling, in a liminal time and place, suspended briefly from our usual struggles and aspirations.
And we were hula hooping.
*
A decade later, I’ve quit my job to write a memoir, about infertility and war and desperately wanting what your body, and your country, refuse to give you.
Writing has often felt to me like water purification: I take the murky water of my mind and purify it into something clear, even drinkable. And if I’m brave enough, I give others a sip. Writing for me is sustenance. It’s magic.
But now, as I slog through my manuscript, reliving the worst of my experiences and also trying to prove there’s a huge market for this pain, I often find myself asking, what the hell was I thinking?
If this is a water purification plant, I’m deeply submerged in brown, soupy sludge, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get out.
The other night, I lay in bed awake for hours.
No one is going to publish my book.
No one is going to read it.
No one is going to care.
And those who do read it will hate it.
They’ll hate me. They’ll hate me not only because I’m Israeli but because I’m a terrible writer and a terrible person.
When I awoke the next morning, I remembered the girl in Dharamshala. I hadn’t thought of her in years, but now there she was, in that wooden house on a hill enveloped in magical mist. It took me a while to realize why I was thinking about her, but then—of course.
I was her.
Because here I am, doing something I love. Writing may not be as carefree as hula hooping, but it’s still something I do for fun. Or something like fun, or in the same general vicinity as fun. It’s something I do for my soul, something I don’t have to do.
Again, I’m in a liminal time, lucky to be pursuing something that isn’t “real life.” I’ve stepped briefly out of my country’s endless wars and my ongoing, life-sucking fertility treatments to create something real. To purify water. Am I really going to spend this precious time worrying that I’m no good?
Because truly, who cares?
*
But that’s not the whole story, either. Because that hula hooping girl, and I, have a very good answer to the question “who cares.” The answer is “I do.”
I care about my book.
It’s important. If for no one else, it’s important to me.
If I saw that girl today, I don’t think I would laugh. I would smile. I would pick up the hula hoop for her when it fell and ask whether she—whether we—could continue to care, but just a little more gently.
When we get lost in the self-doubt and worry that seem so intrinsic to writing, can we remember why we’re writing? Can we remind ourselves that we’re doing this for fun, or something like fun? Can we enjoy the brief, fleeting moments of magic, our hips swaying slightly, the hula hoop suspended, twirling, defying gravity. And when it falls—because it will fall—can we laugh, pick it up and try again?
________
Danya Kaufmann is a Jerusalem-based writer, whose work has been published in TIME, The Times of Israel, Anti-Heroin Chic and elsewhere. She is currently at work on a memoir about motherhood, infertility and war. Find her at Danyakaufmann.com.
https://brevity.wordpress.com/2026/09/01/hula-hooping/
http://brevity.wordpress.com/?p=31943