Deconstructing Self-Help

Recently, I found myself talking to my shirt.

Before I go any further, I want to point out that I don’t ordinarily speak with my clothing, or, for that matter, with any inanimate object. But I had just read Marie Kondo’s international best-selling manifesto “The Life-Changing Art of Tidying Up,” and I was taking her advice.  Kondo, or KonMarie, as she is known in the decluttering world, thanks all of her clothing and possessions at the end of the day as she carefully puts them away.  For KonMarie, all objects have life; the essence of her decluttering method is that you take all of your possessions out of their closets and drawers, heap them on the floor, then pick up each one and hold it in your hand for a moment, feeling its essence.  “Am I experiencing joy?” you must ask yourself.

If the answer is no, you toss the thing into the Salvation Army bin. Depending on your mood and the degree to which you regard inanimate objects as, well, animate, you may find this philosophy either charming or bordering on the insane. KonMarie herself confesses in the book to having difficulty connecting with people, retreating alone to a small apartment at the end of each day to wear a beloved anime cartoon shirt from her tween years as she carefully thanks all the items in her purse. I cannot help suspecting that somebody, somewhere, could apply a diagnosis to her condition, however successfully she has monetized it.

But having read the book, just for a kick I stood in front of my closet, holding the shirt I had worn all day, preparing to address it. I looked at the buttons, the sleeves, the wrinkles from where it had bunched under my skirt.

To my surprise, I felt a twinge of tenderness: for the person who made the shirt, for myself in wearing it all day and, more than anything, for KonMarie growing up so shy and lonely in Tokyo that she spent her teen years cutting out photos from lifestyle magazines and organizing her classrooms at school. “Thank you, shirt,” I actually said out loud, and put the shirt away with far more gentleness than I usually accord any of the objects I encounter in my daily life. 

Although I can’t say I ever thanked my shirt again, and in fact didn’t even get around to purging my closets, I think of KonMarie occasionally as I pick up some ordinary object — a water glass smeared with fingerprints, a discarded paperclip — and ask myself, “Does it bring me joy?”  Wouldn’t it be astonishing if I could find joy in a pair of socks or an old grocery list for a dinner I’ve long since forgotten?  Who wouldn’t want to see the world as KonMarie does?

I love self-help books. Not all of them; I don’t read books about how to become rich or books that assure me I’ll be successful or charismatic if I apply the laws of attraction. What I love is concrete, practical advice on how to be a better person immediately: neater, happier, more organized, calmer, more effective, more joyous, less anxious, less cranky, more creative and more able to locate my keys in the morning without running around the house swearing. 

Self-help books are generally derided for being emblematic of America’s culture of narcissism. That may be true, but to me, they’re also emblematic of a kind of perennial hopefulness that, as you go through your ordinary life, if you could just throw out the right stuff, practice the right habits and keep the right time-management system, you might be able to stop being a caffeine-addled, harried wreck eating a breakfast burrito while you’re running late and stuck in traffic on the 405.

To me, a self-help book is a contemporary folk tale with the author as protagonist: solitary KonMarie tucking her belongings into bed at night; Gretchen Rubin, author of “The Happiness Project,” continually trying and failing to have fun at anything from food-eating to novel-writing; Tim Ferriss, author of “The 4-Hour Work Week,” being fired from job after job because of his arrogant personality; James Baraz, author of “Awakening Joy,” tearfully reuniting with the son he’d abandoned years ago; Pema Chodron, author of “When Things Fall Apart,” weeping and sipping tea as she realizes her husband is having an affair. The tale becomes a journey, full of characters whose stories the protagonist tells along the way, like a modern “Canterbury Tales.” Instead of battles, there are personal challenges; instead of weapons, there are helpful new habits and techniques. The protagonist learns and transcends limitations.  Peace ensues.

In a folk tale, you come away with a moral; I come away from a self-help book with at least one useful piece of advice. Check emails only three times a day. You are more likely to instill a new habit, like meditating in the morning, if you pair it with something you already enjoy, like drinking coffee. Keep a gratitude journal. Embrace struggle. And if it doesn’t bring you joy, throw it out. 

Although I almost never take the advice, I’m refreshed by the chance to reframe my own narrative. Instead of a mess in my closet, I can see an opportunity for a new beginning. Instead of mistakes, I can see growth. I come away feeling fortified by the possibility that I might someday find peace, maybe just for a moment, maybe even this moment. I may not talk to my shirts, but I can see myself — and even my possessions — with compassion.  And what more can I ask of literature than that it allows me to see the world with fresh eyes?

Ellie Herman is a writer, teacher and life coach.  She blogs at