Why I Wrote If I Didn’t Give a Fuck

This book has been sitting in my head for years like a stubborn song that won’t shut up. I’ve always used humor to survive. Not just the safer kind of humor that gets a chuckle in a staff meeting, but the sharp, sometimes dark kind that keeps you from unraveling. Because the emotions were often so intense, humor sometimes felt out of place. But I always found a way to slip it in. It was the only thing that kept me from carrying the same second-hand trauma and compassion fatigue I’ve watched so many of my coworkers drag home like chains.

If I Didn’t Give a Fuck is built on one of my coping strategies. When I’m overwhelmed, when the world stops making sense, when I just want to throw my hands up, I ask myself: what if I didn’t give a fuck? What if I stopped caring about being polite, professional, or “appropriate”? What would I do then?

The answers range from petty to outrageous. Sometimes they’re just stupid. But they always give me a break. They cut the tension. They remind me I don’t have to live in the heaviness. Once I’ve laughed at the ridiculous thing in my head, I can pivot. I can deal with reality with a clearer mind and steadier hands.

That’s what this book is. It’s humor. It’s coping. It’s a reminder that even when life grinds you down, you still get to choose how you carry it. It’s filled with offbeat activities and prompts to help you figure out what pisses you off, what makes you laugh, and what actually matters enough to hold onto.

I wrote it during a time when I felt empty, when I was barely holding myself together. The creative process became a lifeline. Humor became oxygen. Writing it helped me find my way forward.

So here it is. If I Didn’t Give a Fuck. It isn’t polite. It isn’t neat. But it might be the thing that helps you drop the weight you were never meant to carry in the first place.