The Nuance Diaries

Happy Pisces Season. Happy New Year. Happy Ramadan. Happy Lent. Happy Lunar Eclipse.

And happy “my birthday is in two days!”

I wrote this song (which can also be read as a poem) almost exactly a year ago 2/26/25, around 2 AM. I had just turned 30. Here I am, about to be 31.

I could ramble on quite a bit about how much I like this song, and how surprised I was to revisit it after a full year of, quite honestly, forgetting about it. I could talk about how, even though it’s Pisces season, I think my Scorpio moon had her hands in this one quite a bit.

But I think right now I just want to share it and leave everything up to interpretation, and go back to what I was originally writing when I unexpectedly came across this forgotten gem.

Transcript available here! https://wildcozyfree.substack.com

“Cause not everything means something honey/ so say the unsayable/ say the most human of things.”

Transcript at https://thenuancediaries.substack.com

**Part 2 available at https://thenuancediaries.substack.com - embedded in this post.

Hi.

I did something I’ve only done twice before.

I hit record and start talking.

And then I hit publish.

You can listen to Part 1 above, and Part 2 below (embedded.)

And then you can go listen to this song from a few months back.

It’s such a cheesy saying — love and light.

But I am genuinely sending you as much love and light as I can humanely muster.

Talk soon,

Alexa

PS If you believe in any kind of higher power, please send out some prayers for my aunt’s health.

I want to tell you a story.

It is 2018, and I am a recent college graduate.

I’m 23 years old. My high school best friend and I decide to take a little trip to Montreal. We’ve never been. It seems like a really fun idea. She knows French. It felt like a cool thing to do. And we’re in New York City, so it’s a short flight.

We get on the plane early in the morning. It’s a very full flight. Boarding was hectic. I remember it being really hard to get our overhead storage and throw things in. Whatever, it was a short flight.

We arrive in Montreal, and it’s still very early. Maybe 8 AM. We get to customs, and we’re about to show our passports to the gate person.

And I can’t find mine. I can’t find my passport.

And I know I have it, because I wouldn’t have been allowed on the plane without it. They checked our passports coming into the airport in New York, and then again at the gate. I know I have it. I got on the plane with this passport. I know that.

But I don’t have it now. I don’t have my passport.

I’ll remind you again that it is 2018 and I am an African American woman.

Trump had just been elected during the fall semester of my senior year at Vassar, which I wrote about here.

It’s 2018, and we are two years into Trump’s first administration and I am an African American woman in a different country than I was born in without my passport.

I am losing my shit. I am having what I now know is a panic attack.

My friend, thankfully, was able to keep it together and made sure that I had WhatsApp installed on my phone so that we could communicate after she went through customs and I went back to the plane to look for my passport.

I don’t even really remember the gate number where we got deplaned, but I’m just sprinting through the airport with my carry-on, and I’m probably crying at this point, too.

When I finally find the gate, I’m told that they’ve searched and cleaned the plane. I can’t go look myself.

And now I’m really freaking out.

I’m walking back when an airport worker comes by with one of those big carts—the ones for luggage or people with disabilities. He offers me a ride back to customs.

I’m a sweaty, bawling mess.

I keep chanting, “They’re going to deport me. They’re going to deport me. I don’t have a passport—they’re going to deport me.”

This very kind Canadian airport worker asks, “Where are you from?”

“New York.”“So, why would we deport you? Where would we deport you?” “Africa, obviously.“Huh??”

He tells me his daughter lives in New York. He’s trying to distract me because I’m hysterical, and he’s doing his best to just be this gentle, lovely Canadian man. It works, but only a little bit.

When I get back to customs, my friend is waiting for me. I’m given a slip of paper and sent to the customs office to sort things out.

At the office, they ask me questions. Everything is above board, all in public—I’m not taken into any backrooms, thankfully. I’m sent to the help desk to see if my passport has turned up.

We haven’t even gotten our luggage yet—we’re just running around looking for my passport.

And do you know what the guy at the desk says, when I give him my name?

“Oh, there you are! Yeah, we found it. We tried to call you. You didn’t answer. Here it is.”

They’d found it while cleaning the plane and had been calling me ever since. But I hadn’t answered because I was running around convinced I was about to be deported.

It was the best moment of my life.

In the same breath, the guy says, “The baggage is still coming out. They might have lost some of the bags.”

I couldn’t have cared less about my bags. They could’ve thrown my bags in the ocean for all I care.

The trip was lovely. It was also freezing. But lovely. And on the flight back to New York a couple of days later, I practically caressed my passport the entire time.

I used to joke that the moral of this story is: if you’re going to lose your passport, do it in Canada because they’re very nice.

And yet now on January 98th, 2026, I’m just as afraid of being kidnapped and sent away to God knows where when I’m taking the subway, in the city where I was born.

I woke up to a text from a friend that essentially said “If you don’t want to see the shit storm going on, don’t check social media.” And I was like, yeah, no shit. So I checked.

Don Lemon has been arrested, along with Trahern Jeen Crews, Georgia Fort, and Jamael Lydell Lundy.

That hit really hard. I’m afraid for all of them. I’m afraid for Don, as a Black gay man. I’m scared for all of the journalists, out there.

I’m scared for Liam Ramos.

I’m scared for the families who have watched their loved ones be killed.

And.

I’m finally afraid for myself.

I feel relatively safe in the confines of my neighborhood. I lull myself to sleep with the false promise of safety that a double-locked door, a doorman, and an elite zip code provide.

I try not to think about what would happen if I got kidnapped while babysitting. But I do.

I think about whether or not the child in my care would understand the gravity of the situation. I wonder if I’d convince him to run, or just pick him up.

I mostly fear what would happen if ICE took me, and left him alone on the streets of New York, or even in the subway. A child with no wallet, no phone, who has just watched his babysitter get kidnapped, would be tasked with finding his own way home.

As chilling as this scenario is, it’s far better than the one where they keep us together, and take us both. I have hope that a kind stranger would help him find his way home. I trust strangers far more than the monsters pretending that they’re protecting us, aka ICE.

I think about what kind of facility I’d be taken to. I wonder how long I could survive without food and water, instead of forcing myself to eat food with worms and all other kinds of debris in it.

I wonder if I would be able to interact with the children separated from their parents, and cuddle them close.

I wonder if my kidnapping would cause public outcry. I wonder how long it would take for people to know that I was gone.

I wonder if I’d be released before my 31st birthday. I wonder if they have calendars in those detention centers.

I wonder if I’d be physically and sexually abused, or if the guards would just stick to verbal, emotional, and racial abuse.

I wonder how many times I’d be called the n word before lunch.

Maybe I’d die of frostbite, laying on a cold, damp floor somewhere.

Maybe I’d stain myself with my menstrual blood, and be told to take a Tylenol.

Maybe I’d dissociate and drift off somewhere far away to ease the pain.

Maybe I’d replay Heated Rivalry on loop in my head.

And hum ‘No Place Like Home’ and the soundtrack of Ragtime.

Would my ancestors be with me? Would they come to me in some way, to help me through?

If I’m kidnapped wearing the beaded bracelet made to remember my Aunt Eileen by, would they let me keep it? Or take it, like they took Liam Ramos’ bunny hat?

Would they rip the beads off my wrist, just for fun? And laugh as I cried?

I wear one that says “worthy.” I think about getting that word tattooed on my risk one day, to remind myself of my worth.

Will I forget my worth, in the company of people who think of me as 3/5 of a human being?

The same “men” who parade around kidnapping people, were probably inspired by the texts sent to black women in the days after the 2024 election, stating that we’d been selected for cotton picking shifts.

I watched The Handmaid’s Tale for a week after the 2024 election. I told myself I was preparing myself for what was to come.

Wasn’t I?

I recently saw a quote that said something like “the worst kind of slavery is…” and the answer was something like the prison of your mind or something.

And I thought to myself, well isn’t the worst kind of slavery, slavery?

Plantations. Concentration Camps. Detention Centers.

ICE officers are rounding up anyone and everyone, like slave catchers …

I’m so ‘scited*. I’m ‘scited to share this new thing I made.

*Scared and excited, as Glennon Doyle would say.

More excited than scared, though.

When I thought about posting on Instagram, threads, and even TikTok, I felt more scared than excited.

And so, I’ve decided to share this with you, and only you, first.

What is this? What’s she sharing?

Cards. Custom, handcrafted cards. Created by me, with new oil pastels, and an old Emily Brontë quote (Head to substack to see them!)

At first, I thought that this new/old passion would be just for me. It was both fun and necessary to rediscover my love of creating visual art, alone at my kitchen table (which is now smudged with new vibrant colors daily).

As my new pieces quickly accumulated (and the space on my refrigerator dwindled), I started to think about what kind of art I could make and easily share with my friends.

And then I thought — what if I tried designing cards that I could send people? I love shopping for unique, thoughtful cards. What if I looked up some quotes to integrate into these cards?

A little context behind this design choice. While many people enjoy sketching with a pencil first and then filling in their drawings with the colorful oil pastels, I’m mostly intrigued by how to blend the colors and create rich, complex, layered, textured backgrounds.

It’s never just blue, but blueish green purple. Not just purple, but purplish turquoise, midnight blue.

I love the endless ways the colors dance together. I love finding out what happens when you add just a touch of pink or a hint of light blue. Or what it looks (and feels) like to blend diagonally, then horizontally. I like experimenting with how hard or light to press into the page.

I love holding something in my hands that I’ve created from scratch. It’s a different kind of feeling than that of finishing a piece of writing I’m proud of. It’s tactile, visual, and visceral. There’s much to discover here.

And much to share.

I’m making 17 of these cards, and I’d love to send you some.

Share them with a loved one — platonic, romantic, or familial. Keep it for yourself. Send it to the English teacher who introduced you to Wuthering Heights (shoutout to Ms. Fischer!)

If you’re interested - email me at [email protected] with the subject “[Your Name] Card Order” and please include…

* The pronoun you would like used - his, hers, or theirs (see video for reference!)

* Your mailing address

* A screenshot of your Venmo/Zelle payment ($17.77)

AlexaJJ on Venmo + 917-626-1331 for Zelle.

From there, I’ll confirm that your card is reserved and follow up with the shipping cost once I’ve mailed your package!

*You can also DM me at @ alexajuanitajordan on Instagram, threads or tiktok but that’s more for people who follow me on those platforms, who will eventually see this announcement there!

Once these 17 cards are gone, they’re gone.

I might create a waitlist if there’s enough interest, or I might move onto a new quote - we’ll see! There’s truly no big master plan here. Just a girl and her oil pastels.

Love you guys.

More soon,

Alexa

What if the wind was a knife?

Swooshing around

Slicing invisible cuts

Inside you, right through you

Everyday

What appears to be

a breeze to everyone else

is lethal for you

Thousands of invisible cuts

Countless invisible cuts

No one can understand

They ask, “What’s the matter?”

Because they can’t see you bleeding

That same wind that circles you like a hitman

Transforms into a calming breeze in others’ presence

It’s like waking up to the barrel of a gun

With heavy invisible bullets that never leave a mark

Not even a scratch of proof of their crimes

Sometimes the wind is strong

And sometimes it’s barely there

When it’s gone for a while

It hits you with even more brute force

when it returns

It knocks you off your feet

You’re always bracing yourself

For the next gust

It feels inevitable

And unstoppable

Like you’re incapable

Like even the strongest walls can’t keep you from this wind

This is emotional abuse

The wind and me

Click to Subscribe + Read The Full Post Here

Hi everybody. Happy New Year.

I can tell 2026 is going to be the best year ever because nothing objectively horrible and unimaginably awful has happened yet. It’s all been sunshine and rainbows everywhere.

I, for one, am bringing a squeaky clean slate into the new year. New year, new me. 2025 Alexa? Never heard of her. I want to be unrecognizable.

The sky is also green. And I’ve decided I don’t like Wicked anymore. And I actually don’t think Jonathan Bailey is that attractive, and I’ve never really liked guacamole. And I’m definitely not craving a Kale Caesar right now. (A lot of green was mentioned unintentionally in there.)

Okay, so onto the truth. Sorry for the jumpscare. Jonathan Bailey, if you’re reading this, you are the sexiest man of every year.

I woke up on New Year’s Eve with congestion and a sore throat that would later grow into the worst head cold I’ve had in recent years.

I hit my head so badly the other day that I thought I had a concussion.

Before that, I read ‘A Battle With My Blood,’ a New Yorker essay written by Tatiana Schlossberg, the recently deceased granddaughter of John F. Kennedy and Jacqueline Kennedy, daughter of Caroline Kennedy and Edwin Schlossberg, wife of George Moran, mother of Edwin and Josephine, and sister to Rose and Jack. They’ve all been in my thoughts and heart lately, along with the rest of Tatiana’s friends and family.

Tatiana was my classmate at The Brearley School. She was a few years older than me, but we shared a piano teacher. (Ironically, the same piano teacher whose daughter I would one day teach in fourth grade at my alma mater.) I didn’t recall our shared history until I saw a group photo featuring the two of us among others, at The Brearley School.

Two years ago, I faced an absurd number of deaths in my personal life while also watching friends and acquaintances mourn loved ones whom I’ve never met. I learned a lot about grief during that season. I learned that it is entirely possible to mourn the losses of those we didn’t know well, or didn’t know at all. I learned how grief can sneak up on us.

I’ve learned that one death can often remind us of another, expanding and often complicating our grief. For example, my Aunt Eileen passed away over a decade ago, yet I’ve missed her more these past few years than ever.

I’ve learned that life is fragile, unpredictable, and urgent.

My capacity for grief and compassion as we collectively walk eachother home knows no bounds. My empathy is infinite.

Our time on earth is not.

It’s tricky, being someone who has had suicidal ideations and now fears death — the very thing I used to imagine as an escape.

I’ve learned that life will never be done breaking my heart, and that I have to continue to let it break over and over again.

Brandi Carlile was 100% right when she sang It’s no fun to have a heart when we are living through these days.

I’ve learned that I have to surround myself with people who feel it all, so that my sensitive soul has room to breathe.

Cynthia Erivo described writing her first memoir as “an excursion of truth-telling,” and I have never loved a phrase more. It’s what I’m trying to do here, inside The Nuance Diaries every time I write to you — set out on an excursion of truth-telling. I’m never here to bullshit you, except in that opening paragraph, which was 1000% sarcasm, which I hope you caught on to. Dark humor is part of my survival kit.

Resilience is essential and absurd.

I wrote that down during the final few acts of The Seat Of Our Pants, a new musical that debuted at the Public Theater. I watched my insanely talented, deeply kind friend, Geena Quintos, perform alongside Ruthie Ann Miles, one of the most resilient people in this world. In her own words, “Ruthie dedicates herself to the memory of her children, Abigail and Sophia.” She calls her youngest child, Hope, “a little lighthouse.”

I’ve always loved lighthouses. I think that the act of writing itself has been my lighthouse over the years. Other people’s words have certainly been my lighthouse. I sometimes can’t believe that my own words have been a lighthouse of sorts to readers and audiences, on pages and stages.

I used to say that writing is how I try to make sense of this sharp, messy world, but often, there is no sense to be made. Often, all we have is the light in front of us and our feet beneath us.

You know what doesn’t make sense? I sat down to write to you about how I had no idea what to write this week, and somehow all of this poured out of me.

What makes even less sense? My day today was therapy + finding out that an ICE agent shot a woman in the face in Minnesota, just blocks from where George Floyd was murdered.

My mind drifted to the summer of 2020. And then to the fall of 2024, Sonya Massey was shot to death in her own kitchen. I read about that while making pasta in my kitchen. Just like I read about Breonna Taylor while lying in my own bed.

Why do I love this place that’s never loved me?

Those words, sung by Cynthia Erivo, keep ringing truer and truer.

I say ‘I hate it here’ a lot. And I sometimes mean it.

This country is full of boundless cruelty and unspeakable, deplorable, heartless people who just seem to want to torture us all, and they all happen to be in charge.

And yet, this is also where my dear friends got married, in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been in my life, in the Hudson Valley, a short ride from the school we all met at over a decade ago.

And it’s also where I got called the ‘n’ word for the first time in Portland, Oregon.

And it’s also where we had perhaps the most historic inauguration since Obama on January 1st, right here in New York City. (If you haven’t watched Mayor Mamdani’s speech along with Public Advocate Jumaane Williams and Comptroller Mark Levine, I highly recommend it. I cried.)

(I sometimes try to pretend that New York City is not part of America, and I’m working on that. Kind of.)

If you can’t already tell, I did not sit down to write today with a clear topic or ‘message’ on my mind. I really, truly just thought,

Fuck. Today is hard. Insane, really. It’s January 7th, and 2026 has been unspeakably hard. I don’t think I have anything to say. But I also feel like I need to say something. I want to bury myself under my Costco blanket, watch Golden Girls, and eat Kale Caesar salad. But I also want people to know it’s okay to feel messy and awful and out of control right now. It is not normal that we have to hear about vile tragedies and then just go on with our days as if nothing happened. That’s not normal. I hate the word ‘normal,’ yet none of this is normal.

I guess what I really wanted to do was hop on here and be honest, and give you permission to be honest too. I’m forever hoping that my vulnerability can be not a blueprint, but a permission slip for yours.

Okay, one last thing. Actually two.

* I want to create space for you to show up and be honest, not just when you’re reading these essays. The idea of ‘being honest’ sounds easy, but it is actually hard. Hence, the permission slips.

I used to host this weekly drop-in group called ‘Authenticity Tuesdays,’ and I am bringing it back as….

For an *hour, we’re going to hang out on Zoom and be honest together.

I’ve put together some prompts, but the conversation can go where it wants to.

There are also some old prompts in the archives here on Substack if you want to dig around and see what we talked about last year. Just search ‘Authenticity Tuesdays’

*Well, 75 minutes, but I wasn’t going to call it Honest 75…that would be a fun cocktail name though?

We’ll meet on Tuesday, January 13th, from 7:45 PM - 9 PM.

Use this link to add to your calendar.

Donation of $15 recommended (Venmo AlexaJJ - linked in the invite.)

A year ago, I totally would not have been able to make that donation when I really needed a space like this. ‘Give what you can’ truly means just that — what you can. If you can’t, that is 1000% fine and will not be held against you in any way, shape, or form. Truly, just show up.

Here are the Happy Honest Hour prompts for 1/13 —

* How often are you honest with yourself?

* What does being honest with yourself look and feel like to you?

* What do you need to tell the truth about?

* What have you been bottling up lately?

* How does it feel when you lie to yourself?

* What are the consequences of dishonesty?

* Is there anything you want to be more honest about this year? With yourself or others?

I have a good feeling about this. I think it’s going to be fun. Whether it’s 2 people or 20.

I said I had two last things to say, right? Last thing.

* I’m getting back into art, and it has been a freaking blast. More on that later. I haven’t shown anything I’ve made to anyone yet, and I love that. But since you guys are special…

Take care of yourself. Be so kind to yourself. Drink a warm beverage and be still, as my therapist always tells me.

Talk to you soon, and hopefully SEE you Tuesday for Happy Honest Hour.

PS My New Year’s resolutions are to reduce my own suffering whenever possible, and treat myself as kindly as I treat other people. More on that later for sure.

Check out this post inside the https://thenuancediaries.substack.com for further reading and listening!

The days are getting shorter

The nights are growing long.

The birds will be migrating

Taking with them all their songs

The air is crisp and chilly

We’re trading shorts for scarves

‘Tis autumn, ‘tis autumn, ‘tis autumn.

The leaves are changing color

Look at their vibrant hues

The tree branches will be bare

But they’ll bloom again, too

Grab a jacket, dear, it’s chilly

The wind is blowing through

‘Tis autumn, ‘tis autumn, ‘tis autumn

Black boots, leather jackets, tights, and hats

Sipping tea and chai lattes, I’m alright with that.

Come November, grabbing a sweater’s old hat

And yes, it’s getting darker

You’re tired, melancholy, and not sure why

In the middle of a movie, you might have to cry

Come December, they’ll sing Is Love a Lie?

And yes, it’s even darker

It’s darker than you could imagine

Where there was once light

But you know we’ve been here before

And we will be all right

The nights are not forever

The moon always shines bright

So grab a candle and blanket

And please do hold on tight

Soup on the stove

Your friends on the couch

You start to think this is what it’s all about

So let’s cozy on up and let the world quiet down

‘Tis autumn, ‘tis autumn, ‘Tis autumn

“I’m tired of being amazing. I don’t want to be amazing anymore.”

The single sentence becomes the crux of the show and of modern motherhood. Jenny Kaminski (Dakota Fanning), a hardworking publishing executive, meets Marissa when they’re hiding out in the bathroom at a school event. The two forge a friendship over twinning in the same dress and dealing with the same dilemma. They are tired of the platitudes their husbands serve them, of doing it all at home and at work, and being told they can have it all if they really work for it.

The Nod Magazine

In All Her Fault, Dakota Fanning plays Jenny Kaminski, a married wife and mother carrying the load of a single mom. She takes care of her young son and her husband, a man who doesn’t clean up after himself in the kitchen, and texts her to ask where their son’s water bottle is.

When I finally started watching All Her Fault, weeks after hearing the well-earned buzz, I was both excited and not at all surprised to see Dakota Fanning playing Jenny. Something about the casting made perfect sense to me — but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I just knew that Jenny Kaminski = Ray from Uptown Girls.

After sitting with my thoughts some more, I realized that it’s not just Ray; Dakota Fanning’s entire extensive resume has clearly laid the groundwork to lead her straight to the role of Jenny Kamiski. It feels like the writing was on the wall in a very unique and specific way.

Jenny Kaminski is very much who I imagine all of Dakota Fanning’s characters from childhood could have grown up to be: an “amazing” woman doing it all.

Who better to play a wife and mother who is ‘doing it all’ than an actress who grew up playing children who also had to do it all? Who better to play the new friend of a mother whose son was kidnapped than a woman who has herself played a kidnapped child?

Dakota Fanning has played multiple little girls who either ran away or were kidnapped at some point in a film*. Both Lily Owens from The Secret Lives of Bees and Lucy from I Am Sam (Dakota Fanning’s SAG award-winning performance) run away. Abigail Jennings (Trapped) and Lupita “Pita” Ramos (Man on Fire) are both kidnapping victims. Ray also runs away to Coney Island in Uptown Girls, in one of the most pivotal (and memeified) scenes in cinematic history. How surreal to now play a mother supporting another mother with a missing child.

Some of the initial details and musings that sparked my early connection to Ray, and then to more of Dakota’s other incredible roles, include…

* I knew Ray would make a wonderful mother if she chose to have children. Girls who have complicated relationships with their mothers sometimes pass down all the trauma, but sometimes they do all the work necessary to break the cycle and become much healthier moms. I think Ray did the latter.

* I knew Ray would have a fabulous career and be such a ballbusting badass. You can really see Jenny’s inner child (aka the precocious spitfire that is Ray) come out when she’s working.

* Jenny Kaminski is both a member and an outsider. She lives in this Monterey-type town (very Big Little Lies except it’s Chicago), but she’s also on the outskirts of it, too; she’s not playing their games, and she sees through the bullshit. Ray’s world in Uptown Girls is one of deep privilege, but she also saw it for what it was (as much as a child can)

* Jenny Kaminski knows the lifesaving power of female friendship.

Many of Dakota Fanning’s younger characters were saved by strong, loyal, unconventional women in the form of Molly Gunn (RIP Brittany Murphy), The Boatwright Sisters, and Jennifer Hudson (The Secret Life of Bees).

These women were the Ms. Honey’s to these characters, Matilda’s; women who stepped in and redirected the course of little girls’ lives with their compassion, care, and strength.

When Jenny Kaminski’s husband warns her not to get involved because it looks like their family could be linked to the crime (The Kaminskis ’ nanny goes missing the same day that Milo does), she immediately ignores his “advice” and becomes Marissa Irvine’s biggest supporter and true friend.

It’s also worth noting that some of Dakota Fanning’s characters did grow up with great male role models like Sam from I Am Sam, and Denzel Washington from Man on Fire (which I haven’t seen, but I’m going to assume he was a positive influence on her life because he’s Denzel Washington).

* It’s unfortunately believable that a grown-up Ray would stay with an incompetent man (Jenny Kaminski’s husband) who is about as useful as furniture. Ray’s father died when she was young, and I can see her wanting a “perfect” two-parent household. A grown-up Ray might honestly feel ‘lucky’ to have a husband like Richie Kaminski, who is “trying” to be present.

I know it’s tempting (and far more empowering) to think of Ray having higher standards than that. It’s a far more redeeming arc to imagine mature little girls as women who take no shit.

Some of my friends looked at the husbands in All Her Fault and thought, ‘Isn’t it unrealistic that those women would stay with men who have so few redeeming qualities?’

You might be thinking, if Dakota Fanning’s characters had all of these amazing influences, how did she grow up to be Jenny Kaminski, this overworked woman married to a man who isn’t showing any interest in her life or actively contributing to raising their child?

Children who are praised for their maturity and competence often become adults who think that carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders is normal.

I would know.

Too many people know what it’s like to feel lucky when they get scraps. Many of us even convince ourselves we’re full when we’ve actually been starving our entire lives for something we’ve rarely, or never, tasted.

When I was around 6, my family’s flight was delayed for 12 hours on the way home from spring break in the Caribbean. After finally landing at JFK around 3 AM, we waited in baggage claim for what felt like forever. When I spotted my father’s worn beige leather duffel, I tried to get my parents’ attention. I don’t remember how hard I tried or how loud I was. I have no idea why they didn’t hear me or notice the bag themselves. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be in the airport any longer than I had to be. I made the swift decision that I would grab the bag myself.

That caught my parents’ attention.

They were so shocked and proud of me. My strength. My observation skills. My proactivity. It’s a story we tell all the time to this day, a story in which I am the hero.

Another time, months or maybe even years later, we were at the garage, and our car wouldn’t start. We went outside to call the car manufacturer people. I heard someone on the other line ask for our car’s license plate number. After my parents fumbled around for a minute, considered going back in the garage to check the car, and tried to remember if they had the number saved somewhere, I simply blurted out the number.

I couldn’t believe they didn’t know the license plate number we looked at every single day. Part of me honestly thought they did know it and were testing me. Again, I was praised for my swift thinking, my observation skills, and my memory.

Time after time, the messaging kicked in: I’m so mature, I’m so responsible, I’m great at remembering things, people are so impressed by how put together I am, and how well I can take care of things. I’ll keep doing that.

And I did. I kept doing that. I took on more than I should have had to handle, made it look easy, and kept collecting praise.

“The character that I play epitomizes the ‘modern woman, somebody who’s trying to be everything to everyone: a good mom, a good wife, a career woman, a good friend—struggling to do it all and questioning if she can. I think, regardless of whether a woman is married or has children, we all feel the push and pull to be everything to everyone at all times. There are moments when you just want to scream, ‘I’m just a person. There’s only so much I can do.’”

- Dakota Fa…

I saw a stranger with really kind eyes a few months ago on the Lower East Side.

This man with kind eyes looked like he was in love with this girl.

I thought to myself, Will anyone like that ever fall in love with me? Would they love me if they knew who I was? What I’d been through? The dark shit clogged inside me?

I realized a year or so ago that whenever I pictured my future self, she looked different from how I do now. She had straight long hair, and always looked more together than me.

I’ve been trying to picture a future self who looks more like my present self, because I want to think of my present self as deserving of the things that I think my future self will have.

I even have this outfit (that I currently own) that I’ll specifically picture my future self wearing: my ‘Victoria Beckham’ jeans, white mock turtleneck shirt. I’ll picture myself at a conference or worship wearing this outfit — or even just living a casual day in my future life. When I wear this outfit now, in the present day, it helps me feel a little closer to my future self.

*They are not actually from Victoria’s fashion line; they’re just flair jeans that remind me of the ones she wore in the David Beckham documentary when they were dancing to Islands in the Stream.

When I was facing serious financial issues earlier this year, I thought a lot about the different, somewhat extreme, things people consider doing for money when they’re desperate and don’t have other options.

And I came really close to doing some of those things. I considered doing things I would never dream of if I weren’t in such a financially unstable position.

I ultimately did not do any of those things — and I’m incredibly lucky that I had that choice. So many people don’t have choices about where and how they live, and what they have to do to get by.

While considering these choices, I would often chastise myself and think things like, “Well, if you do this, then it’s part of your story, and you’ll have to tell your future partner one day that you’re a person who did these things for money. You’ll be a person who tarnished themself.”

It’s such an incredibly mean way to speak to and think of myself. I would never look at another person through the harsh lens I reserve only for me. When I really think about it, I don’t want to be with someone who would judge me through that lens.

But it’s so easy to think of my future partner as someone too good for me, whom I have to prove myself to. I subconsciously live my life by these invisible, imaginary standards, and hustle for my self-worth in pursuit of the love of an imaginary partner who I imagine judging me harshly.

It’s so easy to look at a stranger in a restaurant with kind eyes and make up a whole story about them. In less than 5 seconds, my brain decides that this strange man is pure, thoughtful, sincere, and decent. My brain reminds me that I am jaded; it tells me that I am not pure or good in the way that I used to be before.

Before what? Before I became an adult? Before the world got complicated? Before I made mistakes? Before I became human?

I don’t want to end up with some ever-loving Saints, who would judge me for my past. I want to be with someone who will look at me and all the darkness inside of me and still find the light.

I want to find someone who will see me in my broken hallelujah and meet me there.

I want someone who loves me not despite my imperfections, but because of them.

I want someone who will give me the same grace that I know I will give them.

I want someone with kind eyes, like the man I saw on the Lower East Side.

And yes, I know I’ve made up a whole narrative in my life about who this man is, and maybe he is a villain who escaped prison and is on the run for starting a cult and being a serial killer. But in my mind, he is none of those things, so just let me have this. He seemed really nice.

Self-compassion is such a nuanced, layered thing. It’s not just about saying “I love you!” in the mirror. It’s not just about finding compassion for ourselves moment to moment. I think it’s also about believing we are worthy of beautiful futures, regardless of what the present holds, and what the past has done to us. I really believe that no one is exempt from a beautiful life and tiny, beautiful things. (Shout out to Cheryl Strayed.)

I want to believe that I deserve a person with kind eyes.

I want to believe that I’m a kind person, too.

I want to believe that I’m a kind person who deserves grace and is always trying her best.

And that’s all I can hope for in a partner.

That’s all I can hope for in my future self.

I hope future Alexa is kind, ambitious, successful, and full of grace. I hope that she is somewhere in the future looking back at me, and thinking, “Wow, I’m so grateful for her.”

I hope she’s happy. I hope she knows how worthy she is.

I also hope she has a weekly housekeeper, an in-unit washer-dryer, and a clawfoot tub.

PS The comparison game only gets worse during the holidays. Here are some affirmations to remind yourself of before you have a breakdown, an hour before everyone comes over to your house. More inside the Holiday Survival Kit.

The Nuance Diaries is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.