The Nuance Diaries

The basic answer? I don’t want to.

If someone wheeled a beautifully decorated tree into my house, I wouldn’t turn them away.

If I woke up to a perfectly decorated Hallmark movie-style house in Vermont, I’d be delighted (and also a little terrified that I’d been robbed/kidnapped.)

But because life is not a holiday movie, the job of decorator/mover/organizer falls to me. And this year, I’m putting in my notice.

I really do historically love the holidays. I love cheesy Christmas movies, gorgeous, elaborate light displays, and sugar cookies. I love Mariah Carey, tinsel, and coquito.

Up until recently, I loved putting up a 7-foot tree with a collection of ornaments that could fill a row or two at Home Goods.

Yes, that’s right; 7 feet. I followed in my family’s tradition and bought a synthetic tree for my big girl apartment during the pandemic in 2020. Ever since then, I’ve looked forward to putting it up every year. One year, I even got a bedroom tree for double the Christmas spirit.

In addition to the tree(s), I’ve also collected a variety of signs, door hangers, figurines and the like. One of the signs proudly reads ‘This girl loves Christmas.’

The thing is, I also love lying horizontal on my couch.

I find reality pretty difficult.

I find the business of getting out of bed and getting on with the day really hard. I find picking up my phone to be a mammoth fucking struggle. The number on my inbox. The friends who won’t see me anymore. The food pictures and porn videos, the bombings, and beheadings, the moral ambivalence you have to have to just be able to carry on with your day. I find the knowledge that we’re all just atoms and one day we’ll stop and be dirt in the ground, I find that overwhelmingly

disappointing.

-People, Places & Things by Duncan Macmillan (A Play)

I, too, find reality pretty difficult.

When I first saw this play at 21, I never would have admitted that, even though that’s been true since I took frequently naps in the nurse’s office in high school, and secretly got excited when the kids in my elementary school tennis camp got us all in trouble (because it meant that we would have a time out aka quiet time to sit and do nothing in an air conditioned gymnasium in New York in July.)

The monologue is delivered by the play’s protagonist, Emma, who is in and out of rehab for drug and alcohol addiction throughout the play.

At 21, I don’t think I was consciously afraid of developing an addiction — but I also certainly never thought that it could happen to me. And perhaps that unconscious thought kept me from relating to this monologue and character as strongly as I do now. There’s a human temptation to mentally distance ourselves from those with different life circumstances than ours. If we tell ourselves we can’t relate to someone, then we can rationalize that we won’t end up in their shoes.

At 30, I’m no longer trying to distance myself from people who are “different” than me — because I am acutely aware that my life could have ended up a million different ways if just the slightest thing had gone a different way, throughout the course of my life, or anyone else’s in my family. I absolutely understand the lure of self-medicating with drugs and alcohol.

I absolutely understand that most of us find reality pretty difficult, and that we are all exhausted.

Like, ‘I have to hype myself up to stand in the shower,’ exhausted.

And, ‘How long have those dishes been in the sink?’ exhausted.

And, ‘Did I always sweat this much huffing and puffing down subway steps when I’m late?’ exhausted.

Why is she making us read about how tired she is? I’m tired too. We’re all tired.

Maybe that’s what you’re thinking right now.

How tired can she be? Isn’t she like, 30?

Or maybe that.

Damn. No wonder she can’t find the energy to put up a Christmas tree.

If that’s what you’re thinking — bingo, you’re the winner.

I’m too tired to put up my Christmas tree, and I have been feeling guilty about it for weeks. I usually put it up on November 1st. Yes, I’m that kind of Christmas girl. I really love Christmas!

Well, the holiday season.

Well, parts of the holiday season.

But this year has been different. This year, I feel a little less spirited and a little less myself. And while I’m sure my therapist and I will keep digging into why that is, and why that’s so normal, and why it might be time to up my lexapro —

I am not forcing my exhausted little 5”3 self to put up a 7ft tree, and I feel great about it.

I’m “bigger than my body gives me credit for,” but sometimes my body just wants to mesh into the couch/bed and watch archives of the Obama era on YouTube and eat a burger from Shake Shack and then make a milkshake with Trader Joe’s pumpkin ice cream and Bailey’s.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m still going to do other festive things. I’ve already been to a holiday party. I’m going to a 7 Fishes feast this weekend. I put together a very fun little make-shift holiday display in front of my TV, and strung some lights that usually go on the tree on my bookshelf. There is still (unconventional) brightness and cheer in my apartment and in my life.

But there’s exhaustion too. There’s room for that under the (nonexistent) tree, too.

What has been bringing me a lot of joy this year is helping others. I put together a Thanksgiving gift bag for an unhoused neighbor, with some clothes, a warm blanket, a slice of pumpkin pie, some assorted toiletries, and a note on where they can receive more support. I’ve donated maybe 8 bags of clothing/bedding/bags/winter wear, and there is definitely more to come. Being able to make a small impact in the lives of others, even when I’m feeling down myself, is incredibly fulfilling — and more important than ever.

On that note, I’ll end by mentioning that my heart has been with the families who lost their homes to the LA Wildfires this year. I can only imagine what a first Christmas in a new home without your familiar surroundings and precious family items feels like.

Some of my favorite ornaments were severely damaged and/or ruined by leaky pipes in my storage room. This loss is not at all comparable - but I’m entitled to my sadness, and my ability to feel that sadness actually expands my empathy for those facing greater losses. I wrote more about this below.

Click through for the full thread.

Speaking of threads… we’re not alone in the December exhaustion.

Some other reasons I know we’re not alone?

* At 7:08am on 12/3 ‘how to not lose my shit’ was at peak popularity on Google

* Just 12 hours later? “Holiday burnout”

* Elf on the Shelf is also growing in popularity. If this is you, my condolences and good luck.

It’s okay if the holidays look different this year. It’s okay if you skip certain traditions or start new ones. It’s okay if things that used to excite you just don’t spark as much joy this year.

It’s okay if it feels like the holidays are something to survive.

And if you’re reading this, you’re surviving and doing a great job at that.

If you ever want a little extra solidarity, support, or just a laugh when it’s all feeling absurd, I’ve got you covered inside the Holiday Survival Kit.

With love, light, exhaustion, and chaos,

Alexa

PS Another popular search lately has been “gifts for adult kids,” and I’ve got you covered there, too.

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Important housekeeping update over here about paid vs. free subscriptions!

I sometimes look in the mirror and think, “Weren’t you supposed to make something of your life by now?”

It might sound mean — but it’s one of my tamer negative thoughts.

I try to think of all the things I’ve accomplished and the friends I love, who I know love me back.

It’s not that I’m not grateful — there’s just this boulder in my path that I keep coming up against again and again and again. And I can’t quite figure out what to do with it. Do I demolish this boulder, or just keep facing it, over and over again?

In some ways, I’ve definitely separated my self-worth from my resume. Someone recently used the phrase “divorcing my self-worth from my resume,” and I really love that.

The positive assumption is that I can feel good about myself, no matter what I’ve accomplished externally. But on the other side of the coin — I can also feel bad about myself — no matter what I’ve accomplished.

There was a point in time when, looking back at testimonials, comments, and kind messages from people telling me how my writing and my coaching have affected their lives would instantly make me feel better. Just the other week, one of my oldest friends sent me the sweetest text about how she always feels lifted after spending time with me. Last night, I found an old Facebook message from college that someone I don’t know very well sent me after seeing my first play, FINE.

I know the tangible, measurable impact I’ve had on people’s lives, and I’m so grateful for that. Acts done for others are never entirely altruistic; we’re human, and we feel good when we help people.

And yet, sometimes that feeling fades. We wish we could do more. We wish that we could have a larger impact. We wish that our own luck could change. We wish that our lives could change the way that other people’s do.

At least that’s how I feel.

I’ve made friends with envy (often confused with jealousy), and I’m now pretty quick to identify what I’m longing for when I see someone with something that I don’t have. There are times when I’m somewhat proactive about my envy and take steps to figure out how I can move closer to what I want. But sometimes, I succumb to the “why not me?” feelings, as we all do.

Why don’t I have a brand deal? Why don’t I have kids? Why didn’t I meet the love of my life in college?

Eventually, the ‘whys’ grow more accusatory,

Why haven’t I paid off my credit card debt? Why haven’t I written another book? Why did I stop acting? Why isn’t my house cleaner? Why am I such a slob? Why do I let the dishes pile up?

Why haven’t I “made it”?

Are there tangible things I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not? Am I supposed to do more positive affirmations? Should I cleanse my house?

I don’t have any answers or cures. I never do. I’m just here to write the stuff that I’d like to think we’re all thinking — to help myself (and hopefully you) feel less alone.

I do know, logically, that I have “made something of my life” regardless of what my brain tries to tell me.

I feel kind of haunted by the reality that I have no idea how much time any of us have left on this earth — and that thought makes me feel really grateful and really disappointed. I know that at 30, I have a lot of things that people go their whole lives without. And I also feel pretty far from a lot of my goals and dreams. I have no idea how far I am from achieving them. I like to think that everything I want is right in front of me or just around the corner. And then I find myself crying to my therapist, and wondering if there are just some dreams that aren’t meant to be mine. Is it time to give up some of those dreams?

It’s painful to write that sentence. I picture my younger self asking me that. Picturing my younger self always softens my heart and silences a lot of my “bad thoughts.” Most of the time, I believe in the little girl in me more than I believe in the capable, resilient adult woman in the mirror.

A few weeks ago, a woman wrote her farewell note of sorts on Threads. Thousands and thousands of people came to her aid and begged her not to end her life. They offered personal support, solidarity, and resources. Just as I was about to chime in, I saw the update that this young woman was overwhelmed by everyone’s support — and decided to seek mental health support in her local area.

I would never ever tell someone else to give up. No matter what they’re facing. No matter what their brain is telling them. I wrote Please Stay, Please Stay, Please Stay and shared the story of both my suicide attempt and many, many ideations — to provide support for people who need it.

“Weren’t you supposed to make something of your life by now?”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a 5-year-old by now?”

The voices are relentless. We often talk about our inner critics like whispering snobs in an art gallery. Mine are dangerously angry sports fans in the 4th quarter. My inner critic is louder than my upstairs neighbor, who has been watching sports-ball all weekend.

I’m not going to tie this up with a bow. As I said, I have no answers or cures. I’m just here to write the stuff that I’d like to think we’re all thinking — to help myself (and hopefully you) feel less alone.

I hope it helps. Even if there are no answers or cures, I can’t deny that it helps me. Even if my inner critic is screaming, “WHY would you admit all this to the internet?” I know that showing up and letting myself be seen has changed my life for the better.

I think that showing up and talking about all of the big, messy shit we push down all day long matters. I think this part of my story matters.

And the more I say that, and show up with this part of my story, the more I prove that the big, messy parts of your story matter too.

There’s room for all of me. And all of you.

Okay, maybe I did tie that in a little bit of a bow; I couldn’t help it.

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I thought I was going to wrap up the “The Best Showgirls are a Wicked Kind of Wonderful” series this week, but after seeing Wicked For Good last night —- that’s not where I am mentally; I want to reflect on this iconic film in a different way. (I will finish that series soon though, don’t worry!)

Below is a thread that I posted (on threads, where I’m posting more commentary) before passing out on my couch last night. I woke up to thousands of likes and reposts and shares and replies. I’m so grateful my words are resonating with so many of you who are clearly having such similar thoughts and perspectives.

If you haven’t seen the movie yet and don’t want spoilers - skip this until you’ve seen it! Go catch up on the series mentioned above or read another one of my latest pieces, like this one. This is your last warning, THERE ARE WICKED FOR GOOD SPOILERS AHEAD.

And if you’re not a Wicked fan/weren’t planning to see it…this might just convince you to?

Also - stay tuned for a special Sunday edition of The Nuance Diaries where I’ll be making a big announcement! As Glinda says, “you don’t want to miss this.”

I do wish there was some way to like, magically go back in time or even see this movie in the Kamala timeline (the imagined world where Kamala Harris won the election.) Because the thing is, the Wicked team didn’t know the world would be like this, when they made the movie. But now that it is — you can’t not see the political landscape of America mirrored throughout Oz. No Place Like Home is about to be a protest anthem. As Keke Palmer once said, that’s a slave hymn.

Seeing Wicked in 2003 as an eight year old — my first thought was not “Omg Glinda stands for all the complicit white women who don’t see the grave harm and danger they put black women in by aligning with these corrupt evil men.” And I got to enjoy her more as a character. And even in the following years, even seeing it in 2023 for the 20th anniversary — I didn’t see Glinda’s complicity the way I do now - because the landscape of America was different then (or so I thought.)

That being said, it’s 2025 and we can’t avoid the world we live in when we see this movie. The symbolism is literally SO clear and powerful. There was a moment when the emerald city guards made me think of ICE. When Elphaba and Fiyero are walking through the land beyond Oz, and she had the piece of cloth over her head, she looked like a refugee and you just can’t ignore that symbolism. It’s so important.

There’s something sobering and heartbreaking about watching Elphaba walk away from the only home she’s ever loved, which has never loved her back (also literally such a parallel to Zohran Mamdani’s victory speech when he said the city that you love finally loves you back.) I hope people won’t sugarcoat her and Fiyero’s ending. Yes, they get to be together forever. Yes, they are “free.” But they are literally fugitives. And we have no idea where they end up. Our brains must fill in the blanks.

While some might be thinking “well maybe Elphaba can come back one day?!”, I do think that the people of Oz really do need someone to be wicked, in order for someone to be good. But that being said, if you have an idea for a fanfiction where Elphaba and Fiyero can come back to Oz, by all means write it and share it with me pronto.

To give Glinda some credit, I did love the new addition to the ending where Glinda made it clear that Oz was a place where animals are welcome. Seeing people welcome them so openly was again, another important moment of symbolism. Lies are powerful. But the truth can prevail when people use their power the right way — which Glinda is learning to.

For me, the moral of Wicked is really that we all have to stop giving corrupt inept men power. The Wizard was never the powerful one — he’s just a pathetic man, propped up by powerful women using their power in the wrong way. And his very presence emboldens people in the worst way and incites all kind of terror and violence.

If Morrible, Glinda or even Dorothy had said no to the Wizard at any point — the fate of Oz, and the animals, and Elphaba would have been totally changed. It’s not enough for one person to say no, and fight back. It’s going to take all of us.

Elphaba did help the people of Oz and free them from the Wizard. She did have a celebration throughout Oz all to do with her. The prophecy from The Wizard and I did come true. But she had to become a deeply misunderstood and villainized martyr, in order to make it happen. She knows that the people of Oz will never know who she really was, and what she did for them.

The entire movie is just…. I have so much more to say. It’s such a deeply important, timeless story. I will have much more to say after my 2nd viewing, but for now I’ll just say that strangers kept offering me tissues.

I look forward to seeing gospel covers of ‘No Place Like Home’ like, immediately. You could do it for Sunday Service if you call an emergency practice tonight and maybe one more on Saturday? Just a thought.

I VERY much look forward to seeing activists’ take on No Place Like Home and that final shot of Elphaba walking into the land beyond Oz. Please chime in! I’m so curious what your views are on her “surrender” and orchestrated “death” in order to ensure her safety — after pleading with the animals to stay. Some may look at her life as a sacrifice. Was it? I’m not sure. It’s a hard question to ponder as a Black woman in 2025 America.

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I hate this part of internet culture where something happens and we all immediately want to comment on it and give our hot takes. And I especially hate how quick society is to make light of something very scary and serious just because it happened to a celebrity.

I also hate how righteous people can be - as if having a keyboard gives us the right to say what kind of behavior is okay and not okay.

I will say, though (at the risk of sounding righteous), that it’s deeply unsettling to be seeing memes already — of Cynthia Erivo protecting Ariana Grande.

I’ll also say that I think these actions have less to do with singular individuals making such memes — and more to do with the very parasocial relationship many people have with celebrities, due to the access that the paparazzi + the internet has perpetuated and allowed.

We are not entitled to know anything about anyone’s personal life — beyond what they choose to show us.

Knowing how a politician is spending their time during a national disaster is far different than knowing how a celebrity is spending their vacation.

Politicians have CHOSEN to devote a portion of their lives to public service, and that duty does come with certain expectations.

Celebrities should not have to carry the same expectations — and yet they do.

All public figures are not alike. They are all human, though.

And no human should be denied dignity, empathy, respect, or safety.

I will admit that I have watched the video of Cynthia protecting Ariana / Ariana being assaulted — several times, from several angles, and a few times at .5 speed. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was like watching a car crash and not being able to look away. And yet of course, it felt like there was something voyeuristic about watching again and again.

Even as someone with CPTSD, I can only begin to imagine and never fully grasp what went through Ariana’s mind. How scared she must have been. How scared Cynthia must have been when she lunged into action.

I couldn’t help but hear the echo of Elphaba yelling, “Leave her alone, she has nothing to do with this. I’m the one you want, it’s me!” in the final moments of Wicked Part 1. A natural protector on and off screen.

And then I felt guilty for thinking of that moment in the film, when faced with a scary moment from reality.

It’s like when the fires were raging through LA — and reporters pointed out how life eerily imitated art for Milo Ventimiglia, who has now lost his house in a fire on camera (in This Is Us, when his character passed away), and now in real life. It’s a kind of unavoidable comparison- but I still can’t imagine what it was like to even think about that parallel, while evacuating his house with his pets and pregnant wife who was about to give birth any day.

(I could also talk more about the outrageous lack of humanity that was shown to celebrities during those fires, but that’s a long tangent.)

We have to stretch our hearts wider and deepen our capacity for empathy.

I can feel horrified by what happened to Ariana Grande and wish her, Cynthia Erivo, Michelle Yeoh, and all of their loved ones nothing but peace (and really good security).

I can feel all of that — while simultaneously being disgusted by my government and looking up food banks to donate money to.

We don’t have to pick one unspeakably horrible thing to amplify and feel bad about at a time. We don’t have to compare.

We can and must feel it all. That’s my mandate to myself.

I want to be as happy for myself as I am for my friends. I want to feel their losses as deeply as I do my own. I want to open my heart to a stranger in need the same way that I would to my loved ones.

It cost me nothing to send well wishes and love to multiple people who are struggling.

It does cost me — and you — something to post casually cruel and deeply unnecessary comments like “can we stop talking about XYZ celebrity and focus on the people who are dying?”

You can point all of your energy and focus towards anything you deem worthy — without criticizing where others put theirs.

You can inspire me to care about the things that you do, without putting down the things that I care about.

Are there moments in life that put many of our issues into (much needed) perspective? Sure.

But that doesn’t mean we shame people (celebrities included) for the things that they’re facing in their lives.

Earlier this year, in therapy, I talked about the anxiety attack I had after finding out Trader Joe’s was out of my brown sugar oat milk creamer.

I cried alone in the kitchen when I found out that Glennon Doyle’s sister, Amanda, had cancer.

I’m sad that that actor from Dawson’s Creek has to sell his memorabilia to pay for cancer treatment.

I will continue sending good energy and love, and light to Ariana Grande.

I really hope that this person who keeps charging at celebrities finds something better to do. I hope that one day, when they (maybe) start healing and really deeply reflect on whatever has caused them to act this way, they change their ways and find redemption.

Not being able to see the suffering you’re causing others is its own kind of suffering. I hope anyone who loves him, who is horrified by his behavior, can find some peace, too. You kind of can’t imagine what it’s like to be associated with (or even related to) someone who has committed a crime — until it happens. I went to a play at the Roundabout called Something Clean, which speaks to that perspective, and I never forgot it.

Anyway. I’m going to wrap this up.

If you walk away from reading this with just one thing on your heart, let it be this:

Dismissing and diminishing someone else’s pain is never a compassionate thing to do.

Having less empathy for a human being based on their privilege is never a compassionate thing to do.

Am I going to personally try to contact a celebrity who m my heart goes out to, and tangibly help them the way I would help a loved one? No. That’s where the para-social part kicks in. I can feel my feelings and want good things for human beings, and also acknowledge that I don’t personally know any of the celebrities I admire.

But the thing is — going out of your way to criticize everyone else’s response to a celebrity’s pain? I think that’s just as para-social, in a different way.

Part of me really wants to end this with “stop being mean on the internet and go touch grass

But instead, I’m just going to put my phone down and pour a glass of poppi soda and heat up some eggplant parm from Costco while I watch the latest episode of the Murdaugh Murders.

RIP to the real-life Maggie Murdaugh and the fictional version played oh so brilliantly by Patricia Arquette. (who also did an amazing job in The Act playing Dee Dee Blanchard. She deserves to live through one of these docuseries. Jeremy Jordan has also had a similar treatment, and I want my man to live.)

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Welcome back to The Nuance Diaries! I write what sensitive, deeply feeling people are thinking but don’t say. AKA the stuff you usually save for the group chat.

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I spent yesterday, November 4th 2025, desperately trying to keep my anxiety at bay.

I turned the oven on and forgot to put my dinner in. On the subway, I very nearly yelled out, “We all voted right? For Mamdani?!”

I posted a lot on Threads. Here are some highlights.

I phone-banked until the last possible second - when the Zohran for NYC campaign was told we had to shut down because they spent every last dollar that they were allowed to spend on this campaign. When those tireless volunteers and staff members found a (legal) way to keep going, I got back on the phone again.

Through it all, I kept having flashbacks to November 2016 and 2024 — the worst presedential election nights I hope to ever experience in my lifetime.

I was a senior at Vassar College on election night in 2016. I checked the polls before leaving for a rehearsal for a Midsummer Night’s Dream; Trump had just taken one of his first red states. I was shocked that any state would elect this man — even a red state. When I expressed my confusion, doubt, and unease to one of my best friends and housemates, she told me that I had nothing to worry about. It was so early. He was bound to win some of the red states. Everything was going to be fine. I had no reason to panic.

Hours later, we huddled together with classmates in the dining hall and watched the final results come in. That same friend showed me a video that Obama posted that night. His tone felt grim, and dire. I felt like he was preparing us for the worst possible outcome. I felt like we were on the eve of an impending war.

Weren’t we?

When Trump took Pennsylvania, we were all stunned to silence. The president of the democrats club took the mic to break it to us that there was no possible way that Hilary Clinton could win. Trump was officially the next President of the United States.

I don’t remember the walk back to my house. I don’t remember putting my pajamas on and getting into bed. I do remember hearing the primal scream taking place in the dorm courtyards. I also remember falling asleep to Jane the Virgin.

I woke up the next day to emails about cancelled classes, meetings, and rehearsals. It was like we were all frozen in time — unwilling and unable to walk forward into the inevitable future none of us had predicted. My English teacher, who did not cancel class, sat down and took one look at us before announcing that he simply couldn’t teach today. He told us that the great authors we were reading survived horrible times, and so would we. In that class, we were currently reading books like Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I remember thinking “Oh God, what is about to happen to us? What is going to happen to me? What are we going to do?”

Hours later, I bumped into that same best friend and housemate in our kitchen at 3AM. I took one look at her and started crying. We held eachother. I remember wailing, “I can’t cry for the next four years!”

Up until that point, I naively thought that all the bad times were in the history books behind us. I thought that the arc of change was bending in the right direction. I thought we could only go up after eight years of having Obama in office.

Wrong.

We will leave mediocrity in our past. No longer will we have to open a history book for proof that Democrats can dare to be great…This new age will be one of relentless improvement. We will hire thousands more teachers. We will cut waste from a bloated bureaucracy. We will work tirelessly to make lights shine again in the hallways of NYCHA developments where they have long flickered.

Mayor Mamdani

I can’t decide if 2016 was worst than 2024.

In 2016, I was certain that a Trump presidency could never happen. In ‘24, I was certain that no one would ever opt into yet another era of tragedy and doom, to put it lightly.

Unlike in 2016, I did not stay awake to watch the results roll in. After seeing how long it took to count all the ballots in 2020, I figured it was futile to wait up and see. I said a prayer to whichever Gods are out there, and went to sleep on the couch in my seaside San Diego apartment.

When I woke up and checked instagram on autopilot, I was met with a villainous photo of Trump and a caption that read something like “Trump storms back.”

A living nightmare.

Against my body’s pleas, I somehow made it out the door to a morning workout that I had previously committed to with a new friend. Working out before sunrise is also my version of a nightmare.

On the drive there, I rambled on about my disappointment in America and what this country is becoming. I said something about how America hates Black women. My friend replied, “I don’t necessarily think Trump being president means that America hates black women.”

Really?

In true abject shock, I delivered a two minute rant on the recent murder of Sonya Massey (who my new friend had never heard of) and what it means that a Black woman can be shot to death in her own kitchen after calling for help, and that another Black woman (me) has to read about that murder while making pasta in her respective kitchen.

And that’s how I ended up comforting a white woman about racism in America, no less than an hour after finding out about Trump’s 2nd term. I couldn’t believe this situation I found myself in. I could’ve let her sit with her feelings and cry it out — but she was in the drivers seat. I didn’t want to get into a car accident because she couldn’t see the road. Dying in San Diego the morning after Trump was elected for a second time is not how I was meant to die.

Safety and justice will go hand in hand as we work with police officers to reduce crime and create a Department of Community Safety that tackles the mental health crisis and homelessness crises head-on. Excellence will become the expectation across government, not the exception.

Mayor Mamdani

We ran. We did cardio circuits. Everyone in the class mostly acted like it was just another day. Another white woman told me that the first Trump presidency “wasn’t so bad” and that she knew she wouldn’t be too affected this time either. She told me she was mostly concerned for the environment.

I felt like I was in a post-apocalyptic universe. I felt invisible.

I came home and thankfully had therapy already booked. I think I drank tequila directly after my session.

My Canadian neighbor came over to help me take an updated passport photo so that I could get my passport renewed immediately - for obvious reasons. (You’re the best, J.)

At some point that afternoon, I saw a post online that rewired my brain; what I now call, “the plantation texts.”

Black women were receiving texts about being selected for a shift to pick cotton. Random numbers texted them that they would be picked up at their homes in a white van at 5AM. To this day, there are so many people who have no idea that this even happened; these inexplicably vile, racist, threatening texts that rewired my brain.

Even though I logically knew these texts were nothing more than a scare tactic - I still didn’t leave my house for a full week. And when I finally did, I couldn’t look at people the same way anymore. Everywhere I turned, I thought “Was it you? Did you do this? Did you vote for him? Have you sent us back into the dark ages? Did you really think that this criminal was a better choice than an overqualified Black woman? Is that how lowly you think of Vice President Harris? Of Black Women? Of me? Is this what you think of me?”

Is this what America thinks of women like me?

I swiftly made the choice to move back to New York. It felt like the world was ending. And if the world is ending, I’m going to be in New York.

A couple of my friends objected to my impulsive decision. “Isn’…

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I wrote this song before and after one of the worst anxiety attacks of my life. The first verse or so came to me on the F train, coming home from Gowanus, Brooklyn. And then the rest came to me very quickly, almost 24 hours later, when I was back in my body.

It was the first time that I had really, really intense physical anxiety that wasn’t accompanied by depression. They are the best of friends, depression and anxiety. I’m not used to seeing one without the other. It was the first time in my life that I was this anxious about good things.

I wrote out a whole essay about the inspiration behind this song and what was going on while I wrote it — and then I deleted it. I feel like I just want to let it speak for itself first.

You’re also, as always, welcome to read the lyrics as a poem first, or instead.

Who I had to be to be with you is who I am no longer

We had some good times but now it’s time I start running further

You and I, we’re standing still

The water’s fine and even still

The waves are calling, so I won’t be calling you anymore

Dylan Mulvaney didn’t change her name when she transitioned — but her one-woman show inspired me to change mine.

The name of my newsletter, that is.

Dylan briefly discusses nuance at the end of her iconic one-woman show, The Least Problematic Woman in the World. Something about hearing that word, in the context she presented it in felt like a lightbulb moment.

I was like, ‘Oh, right, nuance. This very nuanced world we’re living in.”

I really can’t tell you how I jumped from that thought to, “I should change the name of my newsletter.”

I hadn’t even been thinking about changing the name until I heard Dylan Mulvaney say ‘nuance.’

Just like I never thought about living in San Diego until I visited. (Ironically, where Dylan once lived, too.)

But like so many things in my life, the rebrand and rapid recent growth of this newsletter happened slowly and then all at once.

Back in June, I sat down to write what I called the “Wild Cozy Free 2025 State of the Union” to reflect on my two years here at Substack, and what ‘wild cozy free’ means to me now.

I first claimed my Substack URL on May 8, 2023, and published my welcome post nine days later on May 17th.

The name Wild Cozy Free came to me late one night. I had recently found out that a potential book project wasn’t going to happen the way I thought it would. I had this whole collection of non-fiction essays, and nowhere to put them, as a playwright who had formerly only published fictional dramas.

I remembered how Glennon Doyle’s writing career started, with her blog, The Momastery.

“I’d tell my shiny, happy representative self to be quiet. And I just allowed my wild, original, honest, truth self forward.

I started a blog, and it turned out lots of people needed to hear the truth like they needed air. Over time, as I wrote to you each morning, you became my meeting, my friends, the community I’d end up doing life with. Since those early days, a whole lot has changed for me… those early writings have turned into three books, the last of which was Untamed. I watched from my home this past year in awe as Untamed became one of the biggest books of 2020 and 21.

And because of that, things have gotten bigger and wider and fancier. And the bigger and the wider and the fancier it all gets, the more I miss those early days. So here we are, back to the beginning, just you and me in the early morning in our coffee and the truth. Full circle makes me very happy.

From We Can Do Hard Things: 1. ANXIETY: Is it just love holding its breath?, May 11, 2021

Looking back at my very first Substack post, it’s now easy to see how my own words echoed Glennon’s —

The day I started toying with the idea of writing a personal blog, words started pouring out of me faster than ever before. It was like my mind got the message that I could finally say whatever I wanted to, without worrying about the correct format.

I’m good at brainstorming and free writing, but all of my writing typically falls into one category: play, novel, essay, song, or maybe a poem. The only works I’ve ever widely shared are plays. I hope to share the novels one day, once I finish them. The song lyrics and poems are typically just for me or close friends. The unfiltered stuff.

The most unfiltered stuff is tucked away in my notes app. The writing that I know probably won’t ever make it into a future play, novel, essay, song, or poem. The writing that I won’t assign to a character, or fit into a dramatic arc. The thoughts I jot down when I’m waiting for the train. The things that pop into my head when I’m listening to a podcast or a moody playlist on one of my hot girl walks. The anxieties that keep me up when all I want to do is sleep.

This blog will be a home for those thoughts.

Two years later, this blog is still a home for those thoughts. Reading this Substack is very much like taking a peek inside my notes app, because my notes app is where most, if not all, of the essays start out.

The iPhone Notes app is pretty much my virtual diary.

Diary. Like The Nuance Diaries.

Of course, when I started this blog, I did have to wrestle with my inner critic’s protests. Who would want to listen to us?

I’m well aware that the concept of women unmasking their real, authentic selves isn’t original (even though it’s still relatively quite new.) That’s a good thing, a really good thing; that so many of us are finally taking up space and showing up as our full selves.

Instead of shutting myself down and convincing myself that I have nothing new to contribute to that conversation, I’m going to defy my inner critic and take up some space of my own.

I’m going to slowly strip myself of shame. I’m going to let my wild, cozy, free self roam, say what she wants to say, and see where that takes us. I hope you’ll join me, and bring your wild, cozy, free self along for the ride.

I’m not here to teach you anything new about yourself, or the world for that matter. I’m just here to share the thoughts that I usually keep to myself* about myself, and the world around me. An imperfect offering of validation and truth.

This description still rings true. This newsletter is still the place I share the thoughts that I usually keep to myself about myself and the world around me.

While writing my Wild Cozy Free 2025 State of the Union a few months ago, I came up with this,

Wild Cozy Free is how it feels to show up as my real, authentic, unfiltered self with my mess on full display.

It’s like being in the WILD. Uncharted territory. No one has gone where I’m going. No one is going to experience life the way that I do. I’ve searched for blueprints for so long on how to live. I’ve looked for the right answers and wisdom. But the only right wisdom is mine. So here I am making my way with no map, trekking through the wild. Bushwhacking, if you will.

There’s something COZY about coming home to who I am, and nesting there. When I feel really connected to myself, I often take this breath of release like “oh here I am”, like when you’re snuggling up on a cozy sofa.

I just got this image in my head of a family learning to take care of a newborn. And I imagine that a lot of new parents might call those first few months both wild and cozy. One minute you’re like “wow, how do I keep this human alive? I can’t do this. ” and the next minute you’re looking at this perfect soft angel swaddled up on your chest with the perfect baby smell and you’re so content and calm in the chaos.

(And no, I do not have kids yet, but I really look forward to being a mom one day. And that being said, I know that I have no idea what the reality of raising a child is like, and the last thing I want to do is oversimplify the complexity of being a new parent/caregiver.)

Pouring my heart out across the page, and letting people get to know the real me as I peel back more and more layers, is really FREEING. It’s the feeling of being seen and accepted without pretenses or performance, or expectation. I am free to be myself and evolve.

Wild Cozy Free is a feeling, an identity, a state of mind, and something I’m in constant pursuit of. It’s like my personal brand of authenticity.

Looking back, it’s very possible that I was subconsciously starting to realize that Wild Cozy Free felt like more of a vibe than a newsletter name.

It was a great newsletter name for the last two years. But this blog is no longer about just me and how I move through the world. It’s about what I see and how I experience the world, too.

Enter, The Nuance Diaries.

Something just clicked when Dylan Mulvaney said that word, ‘nuance’, in one of the final moments of her gorgeous, singular, whirlwind one-woman show, The Least Problematic Woman in the World. I HIGHLY implore you to catch this weekend before it closes Sunday, if you’re here in New York!

My mind just couldn’t let go of that word, nuance, and what it means to have nuance and be nuanced.

At first, the phrase ‘the nuance report’ popped into my head — but the word ‘report’ felt a little too newscaster for me personally.

The word ‘diary’ is what followed. Ma…

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If you’re new here, welcome! Here inside the nuance diaries (formerly Wild Cozy Free), I write the things that highly observant, deeply feeling people are thinking, but rarely say aloud. Writing is how I attempt to make sense of this sharp, messy, imperfect, wild world.

Paid subscribers ($7/month) get at least one essay each week + access to my archive of 140+ posts and podcasts + other fun perks, while free subscribers get an occasional free essay (like today’s!) and previews of paid ones (like this.)

You can learn more about me here, and the vibe of my Substack here.

Also, check out my most-read piece ever, here.

And if you’re not new here, stay tuned for an update/explanation of the name change soon — I’m excited about it!

I have always loved the ocean. I use metaphors with the ocean a lot, in my writing and in my day-to-day life.

I’ve been sitting on a different song with ocean imagery for a few weeks (maybe over a month), and yet somehow, this song, which I wrote in like 30 minutes, is what I’m going to share first.

It was inspired by something from a notes section (see below), which I wrote down in mid-September*. It feels very different than anything I’ve ever written, and yet it could be a sister of Coffee and Dresses.

The recording is also exactly 2:22, which is my Angel number. And the last time I edited the original note with the inspiration for this song was on September 22nd. So I’m feeling VERY good about this, even if it’s a first draft.

The Note:

Can you handle the depths of my soul? Can you swim in my waters?

It can be rough out here in these waters.

But I will not leave the ocean for you. I will not leave the sea for anyone

I will not leave myself for anyone. I choose me, and the salt air every time.

There is nothing wrong with preferring the shore. But it is simply not where I live.

I have hope that I will find someone to brave the waves with me.

And The Lyrics (recording with melody above)

Subscribe to The Nuance Diaries for $7/month to unlock the rest of this post!

If you’re new here, welcome! Here inside the nuance diaries (formerly Wild Cozy Free), I write the things that highly observant, deeply feeling people are thinking, but rarely say aloud. Writing is how I attempt to make sense of this sharp, messy, imperfect, wild world.

Paid subscribers ($7/month) get at least one essay each week + access to my archive of 140+ posts and podcasts + other fun perks, while free subscribers get an occasional free essay (like today’s!) and previews of paid ones (like this.)

You can learn more about me here, and the vibe of my Substack here.

Also, check out last week’s piece, which is now my most-read EVER!

And if you’re not new here, stay tuned for an update/explanation of the name change soon — I’m excited about it!

I listened to The Life of A Show Girl in its entirety on an early morning train ride to a different borough this morning. I will probably listen to it again when I venture to yet another borough later today. And then when I get home, I will dance around my house and dance to The Fate Of Ophelia choreography while I make dinner, before collapsing into bed.

But for now, I sit here powered by caffeine and the 50-degree weather that finally made it possible for me to wear a turtleneck. And since I can’t blast The Life of A Showgirl in public without raising a few eyebrows, I thought I’d write to you about the Wicked parallels I’ve found in what I am declaring a no-skip album.

THERE ARE WICKED FOR GOOD SPOILERS AHEAD. Proceed at your own risk!

That being said, if you are a Swiftie who isn’t into theater, or a theater kid that doesn’t love Taylor — I think there’s something for both sides of the Venn Diagram here. And if you fall in the middle like me…well you’re in for a treat.

And if you’re definitively not in either of those camps, here are a few other reading suggestions for you.

(That last one is now my most read ever.)

Okay! Last chance to turn back, here come the Wicked spoilers! Maya and Craig, if you are still reading, stop reading.

THE FATE OF OPHELIA

So deeply Elphaba and Fiyero coded. From ‘I heard you calling on the megaphone’ to ‘eldest daughter of a nobleman.’ (If Elphaba’s father Frexspar Thropp has no haters, I am dead.)

There’s also the shared fate between Ophelia and Elphaba — dying due to being submerged in water (drowning and melting, respectively).

In Wicked Act II, Fiyero literally becomes the Captain of the Wizard’s Guard just so he can “hone his powers” and help find Elphaba. He is literally calling for her on the megaphone because he literally wants to see her all alone and save her from being persecuted.

All that time I sat alone in my tower, you were just honing your powers.

And if you’d never come for me, I might’ve drowned in the melancholy

No longer drowning and deceived, all because you came for me

Fiyero is by no means a Disney prince rescuing Elphaba from a tower (neither is Taylor.) He is very instrumental in helping her flee from the Wizard’s Guard, and eventually from Oz altogether.

And while Elphaba does keep herself physically safe while in exile, Fiyero will save her heart, and wake her up to all kinds of feelings she’s never felt, when they hook up in that forest (so much more on that to come).

It’s ‘bout to be the sleepless night, you’ve been dreaming of…

Also, a notable mention for don’t care where the hell you’ve been, ‘cause now you’re mine, because the fact that Fiyero “chose” Glinda is kind of a non-issue after Fiyero saves Elphaba in Part 2. This line also evokes the jab Elphaba will throw at Glinda during their epic fight in Part 2, which goes something like, “He never loved you, he loves me.”

Speaking of Glinda…

ELIZABETH TAYLOR

Oftentimes, it doesn’t feel so glamorous to be me.

This is pretty much Glinda’s thesis in Wicked for Good. As we saw a glimpse of in the beginning of Wicked Part, Glinda is smiling through the pain. She is the girl in the bubble ‘who has everything and nothing at once.’

I’m not sure if it’s an equal comparison, but Glinda’s big song, Thank Goodness, is kind of her Defying Gravity moment, where she steps into some big truths that have similar themes to Elizabeth Taylor.

Everyone thinks Glinda’s life is amazing. She has everything she ever wanted. Except for the fact that her man is pining after her best friend, who is a fugitive being persecuted by all of Oz.

If you ever leave me high and dry, I’d cry my eyes violet Elizabeth Taylor, tell me for real, do you think it’s forever?

Been number one, but I never had two, and I can’t have fun if I can’t have you.

Glinda’s life is quite different when she steps out of that bubble, just like a showgirl’s life is different when she steps offstage. She “would trade the Cartier for someone to trust.”

Speaking of girls who just want someone to trust…

OPALITE

So this is how I think Nessa feels about Boq. I think it works if you picture this song being sung in a more delusional and less sincere way than Taylor does. Picture King George from Hamilton singing Opalite in the same tone that he sings ‘You’ll Be Back.’

You were in it for real, she was in her phone, and you were just a pose

These lyrics are very funny when you picture Nessa singing them about Boq because they foreshadow his transformation into the Tin Man (‘you were just a pose.’) If you go back and watch the first movie, you can also see a very subtle yet distinct nod to the Tin Man in Boq’s body language/rigid stance when he first meets Glinda on the first day at Shiz.

Nessa also totally sees Glinda as the girl who was ‘in her phone’, not paying any attention to Boq.

This is just a storm inside a teacup, but shelter here with me, my love

Thunder like a drum, this life will beat you up, up, up, up

This is just a temporary speed bump, but failure brings you freedom

And I can bring you love

I can picture Nessa singing the bridge of Opalite to herself in Act II from the governor’s mansion where she has essentially imprisoned Boq. She’s like ‘this is fine! Everything is fine! This is a temporary speed bump and he will eventually see how much I love him and forget about Glinda and also forgive me for making him my servant and then we’ll be so happy!'“

This life will beat you up is also quite the nod to Nessa’s untimely demise when Dorothy drops on the scene (pun intended.)

Oh, and speaking of untimely demises…

FATHER FIGURE

The only person I hate more than Frexspar Thropp is the Wizard.

Like I said, if Elphaba’s father(s) have no enemies, I am dead.

When I found you, you were young, wayward, lost in the cold.

So the obvious father figure of Wicked would be The Wizard, but I also think it’s interesting to listen to this song through the lens of Madame Morrible and Elphaba’s relationship.

Morrible literally takes Elphaba in. She is the first to see Elphaba’s potential, and encourage her, and ‘teach’ her.

This love is pure profit, just step into my office

Although we don’t have details on how The Wizard and Madame Morrible met, I’m sure that they had similar beginnings too, when The Wizard teamed up with her.

They want to see you rise, they don’t want you to reign

This reminds me of one specific moment in Sentimental Man when The Wizard sings, “so Elphaba I’d like to raise you high.” It’s a brilliant line, musically, because when he sings the word ‘high’, his voice actually drops down low — foreshadowing the fact that he does not want her to reign or really rise for that matter.

All I ask for is your loyalty, my dear protege.

The cost of his loyalty is steep, and the reward isn’t always exactly as it seems. Elphaba can have the honor and prestige she’s fantasized about as long as she does exactly what The Wizard says and helps him suppress the animals (which she is not at all on board with.)

Your thoughtless ambition sparked the ignition on foolish decisions which led to misguided visions that to fulfill your dreams you had to get rid of me

I protect the family.

As hurt as Elphaba is by Morrible and The Wizard’s swift betrayal and demonization, she is also empowered, embolde…

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People are often taken aback when I talk about my time at The Mountain School. I don’t really blame them; if I met me, I would probably be surprised that I’d spent four months on a farm in Vermont when I was 16, too.

But I did. And I loved it.

I loved seeing the stars at night. I loved the community that my semester formed. I even grew to love the animals that horrified me at first. (I still don’t get too close to cows, goats, or chickens. I give them their space - we respect each other.)

I found out somewhat quickly that I have a knack for bushwhacking, which the dictionary defines as “cutting or pushing one's way through vegetation or across rough country, not following an established trail.”*

Put more simply, bushwhacking is when you grab a stick and use that stick to make a path for yourself in the woods.

This song has absolutely nothing to do with the essay, but it was in my head the whole time that I was writing it, and Frozen II is profoundly underrated.

Bushwhacking made me feel powerful. In a diary entry written during my time at The Mountain School, I compared bushwhacking to walking down the streets of Manhattan with a bunch of shopping bags, trying to make it through a sea of tourists on 5th Avenue. I stand by that metaphor. It truly fits the quintessential “city girl gone country” image that I had going for me at The Mountain School.

One of our first assessments during my semester involved identifying the trees we’d been studying in environmental science. Nature was quite literally our classroom. For our quiz, my small class of 10 or so walked outside the schoolhouse building with paper and pen and were instructed to write down the names of the trees that our teacher pointed at.

I don’t remember what grade I got on that quiz. Probably a B- honestly. The only tree species I remember, and can still identify today, is a paper birch. The trunk of the tree looks kind of like it’s wrapped in rough, jagged sheets of white paper that you could peel off easily.

What I do remember is the enormity and sturdiness of all those trees. I probably got distracted during the quiz because I was daydreaming and feeling philosophical about it all.

I surprisingly created a lot of nature metaphors and imagery during sessions with my life coach a few years ago. One of the metaphors we frequently came back to was the cave where I picture my "wisest self." I used to picture her hiding away from the rest of the world in a cave.

I once told my former coach that I pictured that cave as the same one where Katniss nourished Peeta to health in the Hunger Games. I pictured a similar cave while reading Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. (The one where Achilles and Patroclus lived, when they were training with Chiron.)

(Both excellent books. I feel like Katniss and Achilles would be at each other’s throats, but Peeta and Patroclus would get along just fine.)

There’s a coziness and warmth about my cave, even though it’s nestled in the heart of the wilderness.

The wilderness in my metaphor represents the outside world. The cave is where my real self took shelter while I reconciled my outer world with my inner world. A reconciliation that was only possible (and necessary) after realizing how much pretending I had been doing in everyday life.

Since creating that cave metaphor, I have ventured out more and more to explore the ‘wilderness.’ I have started pretending less. And I actively think about how to exist out here in the wild, and show up as my real, ‘wisest’ self that I picture in that cave, without a) actually retreating back into that cave or b) staying in the wild and pretending.

More plainly, I spend a lot of time thinking about how I can be myself out in the world, instead of just performing all day and becoming myself again once I’m cozy on the couch again.

How can we show up as our real selves in a world where we constantly feel like we have to armor up in more ways than one? How can we show up as ourselves in a world that often explicitly demands a version of us that is not who we actually are? Does ‘being yourself’ even matter?

Inside this extended metaphor I’ve built, where I live in this cave and venture out into the wild — I picture myself bushwhacking to create new paths.

My coach and I used to talk about how to know when you’re heading in the right direction when there is no exact path to follow. What does it feel like when you know you’re going the ‘right’ way, and making the ‘right’ choices? How do you tap into that intuition? How do you know what to do?

I picture myself walking from tree to tree.

I think about the people I meet along the journey, the places I encounter, and the opportunities that I come across as trees.

Some are long-lasting - sturdy and rooted, and strong.

Some are temporary - flimsy and susceptible to breaking with the right gust of wind in a storm.

Some trees will be swiftly uprooted - like the one I studied for my final science project at The Mountain School. At first, I thought it must have been an old tree. But eventually, I realized with the help of my teacher that it had to have been a somewhat young tree, for all the roots to have come up in the way that they did.

Glennon Doyle introduced the idea of touch trees to me when I read Untamed.

A Touch Tree is one recognizable, strong, large tree that becomes the lost one’s home base. She can adventure out into the woods as long as she returns to her Touch Tree — again and again. This perpetual returning will keep her from getting too far gone….Now, when I feel lost, I remember that I am not the woods. I am my own tree. So I return to myself and reinhabit myself.

-Glennon Doyle, Untamed

I am not the woods. I am my own tree. I do believe that.

BUT ALSO for the purpose of my metaphor (my wisest self being out in the woods after resting in her cave), I think that we can have multiple touch trees?

People, places, and things that make us feel like ourselves and help us feel connected to our real selves as we venture through this wild world.

The texture of these trees feels like home. They are new and yet so familiar.

Like sitting down for coffee with a new friend, and suddenly feeling like you’ve known them all your life.

Or reading a book that makes you feel instantly seen.

Or listening to a podcast that somehow makes you feel like you’re at an intimate dinner party with your closest friends.

When I reach those trees, I want to lean on them, relish in their sturdiness, and stay awhile.

I want to stop being worried about when I’ll ever find a tree like this again. I don’t want to rush off to the next tree in search of something greater or worry that I’m not moving fast enough on my journey.

I want to pay attention to how present I feel in my body when I’m walking through the forest. If I feel disconnected from myself physically, that is usually a pretty good indicator that I am in the wrong neck of the woods.

Sometimes it’s tempting to stay in places where we don’t feel like ourselves. It’s easy to shove down the discomfort in the moment. I get it. I did that for many moments and many years.

But here’s the thing. When I’m in the right neck of the woods, I feel grounded, present, and free. I feel peace unlike I’ve ever known, and all I want to do is stop and enjoy that feeling and be right where I am with myself and those trees.

For even the sturdiest trees won’t stand forever. If life has taught me anything, it’s taught me that.

So I myself am going to spend my wild, precious life finding the trees that feel like home, instead of staying in the wrong neck of the woods for fear that I may never find my touch trees.

The basic definition of bushwhacking is simply to make one’s way in the woods.

Nature provides us with such a powerful example of what it’s like to make your way in uncharted territory, at whatever pace is necessary.

Nature also provides us with many examples of how necessary it is to be patient.

We can’t rush the flowers in the winter. We can’t rush the sun in the spring.

We don’t rush the leave…

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