Here we are again. April 15, 2026. My taxes are due. Your taxes are due. Did you pay them?

I didn’t. Now don’t go getting any ideas about how brave and rebellious I am. Or how stupid. Because to the former, I’m brave and rebellious in my best imagined version of myself. And the latter? No, I’m not stupid. Not at all stupid. I’m just really, really pissed.

For the last 3 or 4 years, I’ve gotten extensions and filed my tax return in October. One reason? I’m a designer, not a bookkeeper. I suck at money.

My accountant rolls his eyes each year as I miss the deadline to send him my profit and loss in time for an April 15^th filing date. In October 2024, I promised him I’d file 2024 on time in 2025.

But that promise was made before the results of the last election.

I was going to turn over a new leaf and be a citizen proudly supporting the good works that Kamala talked about during her spirited campaign. I was going to be proud of being an American again. I was going to be part of the tidal change I longed to see. But I didn’t get to do that, because the worst thing possible happened. FOR A SECOND TIME.

The first time? That was just a dry run.

Now, the worst is happening every single day. I want NO PART OF IT.

I wrote a story in my head.

Here it is: Every American refuses to pay federal taxes, either escrowing the money or sending more to the states we reside in.

They want to scare us with government shutdowns? No. I want to scare them with a massive shutdown created by the citizens that elected the charlatans who need to be reminded that they work for us.

They are civil servants. Not civil oligarchs.

Want to paralyze the military? Stop paying federal taxes. Hold them hostage for a change.

Bring it all to a halt. Overwhelm this travesty of a “government” with so much civil disobedience they won’t know what hit them. They know money talks. That’s a lesson we simple folk need to learn more about.

Boycotts? Meh. Boycott Amazon, Meta, Spotify, Paramount. Small potatoes. Won’t make a dent.

But stop paying taxes? That would create a calamity so enormous that it’s beyond our ability to comprehend the level of gridlock it would cause.

So yes, that’s my fantasy.

Will it happen? Doubt it. Will I do it? Doubt it even more. I’ll file, but I most likely won’t owe a cent. Oh, wait, I mean a nickel. Because there are no more pennies, anymore.

I won’t owe a cent because I’m downwardly mobile. I’m a sole proprietor of a tiny business that barely makes a profit at all. I can pay my bills. My expenses have almost outpaced my income for years. And you know what? I kinda like it like that. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I am stupid.

20 years ago, I met a woman who worked as a maid to keep herself fed, clothed, and housed. She was an educated, spirited tax resistor, mostly because of her anti-war, anti-military beliefs. She only worked for cash. She lived under the radar. Hard to do these days. I was floored to meet someone that brave. I talk a big game, but my imagination is where most of my fights happen and most of my victories, too. I couldn’t imagine doing what she did. Until now.

My argument isn’t rooted in any real knowledge of numbers, economics, or political theory. It’s rooted in anger. It’s my rant. It’s fueled by emotion and common sense. It’s fed by the disbelief that we’re being managed by criminals, rapists, morons, and cowards. And we pay our taxes?

I want no part of this bullshit.

The warmongering, the lack of accountability toward United States citizens of every stripe: the destitute, unhoused, the mentally ill, the immigrants fighting for their lives. The people who work three different jobs and still can’t get by. The middle-class, if it still exists at all, and yes, even those with money.

Can you imagine paying into a machine that is systematically destroying the lives of the people who keep this nation going? Yes. Us. We keep it going. What are we getting in return? More debt. Less medical care. Homelessness.

Lies. Reductions in social services. We have more food insecurity, housing shortages, insurance fraud and plunder, failing infrastructure. Our bodily autonomy is being hijacked. Freedom of speech is being dismantled. All of these things are being taken from us and we’re footing the bill.

We’re being stolen from every single day by a monster who’s building ballrooms and golden arches. A monster who’s selling citizenship to the highest bidder. A rapist who’s invading other countries illegally, killing innocents, and pillaging natural resources of his own accord, while breaking one law after another, and not being held to account.

We’re bankrolling for our own demise. I don’t want to pay for that. Do you?

I’m careful with the little I have and I have a great life. I have a roof over my head that I’ve worked hard to keep and I wouldn’t have this home if my dad hadn’t left me money when he died. I wouldn’t have my simple 1000 square foot ranch if it weren’t for him. My sweet home needs repairs and upkeep. But I can’t afford that. Can you? I don’t need a lot to live a satisfied life that’s filled with gratitude.

I’ve never understood greed, and that’s what this country is built on. It’s not built on kindness; it never was. It grew from a desire to conquer, to overwhelm, to take what didn’t belong to us. That’s America.

Why can’t we be better? Take care of one another? Provide for our basic needs?

I’ve never understood borders. I’ve never understood men who think they have a right to whatever they desire. Conquest. Money. Women. Real estate. It’s never enough. The greed is bottomless. But guess what? The earth is finite. We are finite. We’re burning it down, day after day. What an ungrateful bunch of wretches we can be.

As Americans, we have endless crimes to apologize for. We have so much that needs fixing.

I want to live in a country that cares. I want to live in a country where dysfunctional patriarchy (is there any other kind?) has been dismantled. It’s the cancer, the cause of all our woes.

I want to take care of others, respect differences, and live my life coming from a place of kindness and generosity. There’s plenty to go around. The problem is distribution. So pay into this? I prefer not. Will I have to? I’ll know more in October.

I believe the only way to fix this is to burn it down and start over. If we’re lucky enough to get another chance.

I became more of an activist in the last 10 years, because of you know who. Since the 11/2024 election, my commitment has increased. The way I’ve chosen to express that activism is by building strong community. My activism is real at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!, the online feminist story slam I created in November 2025.

This theme this month is, no surprise, Death & Taxes. Ten feminist storytellers on one virtual stage. Come listen. Come watch. Come fight. Come tell your stories.

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I re-launched the Style YOUR Stack website and there’s a great new post about the magic of .gifs in Substackland. Come see what I designed!

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A zissen Pesach! It means “a sweet Passover” to all of you who celebrate, and to all of those who don’t, happy whatever you celebrate! xo

I’m 21, and Dad and I are headed to Florida. It’s almost Pesach1, and we’re going to Nanny and Poppa’s two seders. We fly down from New York, an easy flight, it takes a couple of hours at most.

Poppa is waiting for us at the gate. It’s 1982, almost 20 years before 9/11 and the intense security at airports. A time when loved ones, or not such loved ones, could escort and pick up a traveler in person, and not have to hover near baggage claim, or circle around and around in cars waiting for their people to emerge. We deplane and he’s standing there, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth––damp from chewing––his still mostly brown hair neatly combed back, a dab of Vitalis helps hold it in place. It’s not as thick as it used to be.

We get into the latest model of his Cadillac Seville. He’s never driven a different make. A true-blue Caddy guy, he swaps them out every couple of years for a fresh one. He worked hard his whole life, and sacrificed more than I’ll ever know, but he treats himself to this one luxury. The car makes the man. It’s as clean as if he’d just driven it home from the showroom that day, but stale cigar smoke clings to us, a pine tree-shaped air freshener dangling from his rearview mirror. The AC is blasting, and I wish I had a sweatshirt. I’m on the skinny side these days and I chill easily. We crawl through the airport traffic to get to the highway. The Jewish population of New York is descending on the Sunshine State in droves. His driving isn’t as good as it used to be. We coast onto the shoulder several times. He’s not as sharp as he once was. I catch my breath a little, but quietly. I don’t want him to know I’m concerned, no, terrified. I look at my father for confirmation that I’m not overreacting and catch him grimacing, and it seems like he’s trying to stay calm, too. I close my eyes, and hope for the best. There are a lot of old drivers––Methuselah old––on the roads of North Miami Beach.

Arriving at their condo, and walking through the front door, Nanny hears us and bursts from the kitchen wearing one of her many aprons. She’s prepping the food for the seders. I don’t know anywhere else on the planet that smells as good as her kitchen. The scent of brisket roasting in the oven, the sweet and savory smell of her chopped liver, and so many sauteed onions, the aroma wafts around us. I’ve never had chopped liver better than the liver Nanny makes. We get hugs, and she pinches my cheeks, and my father’s, between her schmaltzy2 fingers until it hurts. “Oy, Sidnele, oy Nancele, you should come more often. We hardly ever see you!” She’s already planning our next visit, armed with guilt projectiles for the future, ignoring that we’re standing right in front of her.

Poppa leaves to drive to downtown Miami to pick up Aunt Paulie. Paulie is Nanny’s oldest sister. He’ll get her and bring her back so she can stay for both seders. She’s never driven and this is easiest for everyone. My grandmother announces that I’ll sleep on the pull-out sofa in the den, sharing the bed with Paulie. I’m horrified at the idea of sleeping in a bed with my very old aunt. She’s about 117––give or take ten years––and her body is bony and frail. Not an ounce of fat on her. Her hair is thin, wisps of white cotton candy, styled carefully in a biweekly wash and set, she can’t afford to do it more often. She can barely see, her cataracts are thick, and her eyes are rheumy. I imagine being in bed with her while she sleeps and farts intermittently, snoring too, her dentures in a glass by the bed. In my mind, I think the worst, she’ll die in the night, I know she will. I’ll wake up next to a corpse. Don’t get me wrong. I love her, she’s sweet and kind, and kind of simple, in the loveliest way. When I tell her things about my life her reply is always the same, “Oh yeeeeeeeeeeeaaahhhhh? No kiddddink?” She stretches out the “yeah” as long as she can, it rises to a crescendo, and punctuates her disbelief or wonder with “No Kiddink!” the “K” at the end, stepped on hard. You’d never mistake that K for a G. Her Yiddish/Polish accent is still thick after more than 60 years of living in America. She talks incessantly about her favorite card game called Kaluki. Every time she sees me, she promises to teach me how to play. It never happens, though. I relish her pleasure as she describes the game. She tells me it’s like Rummy. I have no idea what that means. I think it would be lovely to get so much joy out of something as simple as a card game. I feel that way about Scrabble, but there’s no one to play with in this group, though I can sometimes rustle up a game at the pool. Everyone in my father’s family plays cards or Mah Jongg. Poppa plays pinochle, Nanny plays Canasta and Mah Jongg with “the girls.” I assume Aunt Paulie plays her beloved Kaluki with someone, at least I hope so!

My eyes dart to my father’s, and he sees my terror at the thought of bedding down with Paulie. Thank God he understands. He’s going to be sleeping on one of the sofas in the living room. I say to Nanny, “Uh, no, I want to sleep with Daddy.” She begins to object, and Dad cuts in, “Ma, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” She tucks her chin, and grits her teeth. Well, that didn’t take long. Conflict in the air, we brace ourselves for whatever might come next. Surprisingly, she lets it go.

The first seder is the next day. Nanny says, “Go put your suits on and go down to the pool. You don’t have a pool in New York. There’s Coppertone in the bathroom. You’re too pale.” My grandmother and my father choose baby oil for baking in the sun. They don’t believe in SPF anything.

Nanny and Poppa are proud of the life they’ve made since they retired. It’s everything they ever wanted. They even started playing golf–– just 9 holes––and catch the early bird special for dinner at 3pm after they go to the course. It’s cheaper and they’re on a budget.

We have an early dinner (what else?) and then settle in with Nanny and Poppa for hours of stupid TV, and an assortment of chazerei––that’s Yiddish for trash, she uses it to describe junk food. Raisinets, Goobers, Sno Caps, and marshmallow twists coated in chocolate served rock hard, directly from her freezer. They are all, of course, kosher for Passover. She also has candy fruit slices sprinkled with sugar. But we’re not allowed to eat those until dessert at the first seder. And oh, the macaroons!

The first night sleeping in the living room is torture. Dad and I pull cushions off the couches, creating makeshift beds on the floor, tightly wrapping flat sheets around the plastic-covered cushions to try and hold them together. Sleeping is impossible for both of us. Every time one of us moves, we hear the crackle of the plastic. We lie on the floor in the dark for at least a couple of hours, struggling to sleep, before my father gives up, gets up, lights a cigarette, and turns on a lamp. He goes through his toiletry kit, looking for something, pulling all kinds of skincare products out, mostly Clinique for Men. He’s vain about his looks. A triumphant smile on his face, he finds what he’s looking for, and with great ceremony he pulls out a bottle of Ativan and holds it in the air. We decide to split one to start. The tablets are small and white, and unscored. It feels strange––doing prescription drugs––or any drugs, with my dad, but we’re both desperate. We sneak into the kitchen to get Nanny’s paring knife to do the job, and wash our doses down with shots of seltzer. Poppa loves his old seltzer bottles and buys CO₂ chargers so he can make his own. The guy makes a damn good chocolate egg cream. Eventually we fall asleep.

The day of the first seder is bedlam from the minute we wake up. So many preparations still to get done. Nanny moves through the apartment, her apron tied over her nightgown, armed with her feather duster. Her her face is still slathered in Oil of Olay from the night before. She swats at imagined dust on every surface. She dusts every day before she boils water for her Sanka. The condo is always immaculate. The cushions go back on the couches, the coffee table is whisked out of the way, and comfy chairs get moved to corners of the room. The tables and folding chairs come out, and Dad and I set the table for the main event before we have breakfast. The table stretches from one end of the room to the other, at least 15 feet long, a royal banquet on the horizon. There’ll be 25 guests in attendance plus Elijah3, but he doesn’t take up too much space.

Nanny and Aunt Paulie are in the kitchen working on the meal, but they stop to make Dad matzo brei4, his favorite, not mine. I just have Sanka. Ick. Nanny orders Paulie around, treating her like a child, even though Nanny is the youngest of 3 sisters. Middle sister Molly hasn’t arrived yet to help. I don’t think Paulie even hears her anymore. It’s always been this way. They move around each other, doing a dance they’ve done all their lives. They feed their family. I don’t think it’s a love language for them as much as a maternal calling, or their response to a built-in expectation. It’s just what women do.

My father and I find an empty spot in the day during the hectic preparations and borrow the Caddy. We drive to the nearest drugstore, a Walgreen’s. He forgot to bring his bottle of Maalox, and he’s sure to need a few swigs tonight for his ulcer, after the heavy, brown and beige food orgy. It’s such a relief to get out of the house for a bit. The tension rises as each hour goes by. As we’re walking the aisles of the drugstore, we spot the same display at the same time and look at each other, smiling slightly wicked grins.

He whispers, leaning in close to my ear, “let’s get some,” as if his mother’s in the next aisle, spying on us. He gets a devilish look on his face. I duck my head, and whisper back, “But it’s not pesadik.” That’s the Yiddish word for “kosher for Passover.” I glance around too, my guilt activated, even though I know she’s not there. We make the buy, and return to mayhem.

The relatives arrive, the old and not so old. Sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles, the greats and the not-so-greats. Seated at the head of the table, my grandfather conducts the seder. He takes this job very seriously, and it goes on forever. He reads it all in Hebrew, but I don’t think he knows what any of it means. It’s all rote. At the other head of the table, my Uncle Abe, my grandfather’s oldest brother, holds court, ignoring the rituals his little brother performs every year, year in, year out. Uncle Abe’s end of the table is wildly engaged in a discussion about their latest favorite television shows. Occasionally when it gets too loud, my grandfather looks at Abe with piercing eyes and growls at him to shut up. A quiet lull follows for about 30 seconds, and then the Abe contingency revs up again. I must admit, Abe’s followers are a lot more fun than Max’s. A much livelier group. I’m a little torn about my loyalties. I don’t understand Hebrew, but I don’t want Poppa to feel abandoned. My dad and I are sitting at the center of the table, so we can shift our attention easily.

It bums me out that the women are mostly in the kitchen all night, heating food, plating food, and running food out to the table, serving each person individually. My inner feminist is angry at the men for not helping, angry at the women for putting up with it, and only a little angry at myself for not helping. It’s the principle. I just can’t get up and perpetuate this nonsense, but I’m not brave enough to say something about it. I know I’d be laughed out of the room if I did.

By 11:30, all the guests are gone. Paulie changes into her nightgown and gives me a slightly juicy goodnight kiss after she’s taken her dentures out. She gets into her great big bed that she doesn’t have to share with anyone. My grandparents retire to their bedroom, and it’s suddenly calm and peaceful in North Miami Beach.

Dad and I reconstruct our makeshift beds and sit down, in our pajamas, ready for our next course. We’re both stuffed to the gills, but we can’t pass up the opportunity to be really bad. Do some mischief, break the rules. First, we decide we each get a whole Ativan that night. Then, silent drumroll, I quietly unzip my backpack, and reach inside, gently plucking our purchase out of my bag. It’s one of those years when Passover and Easter fall closely together on the calendar. When we were in the drugstore, we saw a huge display of Cadbury crème eggs and marshmallow Peeps5. They are DEFINITELY NOT kosher for Passover.

We look at each other, smiling, and giggling softly, our shoulders hunched up around our ears. It’s all we can do not to burst out laughing. We’re like little kids about to get away with something really awful. I dole out our contraband very deliberately, almost ceremoniously, as we prepare for our Christian feast. Two eggs for each of us. One for tonight, and one saved for tomorrow, if we can control ourselves. We unpeel the multi-colored pastel foil in unison, slowly, slowly, and lower our heads as if to receive communion. We nibble at the chocolate and savor the moment we get to the creamy sugar yolk. The Angel of Death did not seem to object.

The next night we do it all over again.

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5

I just found out that the inventor and manufacturer of Peeps was a nice Jewish man who died in 2023 at the ripe old age of 98. He did lots of mitzvahs (good works) in his life. A real mensch (good person)!

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On April 18, 2026, at 5pm ET, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! is back again, with Death & Taxes! If you haven’t been to one of the story slams, now’s a great time!

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A gift to all of you from me, with love. The thing that’s been taking up most of my days. The stories here are phenomenal. I don’t want you to miss it.

Scroll past this part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t, because this part’s pretty great. Magic happened. Miracles occurred.

Wow. Just wow. This was one of the best story slams I’ve ever participated in.

I’m going to jump right in and I’ll tell you what went wrong, first. Then, I’ll move on to all the things that went so very right. Even the thing that went wrong turned into something beautiful.

Scroll past this first part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t because this part’s pretty great. But you do you!

The thing that went wrong? I forgot to hit record. Really. Really and truly. Didn’t record it.

When I shut down our Zoom Playhouse for the night, I expected the video to start downloading. But. NOTHING. My heart jumped when I realized that I didn’t have it. Any of it. This magnificent 90 minutes, gone. A reminder that things are indeed impermanent. And it was a whisper in my ear to stay connected to mindfulness.

The funniest part was that when our Zoom Maven, , and I met before anyone got to the room, we made a special note out loud to each other not to forget to push that little button labeled “Record.” Oops.

For me, a miracle occurred. I didn’t go to that horrible place of self-flagellation or calling myself a loser. I didn’t go to a place of blame (though Slamone could have been an easy mark), none of my old stuff came up. I didn’t run to my fridge or pantry to feed the discomfort or shame, because there wasn’t any.

Instead, I jumped into action.

The larger miracle and a perfect example of how women are able to work together to problem-solve, support one another, and get the job done. I witnessed it in real time.

I reached out to every storyteller on Saturday evening, right after the slam to tell them what happened. No one flipped out. Not a diva in the group. And I had a plan.

I asked each of them to meet with me, one on one, to record their stories again. From Saturday at 6pm to Sunday at 8pm, (minus a ten-hour break for dinner, sleep, the Sunday NYT Crossword Puzzle and two cups of coffee instead of my usual single, I worked with each storyteller, gathering their words, treated to a private showing and sent off each recording to my video editor and best pal. Everyone involved stepped up, gracious and willing.

We all came away knowing how special this show was.

Working with each storyteller and putting the show back together with them felt triumphant, similar to the live event we’d just offered to our audience.

Shit happens. How we deal with it is up to us. This time around, we don’t have the video of the show in its entirety.

To me, that’s another selling point for coming to the live show. Or not. But let me tell you, the people who did come were gifted with an experience that will stay with them for a very long time. I’m sure of it. Almost immediately afterward, I saw that a new paid subscriber. A man.

The show was breathtaking. One story after another moved me and gave me goosebumps. At one point, as I hosted, I remarked that I was having simultaneous moments of wanting to scream at the injustices, cry for the pain we as women live with every day, and laugh during the lighter moments that provided balance to the stories told, our lives reflected back to us.

You’ll see. Every story was brilliant.

Don’t miss the next one. We’re doing this thing!

P.S. If you take the time to “like” or comment on the post, please take the extra moment to restack (little spinny icon) this to spread the word to the people who subscribe and follow you. It will help us grow and get the word out to more people who might know we exist. I’m grateful for any boosts you can give.

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P.P.S. As of March 2026, we were granted fiscal sponsorship from the nonprofit arts organization, Fractured Atlas. Because of that, people can now make tax-deductible donations in the U.S., to support the work of Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

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If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, check out the theme calendar, send me a DM and sign up. We want to share our virtual stage with you. And for the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives.

Calendar of Themes

You're Right, I Do Look Tired

Let the Words Fall Out

Come As You Are

The Salty Crone

Jen St. Germain

This Woman's Work

Mel's Messy Love Lab

Wyrd Sister

You Can't Sink THIS Rainbow

American Woman

Living Room

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If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, send me a DM. We’d love to share our virtual stage with you. For the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives.

Calendar of Themes

Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! is an online feminist story slam created and hosted by, me, of The Next Write Thing. The theme for this month’s slam is E.R.A. Now, Dammit!

The show takes place this Saturday, March 21, at 5pm ET on Zoom. Our door opens at 4:45pm, show starts promptly on the hour.

I’ll be hosting our ten very talented storytellers. And, I’ll be telling a story, too. Please join us for a fun 90 minutes, this Saturday.

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Today, I’m a senior citizen. I think it’s hilarious. In Yiddish, I’m an alte kaker. It means old poop. It’s what Katherine Hepburn called Henry Fonda in “On Golden Pond.” They were goyim, they didn’t know the Yiddish. She called him an old poop.

I can’t believe I’m this old because I feel like a kid, but that’s what old people say. I’m beyond happy that I’m alive and sixty-five. It’s not my custom to publish on Sunday, but today’s the day.

On March 8, 1961, at 9:30 or 10:30, in the morning, not sure which one’s right, I emerged, two weeks late. 5 pounds, eleven ounces. 19” long. Apparently, one of my feet was malformed and had to be casted at birth. I don’t know which foot, they both seem fine. Well, the right one has a bunion, but that’s an old lady thing. I earned it.

Almost every year, my mother texts at 12:01am to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. I’ve never told her how sweet I think that is. Please don’t tell her I said that.

Every year she tells me she was in labor for 14 hours as if it was some Guinness World Record. I only asked her once if it was exciting to see me come out. Why did I ask only once? Because she missed that part; she opted for the drugs. My feelings were hurt, though in retrospect, I would have opted for the drugs, too. Never tell her I said that.

Every year, my mother tells me I was born during a huge snowstorm. She told me the storm was a blizzard. She said it was so bad, my father couldn’t make it to the hospital. My mother has a reputation for being the queen of hyperbole (as an aside, it’s possible I may be the princess. It’s a genetic predisposition).

You know what I’m going to say now, right? You don’t? Okay, you’re not going to tell her I said that, either.

There was a blizzard in 1961, it wasn’t March, it was February and yielded 17 inches of snow. It’s documented; I looked it up. Today. On the day I was born, 0.6 of an inch of snow fell, the low was 32º, the high was 41º. It’s documented; I looked it up. It seems hyperbole won the day. But was it hyperbole or was it a lie? Where was my new dad the day I was born?

Hmmmm. Not sure I want to know.

After all these years, it never occurred to me to look it up until I was writing this post. I have to tell you, I’m not a bit surprised. What IS surprising is I’m not upset. I laughed. That’s important. It means that the feelings of anger and resentment I’ve carried around for most of my life about the dysfunctional family I grew up in are falling away.

There are times I think I know too much about the past. There are other times, when I think that the information I do possess has only scratched the surface of all the things I don’t know and will never learn. And today, it doesn’t matter.

The most important thing is that I’m here and I’m happy. My life is the life I always wanted. As a storyteller, a memoir writer, facts are important, but what ARE facts? What I rely on, when telling my stories are my impressions of the life I’ve lived and the memories I hold. My interpretation. That’s all I can ever have.

Facts are for the weather.

When I was a child, someone told me that I was born on a Wednesday. Then they told me that meant I was full of woe. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Wednesday’s child had far to go. I know that one’s for Thursday’s child, but it was true for me, too. I was a sad kid, a sad teenager, and a sad adult, for a very long time.

When I heard that I was born on Wednesday, that was the fact, but I took the other piece of information and made that a fact as well. It was my brand. Sad. That’s how I lived for most of my life, carrying this core wound, this core belief.

Many of you know from reading my previous stories, that I’ve come a long way. I’ve done hard work to dispel that old belief. I fought for my life. And now, my life is mine. It’s mine.

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So today IS the happiest day. It’s a good day. Because I can look at the last couple of years and know for a “fact” how far I’ve come, how much I’ve healed. The life I live now is the one I want. Sad isn’t my go-to, and sometimes I still feel sad. But it doesn’t scare me and it doesn’t linger. I embrace the feeling and then move through it to the next one. There’s more pain in resisting the feelings, than letting them come. Sometimes, I have more than one feeling at the same time. And guess what? Feelings aren’t facts. Nothing is black and white anymore. In 12-step meetings, we speak to that, we celebrate when the black and white thinking goes away. Many say they’re grateful to be living in the gray.

Not me. I live in the rainbow. It’s a spectrum of feelings, and it’s far more entertaining. Life is vivid when you live in a rainbow.

So, I’m not going to hang with you too much longer today (famous last words). It’s my birthday, and I have some work to do before I go hang with my best friend, Jeanne. We celebrate our birthdays together every year. We were born 5 days apart, and a year. I’m the older one.

For a long time, I needed to make a big deal of my big day. It meant expensive dinners out, usually French. But if my birthday didn’t feel special enough; if not enough people got in touch, or sent me cards, or got me great gifts and baked me delicious cakes, I’d get depressed. The let-down was enormous. Not anymore.

This year, instead of spending a big wad of cash, I’m going to her house. I’m bringing my pups. We’re going to have pizza. That’ll be a treat, because I don’t eat it as much as I used to. She bought me seltzer, my favorite flavor. Plain. It’s Jewish that way. Flavored seltzer? I don’t think so. We’ll probably get high and watch a movie. And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. Because that’s what we do best together. And nothing compares to that particular brand of joy.

So, here’s a quick inventory of what I’ve gotten done this past year, because I’m proud of the work I’ve accomplished and the direction I’m heading in. Here’s the list:

• Published an essay inThe Rumpus. It was my first submission ever.

• Got brave enough to submit again, to Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and was rejected! It’s official. I’m a writer.

• I’m going to be published in an anthology of essays about mothers and daughters. It’s a real book I’ll put on my shelf. I’ll be in the company of some stellar writers. You’ll see, in 2027.

• Writing my first memoir.

• Started a GLP-1 and lost a bunch of weight. The weight loss is great, but feeling healthier is the best part for me. I’m loving my still-fat body. If I never lose another pound I don’t care. I’m perfect the way I am. I needed help to get here. Now, I have to get this ass to the gym. That’s the goal for this year.

• I’m staying on the medication, because it takes the food noise away, and my A1C is normal.

• I go to ACA 12-step meetings.

• After 5 years (and quite a few decades) I graduated from therapy. It was time to stop. For now.

• Officially retired from web design. Now I can do more graphic design, the part of the job I love the most.

• Left a client I worked with for fourteen years. She helped me discover my storyteller self and gave me my first web design job. I realized it was time to do for myself what I’ve been doing for others, for years.

• Started Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! an online feminist story slam.

• Applied for fiscal sponsorship through a non-profit arts organization and got it, so now people can support Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! by making donations that are tax-deductible.

• Published a weekly essay for my 2^nd year in a row.

• Realized that continuing to write a weekly essay is more than I can produce right now, so I’m giving myself permission to write one essay a month and treat my Next Write Thing readers to the video of the monthly story slam. Cutting back was a hard decision. But I want to be good to myself and my readers.

• I’m making wonderful new friends and letting go of relationships that don’t serve me.

• Axed Zuckerberg and everything Meta, once and for all. I’m not ready to pull the plug on Bezos. I have to be honest about that.

• Realized that I’m in love. With being single.

• Love who I see when I look in my mirror, and I look at all of me now, not just my face.

• Learned how to make and keep boundaries.

• Have a solid relationship with Grace, my higher power.

• Not afraid of those bullies. You know who I mean. I’ll be damned if I give them the satisfaction. I have a life to live, and lots to do, including fighting the forces of evil, just like Wonder Woman.

• Making a difference.

• I’m forgiving my family. I never thought I’d get to that place.

• My 5-year-old self and my inner teenager are safe and happy.

• My inner loving parent is doing a great job.

Last, but not least:

• I have everything I need and always did. I just had to figure that out.

Thank you to all of you who read my stories, comment, and share. You give me more than you’ll ever know. You blow me away.

Oh, and the thing I love the most about my birthday?

It’s also International Women’s Day. See, I was a feminist from my very first day on the planet and I’ve got the paper to prove it.

xoNan

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There’s a lot to tell you. But first, please take the time (if you haven’t already) to watch and listen to me tell this story. It’s a blessing and a curse. I want to give you the curse of blessings.

This recording was originally intended as a gift to my friend, .

I met Susan, here, on Substack, and she’s an enormous blessing in my life. Yesterday, we spoke of me posting the story, and I said, “Of course, I’ll edit the mentions of you at the beginning and end, and she said I should share it as is.

As most of you know, I’ve been deeply immersed in my new project, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! It’s taking a lot of my time, and I’m in a new kind of heaven. I am firmly planted in my place of bliss, my place of blessings.

When I first came to Substack, my experience as a writer was quite limited. It was comprised of writing 1-3 stories a year. Each story was about 500 words long. That’s all the writing I did, on average. 1500 words a year. And it was only for the story slams I loved to perform in.

But in January 2024, all of it changed drastically, and instead of writing 1500 words a year, I began writing a minimum of 1500-2000 words a week. I’ve been telling you the stories of my life.

Writing on Substack became my first source of bliss.

The gifts that come back to me seem without limit. I’ve made new friends and discovered parts of myself I only had the smallest inkling of. Being on the platform has opened me to possibilities I’d rarely entertained, mostly due to insecurity and fear. I’ve let most of that go, but those feelings pop up now and then. And even then, I’m living the best version of the life I always dreamed of. The life of a creative person. My days are filled with love, laughter, colors galore, and lots of heart. And yes, sometimes my life is hard and scary. But I’m not as scared as I used to be.

I realized the other day–and I’ll write more about this later–that I truly am a storyteller. I almost prefer that label over the label of writer. Because it’s the whole thing for me. It’s the writing AND it’s the telling.

At first, the idea of recording audio was intimidating. But I did it anyway and loved it. The thought that I would ever video myself telling a story was out of the question. I didn’t like looking at my own image. Self-conscious, body dysmorphic, and filled with shame.

Thanks to my recovery work, that’s changed, too. Now, I can’t get enough of sharing myself, performing, and boosting others. I’m watching myself evolve in real time. A lot of you have witnessed the changes in me over the past 2 years. Some of you feel like family to me, and some of you, I’ve yet to meet. I feel so blessed.

So, briefly (I know, I know, I’m rarely brief) I want to tell you that from this point on, and into the near future, I’ll be writing and publishing one essay a month, and I’ll be posting the story slam videos after each show as a thank to you all of you.

The slams are fun and serious and important, especially now, because the slam is feminist-focused at a time when our liberties as women are being taken away and we stand to lose much more.

The slam exists as my form of activism, and my commitment to empowering women’s voices and words, and my love of introducing the people I love to other people I love.

The thing I most love about the Substack platform is the communities we build together.

The sharing of hearts, minds, passion, anger, grief, and beauty that takes place here every day.

It’s another curse of blessings. I’m grateful for each and every one of you.

I’ve come to believe that gratitude is the thing that keeps me alive and thriving. When I lose sight of my gratitude, things have a tendency to fall apart.

We need one another. None of us can do this thing called life alone. Come play with me. Here, on The Next Write Thing, or at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

OR both!

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The next story slam is on Saturday, March 21, at 5pm ET on Zoom. The theme is “E.R.A. Now, Dammit!” Feminism served up for your listening and watching pleasure. And the lineup this time? Amazing. But they’ve all been amazing.

Come see the show. It’s $10/ticket or if you opt in as a paid subscriber, you can come to the live show for free and you get 12 shows for the price of 10.

Please know, that if anyone wants to go to the show, but can’t swing the price, all you have to do is DM me and I’ll comp you in, always. And everything else, the stories and articles and the video of the show are free at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

This month, our lineup is: , , , , , , , , , and .

I’ll be telling one, for sure. I hope that and , will tell theirs, too.

xoNan

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I’m a storyteller. And guess what? You’re one, too. We’re all storytellers.

Storytelling is all I can think about and I’ll be talking about it more often. Some of you know about my project already, some of you might not.

I’m talking about Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! and the work I’ve been doing to create this project in recent months.

I’ve identified this passion more clearly in the last couple of years writing on Substack, and I’m figuring out what the next right thing might be for me. The one thing I do know is it fills me with joy.

I’ll keep you in the loop as I figure things out. One thing I do know for sure is that I want to keep telling my stories, I want to have you in my world, and I’m hoping that whatever direction this takes, you’ll come along and enjoy whatever the next right may be. With me.

The stories I tell are ones you relate to, and I haven’t run out of things to say. I imagine I never will!

For now, enjoy this collection of stories told by 13 wonderful Substack writers who came to together on Saturday to share their 4-minute love stories.

The Love Boat, our alt-Valentines Day Romp!

If you don’t want to watch the show in it’s entirety, you’ll find each storyteller’s 4-minute story, in order of appearance, as you scroll down the page. Enjoy!

I was a little mortified at how long I went on at the beginning of the show, and won’t be insulted IN THE least if you skip that part!

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We kicked the show off with a warm-up by Eileen Dougharty, my always partner-in-slam. Eileen knows how to get things started.

You're Right, I Do Look Tired

The Long Climb

Open Secrets Magazine

Notes From An Uncaged Warrior Parakeet

A Suitable Vessel for Magic

Age of Enlightenment

And now, an interlude from ZoomaMella, more commonly known to all of us as Mel Moseley, who publishes Mel’s Messy Love Lab. Mel is our wonder woman in the Zoom room, and helps Nan run the show. And, she’s a damn good storyteller.

Mel's Messy Love Lab

Editor on Board

Pathways of Connection

There's Nothing Wrong With You...

Modern Mythology

Personal Statements

The Next Write Thing

To see the whole thing the day it happens, the banter, the intros, the energy and appreciation of our live audience on Zoom. You can buy a ticket. March will go on sale by the end of the week. Or you may find that you love what you see so much, that you decide to become a paid subscriber to Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! You’ll get a free ticket to every live show, every month. You’ll get 12 shows for the price of 10.

If you’re a writer on Substack and don’t identify as male you can tell a story if you don’t identify as male. If you want to jump in, DM me!

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© Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! • All graphic design by Nan Tepper

A message from Jess: This is the first article in my brand spanking new Fascinated series. To see the full write up, you will need to upgrade to a paid subscription. If you’re wondering “What the fuck is this?”, you probably missed last week’s post.

No worries! You can catch up here.

Welcome to Fascinated! A series where I interview people who fascinate me about their work, their why’s, and their what the fucks and share all of that with you. Today, I have the sincere pleasure of introducing you to our first guest, Nan Tepper.

The first thing you need to know about Nan is that you will not get anything past her. She does not stand on convention, she will not let you slide, and she expects that you have a reason for everything you do. Because she does. And, when questioned (or criticized), she’s happy to share said reason. Boldly, but not bitchily. Nan fascinates me because when called to the carpet for anything she’s said or done, she doesn’t lash out, she reaches in. A lifetime of therapy (from talk to shock), a more recent trip through the 12-Steps, and Grace, her name for whatever floats beyond us, has made her an unapologetic advocate for Nan. Where that could easily produce defensiveness or even arrogance, in Nan it comes out through carefully considered words that are meant to do nothing more than share her truth. Your perception is your problem, but she will entertain your perspective all day long.

That is fascinating.

Along with her buddy, Eileen Dougharty, Nan is the originator of Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam!, a virtual version of the live story slams Nan has been participating in for the past several years. The tagline, “1 story. 4 minutes. Zero dicks.” garnered gobs of attention on Substack, the current home of the publication, both the good kind and the party pooper kind. WBTYS (because who doesn’t love an acronym?) is a place for female authors with smaller Substack publications to tell their stories. Men are welcome to watch the Slam, encouraged, in fact, to buy a ticket, although at a higher price than their female counterparts. But, they are not allowed on stage. Zero dicks. Period. The anatomical kind or any other kind.

People felt some kinda way about that.

I knew they would, and if I’m honest, I was cringing behind my computer on Nan’s behalf, waiting for the onslaught of patriarchy to rain down on her parade. It did. And she didn’t care. To her, it’s a joke. With a broader meaning. It’s also her stage. You don’t like the rules? You need not participate. But there was one push back that gave her pause. She picked up her pen and responded in such a beautifully human way that I was, you guessed it, fascinated. If you, too, are feeling some kind of way about dicks and their inclusion or lack thereof, read Nan’s response here.

The care and conviction she showed in this response is when I realized that WBTYS was far more than just a fun project for Nan.

I knew from Nan’s writing on her original Substack, The Next Write Thing, that she struggled mightily with depression for most of her life. We’re talking the ugly, dark, take over your life kind. I also knew that she used to be a person who was afraid to try, her fear of failure or judgment so strong that it overwhelmed any sense of “I might,” “I could,” or heavens to Betsy, “I can.” So, how in the hell do you take someone like that and get them to go on stage to tell a 4-minute story about their life?!? And then entice them to return and do it again?

Nan explains the crack factor here:

Hey, it’s Nan. I’m interrupting this post for a moment to say I’m upgrading to a paid membership because I want to read the rest of Jess’s Fascinated! conversations, because I hate missing out. xo

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And this is when I found out Nan was a clown.

Y’all, I couldn’t have been more confused. A what?!? Apparently, in the seventies on Long Island they offered “How to be a clown” summer camp where official Ringling Brothers clowns came to teach kids their craft. I’ll hold off on inserting my disdain for clowns here because they scare the living crap out of me, but whatever. Nan, ever the entrepreneur, saw an opportunity, and promptly got her mom to start schlepping her around the boroughs on weekends to be the paid entertainment for story time at the library. Picture Nan, indignantly avoiding any public demonstration of her talent, hamming it up with some balloon animals and and a bright red nose. I can’t. It’s confusing, right?

I didn’t see that coming, I will admit, but as our conversation continued, it started to make more sense. Nan is a performer at heart. She wants to be the source of people’s feel good, but that didn’t feel possible when she played herself until very recently.

Nan and I got into the body shaming stuff early on in our relationship. As a fat teenager (her) and an anorexic one (me), I understood immediately how her body has gotten in the way of her storytelling, and she sees how my fear of food continues to eat away at my joy.

Nan’s ability to articulate how hurtful her own body has felt to her at times can leave me breathless, the air disappearing from my lungs as if she borrowed my breath, my own truths rolling off of her lips. I felt my eyes prick at her unabashed acknowledgment of the role fatness has played in her inability to fully step into herself, this quote in particular landing right across my solar plexus.

“But as a fat teenager, if I dressed up like a clown, and pretended that I wasn’t me, I could do it. I was somebody else.”

Ugh. That’s sadly not fascinating. Just true.

She’s working on letting that body shaming shit go, but it still shows up, particularly in her preferred way of performing now. The Story Slam. She hates going up on stage in her body. Podiums are her friend, another place to hide. But, despite the lurking fear of judgment from every body in the audience, Nan takes the mic anyway. She knows that if there’s an asshole sitting in the audience that’s more focused on her body than her story, that’s on him, not her.

See, this is what fascinates me. The Nan that perseverated over whether her body is good enough to stand on stage is the same Nan that stole her brother’s underwear because she just wanted to wear boys underwear. They were more comfortable, and she liked them better. One q

uestions whether her body has worth and the other values its comfort so much it goes about stealing to make it happy.

I could cop out and say ‘It’s complicated, and so is Nan.” But I actually don’t believe that. I think Nan fascinates me so much because she’s not complicated. Complex…absolutely. But, not complicated. I wonder if that’s because she’s written so honestly about herself that I feel like I understand her complexity, its origins, and how it shows up for her these days. If that’s the case, it’s a testament to her writing, which is, in and of itself, confusing as Nan didn’t become a writer until two years ago.

For most of her life, Nan claims she wasn’t a writer. I stopped myself from inserting the tired argument that “If you write, you’re a writer” because Nan got ahead of me and told me she only wrote about 1,000 words a year for the Slams she participated in up until she joined Substack. Okay, just kidding, maybe you weren’t a writer. Then, how in the hell did you decide in your 60’s that you would go from writing two essays a year to one a week for over two years straight? That’s quite the transition, Nan.

Just jumping in might be a slight understatement, but it turns out that the simple joy of making people laugh in the context of the Slam helped shepherd Nan into the next iteration of herself. One that is, unequivocally, a writer. As she says, “It was an evolution.” Yeah, I’d say. That evolution involved a ton of therapy, medications, and a 12-Step program that Nan credits with saving her life. Going through the program helped her see what a dysfunctional home she grew up in and that her parents were not necessarily intentionally awful or neglectful people, but a product of their own dysfunctional homes. And despite the years of suffering, she’s kinda grateful that she lived the life she lived because its helped her see other people that suffer with compassion…most of the time, at least (her words, not mine).

And, WOW, has it given her an arsenal of stories from which to pull both for the Slam and for her writing.

I wanted to understand how Nan sits with that discomfort in her writing, especially given that she’s a person who does not enjoy discomfort. Nan scoffs at my proclivity for exercise as she loathes “sweating and panting”, and she has a person who does her grocery shopping because who likes going to the grocery store? But, she’s a master at approaching her own psychological discomfort bravely, and from a place of peace. As she says, “When I have a feeling like I want to defend or I’m reactive to something somebody else does, most of the time, I can step away and ask myself what is it about this that’s creating this reactivity in me?”

That’s such a masterful skill, and, unsurprisingly, for Nan, it came from doing the hard work. The personal work. The work that comes when you’re ready to dig through the dirt in order to actually find a clear path. I am just awed by what comes out on the other side when Nan goes through that process of self exploration.

So, because this publication is primarily about joy, I had to ask what brings Nan joy.

Her first response? “Getting into bed at night.”

Welp, yup, that tracks. The comfort thing and all.

Beyond that, her dogs, her cup of coffee in the morning, the NYT puzzle (the only part of the Times she can tolerate anymore), writing, and reading. Friends. And laughter.

Simple stuff. Predictable stuff. Fulfilling stuff.

There’s no wanderlust here. Nan wandered far and wide inside her own life for many years, and now that she’s finally found herself, the biggest blessing she can offer to that self is to stay put. BIG curiosity. Little footprint.

Now that’s fascinating.

If all this talk of dicks and slams has tickled your pickle, check out this month’s Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam! slated for THIS SATURDAY, February 21st on Zoom. Tickets are still available, and you can laugh your ass off in the comfort of your own home. In your bed, in fact, if you’re like Nan and find joy there. Sweating and panting is not required, so what’s holding you back?

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Another message from Nan. I know the names might be hard to read on the graphic, so…here’s the line-up for Saturday: , , , , , , , , , , with special appearances by , , and . , we’re sure, will be missing in action, once more. But her spirit surrounds us. It’s a little creepy, honestly. xo

The Joy Luck Club

Exploring joy, all its nooks and crannies, what it is to lose it and why it's worth trying to find it again. Paid subscribers get access to the Fascinated series, interviews with real people about their work, their why's, and their WTFs.

By Jess Greenwood

“Raise your hands above your head, and wave like you’re happy to see me!” she yelled at those of us sitting in the audience. “Wave more! You’re REALLY HAPPY! You’re REALLY, REALLY HAPPY! Tug on your right earlobe, and at the same time, tug on your left earlobe with your opposite hands, while doing the hokey-pokey, and turning yourself around! Jump up and down in your chair but DO NOT stand up, and sing the Declaration of Independence to the melody of Hello Dolly!*

Uh, oh. What did I get myself into? Shit. I hate audience participation exercises. Icebreakers. Warm-ups. Make a decision. Are they cold or are they hot? The audience is all the way in. They’re playing this game and shouting responses; they’re raising their hands and waving like lunatics.

Not me. I’m planted in my seat, arms folded across my chest, resolute in my decision not to play. I paid $25 plus fees to be entertained. I paid $25 plus fees to be a supportive friend. I had no idea I’d be expected to join in. I am not into this. If I wanted to perform, I’d be on that stage.

I’m sitting in the audience. I want to be anonymous.

I hear my brain yammering away, and I nod my head at my predictable resistance. I smile, and try very hard to surrender. A little voice berates me, Lighten up, Nan. Why is this so hard for you?

I’m not all the way in, because if I was all the way in, I might enjoy myself. Isn’t it enough that I bought a ticket for $25 PLUS fees? I left my warm house on a frigid night, because I love my friend Nancy.

I should have noticed the clues when I first arrived; this wasn’t going to be easy. What do you mean, the theater’s upstairs? There’s no elevator? I eyed the stair lift chair and considered hitching a ride. I don’t need help climbing stairs; I’m just lazy and out of shape.

When I get to the second floor, I’m blasted with music so loud, I want to turn around, run down the stairs, and end the evening before it has a chance to begin. Then I wonder if I really have auditory processing issues. That’s what I tell people when I have an overreaction to noise. It’s possible that I’m just a delicate princess rearing my privileged head.

One small consolation was the dish of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I discovered just outside the theater door. Chocolate and peanut butter makes everything better.

I grab an aisle seat. The show hasn’t started but I’m mapping out my exit. My go-bag is packed; I can sneak out right after Nancy’s part of the show. I’ll dash for the door, but I’ll be discreet.

I dig through my bag for earplugs, desperate to lower the volume. They’re useless, the music is so loud. I take a deep breath and invite myself to get over it, already. I settle into my chair, open my mind, and remind my heart why I was there.

“My improv show is tonight,” Nancy wrote in an email that day.

“What? How come you didn’t tell me? Can I come?”

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She told me she didn’t invite anyone, and then she sent the link so I could buy a ticket (for $25 plus fees) but I don’t think she was happy about it. I want to go and kvell. Kvell? Yiddish. To feel happy and proud. I want to applaud her.

Performing in this show and taking improv classes is a big deal for Nancy. Not at all within her comfort zone. The show tonight is the culmination of months of classes.

Nancy does brave things all the time. Over the years, she’s inspired me to do brave things, too. Those are stories for another day. All I’ll say is there were elephants, 24-hour flights, and a couple of impulsive puppy adoptions involved.

Braving has become a recurring theme in my life. A welcome one, no matter how uncomfortable the process of getting there has been. Braving offers me an invitation to thrive and live a full life.

And still, before I do something new, my first reflex is to feel scared and want to hide. I yearn to come down with a mysterious flu, a sudden high fever, or a sprained lower back. Here’s a good one: a power outage that makes it impossible to free my car from my garage because of my sprained lower back.

It’s always easier in the moment to opt out, to stay home. It has little to do with reality, and lots to do with shame. The old remnants, the “I’m not good enough to…fill in the blank.” But it’s harder in the long run, because just like credit card interest, shame compounds over time.

So, I get up, put my coat on, kiss the pups, and open my fucking garage door

Even with all the therapy and 12-step work I’ve done, it seems I still need to go through this process before I can get to my yes. And from what I hear, improv is all about the YES.

The phrase “I’m not good enough,” has escorted me through life, saying things likeYou can’t! Who do you think you are? They’ll laugh at you. Sweet little nothings that do so much harm.

When these feelings come up, I can smile at them more quickly. I say, I hear you; I know you, I understand, but it’s time for you to move along, because I have a life to live. I’ve let you run the show long enough, now it’s my turn to direct.

I sit in the audience, grumbly and uncomfortable. I sit in the audience and watch Nancy do her thing. She plays, she imitates farm animals, makes funny noises, and sings. In 15 years of friendship, I’ve never heard her sing. I didn’t know she could. I watch her meet her discomfort and embrace it. I assume that once this performance is over, she’ll move on to her next challenge. I found out later that my assumption was wrong.

Sitting in the audience, I recall the me I used to be when I was young. I performed as a clown and mime in high school. Wearing clown make-up and a costume made it easier to be on stage, because I was playing someone else. I still dress like Marcel Marceau. I did have a larger capacity for silliness and play, in between the bouts of teenage angst and rage.

I’m dealing with the angst and rage. I have better tools. I want to have fun. I want to laugh and play, even though life and our current state of affairs in this country tamp my desires from one minute to the next. That thought, that I shouldn’t be having fun, while the world is on fire.

The other thing that’s kept me back? My old pal, body shame.

I thought about the bigger-than-life improv actors and compared them to clowns. There are a lot of similarities. I thought about my love for storytelling. I pondered the idea of signing up for the Level One class.

What? What am I thinking?

The woman who led the audience through the warm-ups? She’s the teacher. It’s her school. She’s too loud, this is too physical, I’m too fat. Despite my resistance, I had a funny feeling in my belly. The feeling that improv is my next right thing to do. The next brave thing.

I left the show that night with improv on my mind.

Should I do it? Maybe. I’ll sit with it. What if I hate it? What if I suck at it? I won’t suck at it. What’s the hesitation about? The fear?

The fear is that I’ll be awkward in the fatness of my body. Then this thought came next, What a great opportunity to BE in my body. Fully out there, in front of a roomful of people. To let go of the shame, once and for all.

I went to the school’s website a bunch of times but kept stopping when I got to the payment button. It took me seven days to fill out the application, pay the tuition and set up the interview with the loud lady from the show.

I meet with her today. I’ll keep you in the loop.

In the past year, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight. I’m still fat, and that’s okay. This story isn’t about the pounds that have fallen away. It’s about the weight that lifted because of my recovery work. The weight I’ve carried on my body is the metaphor for what I’ve carried around for decades. The weight of shame and fear. As I shed shame and fear, my body sheds its fat, its armor.

I’m not hiding anymore.

Over the past five years, I’ve met myself in the mirror, at my kitchen table, in my car, in bed, and in mindless trips to my refrigerator and pantry whenever triggers arise. And I’ve met myself in my relationships with others.

The weight of resistance, of carrying false core beliefs, and all the ways I’ve hidden throughout my life, has lifted.

When that weight falls away, I’m left with me, and that’s all I need. Me. Because of the work I’ve done, I’m revealing myself a little at a time. I’m coming out to play. I’ve told you my stories, first recording my voice, then, using video to show my face. Those were brave steps. I’ve startedWham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

And, the next step? The Full Monty. NO, I won’t be naked. I promise it will never go that far. But I’ll be showing all of me, in front of people who are there to cheer me on.

I’m getting on that stage.

*Disclaimer: When I shared this story with Samantha Jones before publication, I asked her if there was anything she’d like me to tweak for the sake of accuracy. She admitted she was slightly horrified at the way I described the loud lady doing icebreakers and warm-ups. Sam wants potential improv-loving audience-goers to be assured that her warm-ups are nothing like the ones I described.

Yes. I was employing that handy tool that writers sometimes use, exaggeration. I’ll do anything to get a laugh. Well, except for the real Full Monty. That’s where I draw the line.

Improv isn’t about being funny, it’s about being free.

Because every human was born to play.

Samantha Jones, Hudson Valley Improv

UPDATE:

I published the above essay last week, about signing up for my first improv class.

That decision was inspired by seeing my friend, Nancy Jainchill’s first foray into the medium, on the night she describes in her essay.

Here’s the piece she wrote that just published today in Sari Botton’s Memoirland.

Brava, Nancy. This piece is amazing, and so are you.

Love you.

Oldster Magazine

Yes, And...

Sam could’ve been a drill sergeant the way she shouted out what I was to feel: “Sadness! Fear! Anger! Fear! Joy! Sadness! No words!” I was supposed to let my partner know only with my eyes what was going on with me. A few decades younger…

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2 months ago · 11 likes · 4 comments · Oldster Magazine and Nancy Jainchill

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Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!’s next show is February 21, 2026. The theme is The Love Boat, our nod to Valentine’s Day.

Ten great storytellers talk about love in four minutes or less. It’s on Zoom!

The lineup:

, , , . , , , , ,

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When I was little, I had two nicknames; “Nancy No-No” and “No, No, Nanette.” My folks thought they were hilarious for thinking up these clever monikers, and took enormous pleasure in taunting me with them for years. Backstory is unimportant, so unimportant that I never learned what it was, though I’m pretty certain (because I’m my parent’s daughter and I’m clever, too) that it had to do with me not wanting to be told what to do or how do it. Maybe I just overstayed my terrible twos…until I was sixty-two.

“No” was an immature defense mechanism or a precocious attempt at individuation at a very young age. As I got older, I became a master at digging my heels in.

My reasoning was based on simple logic:

1. No one knows anything I don’t already know.

2. No one knows what I need better than I do.

3. There is nothing anyone can tell me that could possibly contribute to my growth as a human being.

4. The end.

This was my stand:

Don’t tell me what to do, think, feel, wear, eat, read, learn, understand, desire, and definitely don’t tell me how to cut my hair. I was a NO waiting to happen because input from others made me feel small, stupid, and inconsequential. The biggest reason for my resistance was that if I was found lacking, it meant I wasn’t good enough. The worst part? The belief that not being good enough was a lifetime sentence. There was no coming back from it.

The chorus of critical voices boomed in my head.

That belief became my excuse for not trying things that scared me, or that I’d have to work for. I’d dip my toe in for a second and if the water was too cold or too hot or the stroke was too complex, I’d signal the nearest lifeguard to rescue me from drowning in water that was only 2 feet deep. If it felt like I might fail at something, I’d abandon the undertaking before I got started. Quitting as soon as I felt challenged was the only coping mechanism I used. One big fat NO, whenever I felt cornered by fear or doubt. For years I avoided pursuing things that I was interested in because I thought everything I wanted to do should be easy or come naturally.

I compared myself to others, obscuring my ability to see my own worth.

I’d lose interest quickly and walk away if I didn’t experience immediate success. When I peeked at a classmate’s sketches and compared them to mine, it never once occurred to me that the reason their drawings were so beautiful was because they practiced; they drew and drew and drew. It was their passion, it was worth working for. All I could see was a finished product. I never saw the hard parts they might have encountered. I filled in the blanks with foregone conclusions that were based in fiction and an affinity for self-deprecation.

The voice in my head would berate me, reminding me that if I wasn’t born talented, I’d never achieve my goal of the minute. I lacked the insight to see that achievement requires commitment, repetition, teachers, helpers, and time. Instead, I stood to the side, safe, sad, and jealous, while I watched others excel, instantly disqualifying myself. I believed in saving time by saving face before my face required saving. Tidy.

It never occurred to me, not once, that I might succeed.

When it was time for me to go to college, I applied to one school. The school had an open enrollment policy. Everyone who applied got in. The idea of rejection was intolerable to me, and if I had to do this thing called college, I’d avoid the stress and worry that came with waiting for an acceptance or experiencing the heartbreak of rejection. I dodged college application essays and getting dragged from one college campus to another with my mother.

Two weeks into my second semester I dropped out. I had no idea what I wanted to learn and didn’t feel prepared for anything. Nobody told me going to college would help me figure it out. I wanted to be in the adult world, making money, and having lots of sex. There’d be no more homework, no more exams, no more papers. Yay!

The idea of writing term papers was daunting and I was embarrassed to ask for help. Me, the one who was supposed to know everything. To avoid dorm life, I purposely applied to a commuter college because I was too insecure and damaged from years of bullying to live with other students.

My social interactions in junior high and high school were pretty disastrous. I didn’t enjoy being around people my age. If I had to live in a dorm, it wouldn’t be easy to hide.

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My father was furious when I told him I dropped out. Sitting on his couch, I was stone. My arms locked over my chest, I barely listened to all the good reasons he had for me to stay in school. Throughout his frustrated tirade, I felt nothing except a determination to win. I steeled myself against my quitter shame, I made believe it wasn’t lurking right near by.

My mind was made up. Nothing touched me. Not his words, not his anger. His concern and love meant nothing to me. I just wanted to win. I wanted relief. To be free of the anxiety I conjured while perseverating on scenarios that might never happen. My thoughts were rooted in the past and in the future. I didn’t have a clue how to exist in real time.

My held conviction was that not trying was better than trying and failing.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Relief never came because quitting fired up my critical voice. The sing-song voice that chanted, “see we were right. You are a loser. Now what are you going to do?” To validate my decisions, I had lists of rehearsed excuses on hand. One thing was certain; I was a huge success when it came to failing in advance of an unknown outcome. Call me Nan “Nip it in the bud” Tepper.

Lack of humility and unearned pride drove my heels deeper until I was mired in the quicksand of my self-destructive machinations. I couldn’t admit until my late 50s that maybe I made a mistake, or two, or ten. As a student, I did well without trying hard; I wasn’t into hard. I was into “please make the pain stop.” I was terrified that utilizing the system I relied on in junior high and high school would fail me in college.

I was that student who’d show up late to school the day a paper was due. I’d be late because I’d write the paper that morning. Please note there were never Cliff Notes involved, and AI was 4 decades away. Never. I might have done better had there been Cliff Notes involved. I may have been a procrastinator, I may have been a bit lazy, or just a teenager, but I damn well had ethics.

I said no to travel, to new experiences, to anything, ANYTHING outside of my carefully crafted comfort zone. Not participating or taking risks was the perfect antidote-in-advance for anything I deemed vaguely threatening.

I spent years avoiding writing because I convinced myself that I couldn’t, even though the people in my life experienced me differently. They saw my potential; they took the time to tell me they saw it. They saw talent. Writing the word “talent” makes me cringe. I had trust issues. Now, those trust issues come up less frequently, but there are vestiges that cling. I get suspicious if someone says nice things about me. My suspicion is that although they’re being kind they really feel sorry for me. Or worse yet, they’re trying to humiliate me and laughing behind my back.

What an awful load to carry.

Because of the work I’ve done in therapy and 12-step recovery I recognize my stubbornness, my need to defend, my fear of new things.When that NO wants to pop out of my mouth, I pause and get curious.

When my NO comes up, after some internal kicking and screaming, I’m learning to shift my perspective. I take a deep breath and ground myself, become more present to the feelings in my body, the tightness in my jaw, the constriction in my solar plexus. I talk to the scared little kid who lives inside of me. I tell her, “It’s okay, hold my hand. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. We can figure this out together.”

Calling myself a writer and doing the work is a triumph for me.

My resistance is my opportunity to learn something new, to examine the flip side of my NO. Where is my YES? Why is it hiding? What am I afraid of? I reach for humility. I embrace honesty. I admit that I don’t know everything. There’s a world outside of my safe little bubble loaded with possibility. Taking more risks, jumping in, is something I’m willing to do. I know I can be afraid of doing something new, and then do it anyway.

I just put the finishing touches (maybe) on an essay that will be published in an anthology. A book. In one year’s time, I’ll hold it in my hands, and see my title and my name in the table of contents. I’ve been working on this essay for months. Months. As I churned, I experienced moments of frustration, moments when I thought I’d never get it done, I’d never get it. I told my story fifty different ways. I wrote and wrote until I got to the core of what I needed to say. I worked with editors who taught me craft, and pointed out my strengths and weaknesses. Nothing stung. Gratitude and willingness took the lead even when I felt the old “this is too hard” tug. I smiled and began again. I learned that the process is the real reward. I finally understood what more seasoned writers mean when they say writing is hard.

I learned that something can be hard but it doesn’t mean it can’t be achieved. I’m not a quitter anymore.

Turning my NO into YES is getting easier. When fear arises, I ask fear if there’s something it wants me to know. I ask fear if it’s trying to protect me by keeping me from living. I assure fear that I’ll protect them. I tell fear to get behind me.

Discernment has taken fear’s place, and fear gets to take a much-needed and well-earned break.

As much as I adore and require alone time, I’m not a hermit anymore, I’m not an island. I let people in. I graciously accept their wisdom and guidance. I ask for it. I ask for help. I show up in vulnerability, my belly soft, my heart seeking.

As much as it lacks the fun alliteration and rhythm, Nan Yes-Yes is a potent nickname.

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Our firstWham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! show was a great success. Our next show is on February 21, 2026 at 5pmET on Zoom. The theme is “The Love Boat.” Tickets are on sale now, or grab a paid subscription, see all the slams for free, and access the videos later. This is what happened when my “No” turned into “Yes.” I’m living my dreams. Come play. Say yes.

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February’s event, The Love Boat, will feature , , , , , , , , , , . I’ll be telling a story, too.

We have one storyteller spot that just opened up. If you’re a writer on Substack and don’t identify as male (and you’re of a feminist bent), come tell a story. You’ll have fun. You may discover something new about yourself. You might get hooked. Send me a message.

I originally published this piece on November 4, 2024, just two days before the presidential election.

So much still applies, and it’s much worse than we thought it could ever be, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better in the foreseeable future.

I’m being pragmatic. I’m not wearing blinders, I’m not in denial. This piece about being powerless still holds true, but being powerless over some things doesn’t mean we can’t change the world we live in right under their fucking noses.

They want us to be afraid. I refuse.

Build your communities, local and in-person, or online. However you can. Pursue your passions. Take risks. Welcome the stranger. Do something new. Never give up.

And most of all, laugh in their filthy faces every single day.

When I started working the 12 steps of my recovery program, I had to begin at the very beginning.

Step 1: “We admitted we were powerless over our eating disorders—that our lives had become unmanageable.”

When people come into program, they often have trouble admitting they’re powerless. The ego is a fierce defender. I was one of those people, even though I had no idea how to make change, how to help myself, how to recover. I slowly came to understand what being powerless is about. I’ll always need to work Step 1, to be reminded that I can’t recover in a vacuum. I can’t do my life alone.

We need each other to recover. We need to be humble. We need to be honest.

I thought about writing a fluffier, funnier, more carefree story this week as a balm against how helpless I sometimes feel, but I can’t. It would be like making believe everything is okay and pretending that the most consequential event our country has ever experienced isn’t staring us right in the face.

For over a year I’ve been seriously committed to recovery work. One of the things I’ve learned is that my disordered eating is not the only thing I’m powerless over. Far from it. I’m powerless over a multitude of things that I wish I could influence. That’s hard news for a recovering control freak.

SATURDAY November 2, 2024

I’m writing this in a state of quiet agitation. I usually publish my weekly essay on Wednesday, but this week I have no idea what shape I’ll be in on November 6, the day after the U.S. presidential election. Will I need to be scraped off the floor and poured back into the shell of my former self or will you find me doing a happy dance on the roof of my car? In advance observance of what might be a National Day of Mourning for me and at least half the country or a wild, raucous, hopeful celebration, I’m publishing a two days early. Election Day Eve. None of us know who’ll win, and I’ll be in a state of heightened anxiety until there’s an answer. What happens next? We’ll see, won’t we? I’m worried, not just about my future, but the world’s future. That’s how serious all of it feels. Because it is that serious. I’m told futuristic thinking is useless.

I know that’s true, but it’s hard to resist in times of fear and stress.

I’ve done all the things I can do towards the outcome. I’ve donated, volunteered, put up lawn signs, had them stolen, and purchased more to put them up again. I registered voters, educated myself, read articles across a broad spectrum of political beliefs and ideas. I’ve tolerated the click-bait pundits for far too long. I’ve ranted and railed about the state of this country. I’ll be on call on Election Day, driving voters to the polls from morning until the very last vote is cast.

I’ve gone around in circles for the last 9 years wondering what kind of person could possibly want to elect and then re-elect the Orange Monster––he’s clearly a deranged, narcissistic con man; a dangerous fascist with dementia, and a convicted sexual predator and felon. He’s made lying high art. His delusions of grandeur influence every choice he makes. He’s the human definition of bottomless greed. The thought of him in power again, after all his crimes against this nation and against women, is unfathomable to me. How can they not see what so many of us see so clearly? And if they see it, how can they support it? I will never, ever understand.

I’ve signed petitions, attended Zoom rallies and town halls, donated again, got sick of the pleas for even more money. Started counting how many texts and emails I received imploring me to give again. I’ve gotten upwards of 15-20 asks a day for weeks, not just for the presidential election, but for House races all over the country. Using “STOP” and unsubscribing seems useless. Against my better judgment, but bolstered by my fears, I gave a little more to the Veep and the Gov, and then, out loud, promised my pups (the only live audience I have) and Kamala (in absentia) that this was the “last time I’m giving, stop begging.”

We’ll see if I’m strong enough to keep my word, and not get suckered into giving again because of my anxiety, or I fall into the trap of thinking that if I don’t give again, it will have an impact on the entire result of the election, as if my three dollars will put us over the line. I’m not that powerful and it seems it’s NEVER enough. I’m offended by the manipulative language in everyone’s fundraising efforts, the extreme fear-mongering. Does Kamala think I’m an idiot? Does she believe that I’m flattered by being referred to as one of her biggest donors when my donations have totaled about $93?

I voted. Happily, hopefully, and prayerfully. I had fun waiting in line, enjoying the strangers I chatted with. I’m breathing deeply and making a pledge that I’ll be gentle with myself and others through the end of the election cycle. There is nothing more I can do or say that will change the outcome. 

At this point, all I can do is surrender and acknowledge how powerless I am. When we have the result, I’ll either be ecstatic or bereft. I’m resolved to not fall apart if it doesn’t go the way I’d like. I’ll grieve, I’ll cry, I’ll seek out friends and loved ones so we can comfort each other; I’ll comfort strangers if they need a hug or just to be seen.

But I will not let him steal my life or my well-being. I do have control over that. I’m trying to keep a balanced perspective, but I’m stressed. I’m sitting at my desk, writing and eating mini-Snickers and Twix Bars left over from Halloween. I’m giving myself some grace about that. Balance is hard to maintain in times like these.

The concept of powerlessness is a hard one for people to accept. What do you mean I’m powerless? Well, we are, mostly. I don’t have the ability to influence world events. I don’t have connections to people in power. I’m not a billionaire. I’m a senior citizen (fuck, I’ve never called myself that before), I’m a woman, I’m queer, and I’m Jewish. Not a person in power.

Leading up to the election in 2016, the one I was so sure of, I conducted extensive research about leaving the country for good, in case we lost. I needed to see if leaving was even possible. Any country I’d want to live in requires new citizens to come in with vast resources (money) that I don’t possess now, and probably never will. There was no place to go then, and there still isn’t. I feel too old, and too connected to the life I’ve lived and loved to make a new start.

This is my home.

When I start to spin, the first wake-up call is country-shopping, hoping a new one would pop up that nobody’s ever heard of before. It would be a magical place that had room for all, and was kind and gentle and nurtured its citizens. Like The Good Place. But that was really Hell.

SUNDAY November 3, 2024

I woke up earlier than usual. The end of daylight savings time. Today, I’m more anxious than I was yesterday. More frightened, but still grasping for the hope I feel whenever I hear Kamala speak. She sparkles. I love her smile. Not crazy about her laugh, but it’s a part of her that adds to her charm. We have an opportunity to grow as a country, to evolve, to transcend the feelings of hatred, fear, and separation that have gripped so many of us, these last 9 years, and for a multitude of decades before.

I heard about Kamala’s cameo on SNL. I looked for it online today. It started with the actor who impersonates the Orange Demogorgon. I couldn’t watch. It’s just not funny anymore.

I went for a drive, doing an informal count of how many Kamala lawn signs I’ve seen in my historically conservative neighborhood. Seems there’s been a visible turn to the LEFT. That’s an amazing change for my town. I found that Kamala’s signs far outnumbered the ones that were touting Agent Orange’s. I giggled at the sign that said, “Harris Walz 2024, Obviously” and the one that reads, “Giant Meteor 2024: End It Already.” It calmed me to realize that I still have my sense of humor, even if it has a dark edge at the moment. Oh, who am I kidding? My sense of humor always has a dark edge.

The more work I do in program, the more I learn about letting go. I’m up to the part where I’m exploring what having a higher power means. It’s a tough one for me. I used to think that I was in control of so many things. The more I live, the more I do the work, the more I see that there’s just so much change I can affect bin the world. But, in 12-step the prize is changing myself.

In my heart, I believe I'll be okay no matter what happens. But not as okay as I will be if the right thing happens. The question is what is the right thing?

So, on Wednesday, regardless of the result, if you happen to come upon me lying in the gutter, please offer me your hand and help me get up again.

I followed my sponsor’s advice. It’s what one is supposed to do in recovery. The SNL skit was wonderful. I laughed and cried all the way through. I got goosebumps. I’m “acting as if” tonight, just like I’ve learned in 12 step. Right now, to combat my fears, I’m acting as if it’s a done deal, and we have a president-elect named Kamala Harris.

January 20, 2026

As you all know, the result I was looking for didn’t happen and we’re exactly a year in to the Orange Abomination’s term of terror. Maybe it all has to come tumbling down, finally destroying the taint of this culture that’s never owned the harm it’s perpetrated. Maybe we can build something new. This country is guilty of horrors for over 400 years and hasn’t owned responsibility for the ongoing ugliness and hatred it’s sowed. The Proud Boys are in charge of cleaning house. People are dying. Now, the hatred is unapologetically and proudly out in the open for everyone to see. And it seems only half of us are willing to see. The other half? I hope a lot of them are regretting the tragic mistake they made.

In the meantime, I’m making the best friends I’ve ever had. I’m creating community in a meaningful way. I’m not isolating; that would be the worst thing I could do. We can’t hide ourselves away. We must come together. Now.

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Check out my new project, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! It’s a monthly feminist storytelling event. It’s not a competition, as originally intended.

See the video from our first show.

Do you write on this platform? Are you a feminist? Come tell a story.

Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

I did it on a dare (to myself). I did it as an experiment. I did it to finally own and express the part of me that always wanted to be a writer but was terrified to try.

I started with 25 subscribers, all people I knew, the ones who loved me already. My list has grown to over 2500 readers and I’m a Substack Bestseller. Being on the platform has been completely life-changing for me. Not only have I fulfilled my commitment, I started a new business here, Style Your Stack. I help other writers put themselves out there by making their stacks look beautiful.

AND, today, I’m launching the project of my dreams, the one I had in mind from the minute the ink dried on my new deed. I wanted to produce and host a feminist story slam, but I knew I had to wait and build relationships with other writers. I had to learn what might be possible, and most importantly, I had to learn that it was okay for me trust myself and put energy into my dreams, to make them real.

To state a clear goal, ask for help. To be afraid, and doit anyway.

I’ve spent my life in a role of serving others. I did it from a subservient place. I was the cheerleader, the wind beneath people’s wings, the behind-the-scenes helper. I shined a light on others while remaining in shadow, hidden from the world, hiding from myself. Not anymore.

The last two years have been an unfolding. I’ve met my true self. I’m realizing my worth, the contribution I have to make, and my responsibility to make it, and not just sit and think about it. Mulling doesn’t accomplish a thing.

I am a woman in action and I want to help change this world. This project is my form of activism and the timing is perfect because I’ve just entered my terrible twos! A perfect time to make good trouble. So, I have to show up, speak my mind, make my plans, follow-through, and shift gears if things need fixing.

The world is fraught right now. More frightening than I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the ugliness that’s all around us. I let myself feel overwhelmed for a minute or two, and then I do the next RIGHT things, and those things?

Living from a place of JOY, LOVE and CREATIVITY.

These are hard times, and I refuse to suffer through them, terrified and small. That takes a daily commitment to life, to love, and to laughter. Connection. I’ve built a beautiful family in this community. That’s the biggest gift I can imagine. I’m truly blessed. It didn’t happen magically. I reached out, over and over. I stopped hiding.

I want to take all of you with me everywhere I go. I want to share my creative projects so you know they exist. I want you to come play, if it appeals.

I have lots to do today, to get ready for the first event offered by my new stack, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! The theme for the slam this month is My Body, My Rules.

The slams happen once a month, and feature women storytellers who publish on Substack. If you haven’t checked it out yet, give it a look. There are still a few seats available for today’s show if you’d like to attend.

I’m still a helper. I’ll always be a helper. It’s in my nature, and I love that part of myself. But now, I take care of myself in all the good ways before reaching out to help someone else. It’s better that way, because it means I love myself.

Thank you for what given me these last couple of years; your attention, your comments, and your trust. That’s the very best thing of all.

xoNan

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A few months ago I published an essay titled I’m in the Mood for Love.

I wrote it while struggling with the fierce anger I was feeling about the world we’re living in, the apparent future we’re facing, and the thugs who are wreaking a startling amount of havoc in our communities, in our homes.

But now it’s escalating. The haters are hurting immigrants and all people of color are at grave risk, immigrant or not, because how would the ICE thugs know? They all look alike. Right? The haters are oppressing women and destroying lives (otherwise known as murdering innocent people). They operate without an iota of conscience or morality. Those qualities are missing in action for all the players involved. Top down.

The essay I wrote in September reflected my thought process at the time. I opted to turn to love instead of hatred. I turned toward beauty and rejected ugliness. I turned toward building and sustaining community instead of fracture and isolation.

It’s amazing to me how feelings can shift in 4 months’ time. In a week, or a day, or a moment. The moment it takes to pull a trigger. Again.

I’m flooded with feelings right now, and I’m grateful for those feelings because it’s better than shutting down and numbing to what’s happening around us each day. It’s painful and overwhelming. It’s necessary for me to keep feeling. I’m glad I still have the ability to discern, to know that nothing is black and white. I can feel love in an instant and feel hatred just as quickly.

When that happens, I get to decide what to do with those feelings. I’ve noticed the tenor of my behavior this week. My old tendency, my reactivity, is on alert, it’s ramped up, and when I get triggered by the comments of others, my responses are often heated and blunt. The reactivity is rooted in fear.

My connection to Grace becomes as shaky as can be.

I’m overly sensitized to negativity, mansplaining, and nonsense in general. I’m offended by AI images and writing. I worry that a time will come when I won’t be able to detect it, it’s starting to get so good.

I let myself get sucked in, taken over by my emotions and ego. I engaged with male readers after getting a dose…or ten of mansplaining. Yes, those men who think they’re self-aware, so woke. I’ve picked a couple of fights this past week, and I was feeling justified, of course. That behavior woke me up. It reminded me to be on the lookout for emotional imbalance, reminding myself to pause, ground, and breathe before I respond. Sometimes I wait until the following day to reply. And because I’ve waited, sometimes I don’t reply at all. I’m grateful that I give myself a chance to be objective, rather than reacting in a blaze of anger.

When I’m feeling reactive and wait a day to respond, it’s a sign of health.

When I’m awake to myself, I take the time to question my motives.

I’m angry. I’m hurting, and yes, even though I don’t want to admit it, I feel scared. I go in and out of that feeling. But I’ll be damned if I give in to fear. The other day, I was reading the latest news, the heinous comments and threats from the Travesty Called Our Government, and I let fear take over. As a reaction to that fear, I went online and started researching gun shops and shooting ranges in my area. I’ve done this before. The first time was in 2017. Sometimes I surf for real estate in other countries and research immigration requirements to see if there’s another place I can go.

It scares the shit out of me that I could go to a place of buying in to the violence. So, I paused. I grounded. I took a breath. I pictured myself, standing in the middle of my living room, holding a shot gun against an intruder, an ICE agent, let’s say, and I could see myself trembling and sobbing. Not from fear, but from a place of deep sadness and disgust that this is who we are, who we’ve become. I cannot imagine taking someone’s life in real life. But I allow myself the fantasy. I’m giving myself permission to have all the thoughts, to not judge them.

Because they’re just thoughts. Not actions.

All that surfing is a form of spinning, but it also temporarily soothes a need in me to feel in control of this situation, our situation. Then, I swing back to the real world, to my true self. The self that knows that in the end it’s the fear that will get me, and not the people who use violence and aggression against us. It helps me remember what I can control and what I can’t.

When I’m there, Grace is by my side.

That’s what separates someone like me from someone like the “man” (?) who murdered Renee Good. It separates me from the army of villains. And honestly, I’m nowhere close to being able to extend Jonathan Ross a shred of compassion for the damage he’s most obviously suffered in his personal history. I’ll probably never get to that place. There are certain acts that to me, are unforgivable.

Yesterday morning, I read the thank-you letter that Rebecca Good, Renee Good’s wife, sent out to the interwebs. It was suffused with Grace, it was gentle. She celebrated her wife’s memory; she spoke of the spark that emanated from her poet partner. There was no blame, no anger, it had more dignity to it than anything I’ve read. It’s longish, and it’s worth your time.

“On Wednesday, January 7th, we stopped to support our neighbors. We had whistles. They had guns.”

I’m amazed at Rebecca Brown Good’s equanimity, and yet, I also find it worrying. How do we stay kind in the face of such evil? And should we?

I watched the videos, finally. Is anyone talking about Rebecca Good’s actions that morning? Be clear that this is not about blaming victims. She spoke to truth to power, which can be a very frightening thing to do. I’m sure her words in those moments did nothing to help their situation. The reason I’m mentioning it, is we have to be smart. I’m saying that for me as much as for anyone else.

These men are living examples of short fuses waiting to explode. Let’s not give them more reasons. Let’s be smart.

I have no answer for you today. On Friday night, I got into bed at 5:30, thoroughly and blearily exhausted. I invited my dogs to cuddle, laptop open to Stranger Things. I wanted to see the good guys win against the MONSTERS, even in a fantasy. I needed that. It turned out I didn’t watch much, because I’d posted in Notes that I was going to bed and what time it was and why. The love and witnessing that came back to me was stunning.

The reason I’m telling you this is because instead of isolating and bearing my grief and anger alone, I talked about it with my dear friend Eileen, I wrote about it and shared it in the Substack feed. I reached out and shared the other side of me, the one who isn’t funny, upbeat, nice Nan. I made myself vulnerable.

I am indeed that woman sobbing in the middle of her living room floor.

After a lifetime of choosing to go it alone, I’ve learned that building community is the most self-loving, healthy thing I can do. This road we’re walking down together? It’s hard, we have no idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, or in the next minute, but community is the thing that makes us strong.

We must keep coming together.

I’m publishing this essay early this week, for two reasons. One, because it’s timely, but primarily because I’ll be getting ready for the first Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! event on January 17, 2026. There’s still a lot for us to do. I’m mentioning it because this project is my effort toward building community in the world and on Substack. It’s my act of love and resistance. I’m creating this space with and our do-nothing figurehead and feminist inspiration, . Oh, and if you don’t know, Slamone’s not real, we made her up, because we think she’s funny.

She’s our version of Vera Peterson, of Maris Crane. And yes, our Ugly Naked Guy.

Not a stitch of AI was used in her creation.

Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! is a space for women storytellers and others who don’t identify as male to come tell stories. It’s a space for us to share our lives with others. To share all the feelings. The joy, the laughter, the outrage, the astonishment, the grief.

To say yes to some things and no to others. To be together.

And to those you who identify as male? You’re welcome to support Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! as an audience member and donor. Your job is to be there and for once in your life, hold your mansplaining tongues and listen.

xoNan

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And, if you want more information about the first story slam, which takes place on Saturday January 17, 2026 at 5pm ET, click the button, claim your seat and celebrate the art of spoken word storytelling.

We’re dedicating our first show to Renee Good’s memory, and a portion of our proceeds will be donated to her family.

Find out more

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Hey everyone! This week, instead of my regular essay, I’m sharing a post about my new project, which you’ve been hearing a lot about, as mentions at the end of my weekly stories. But this week, I want you to know more. I want you to know that creating a story slam on Substack has been a goal and a dream since I got here two years ago.

My two-year anniversary on the platform is on January 17, 2026!

What better way to celebrate than to launch my dream with all of you? I can’t think of one. Will there be cake? Sure, but it’s imaginary, virtual cake, so you’ll be able to have your favorite kind. That way, no one’s disappointed!

I encourage you to take a look, buy a ticket and check out the first slam or take a leap of faith and become a paid subscriber. If my stories have made you happy, made you think, or contributed to your life in other ways, you’ll have even more fun at the slam, because it won’t just be me. There’s so much talent in this first line-up, you’ll be blown away. Don’t miss it, even if you can’t make it on the date.

Because the event will be available after the show, if you’re a paid subscriber.

The theme is an important one: My Body, My Rules. It’s all about our bodily autonomy, which as women, especially in the US, we’re losing as each day goes by.

Now is the time to be activists. To speak out, to say our piece, and to support one another in any way we can.

I hope you’ll come, I hope you’ll watch, I hope you’ll want to see more.

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Buy Tickets!

In 10 days, we’ll be officially launching Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! with our first show and our first lineup of fabulous writers. If you’re curious, come see the show. Tickets are limited, it’s an intimate affair!

If you can’t make it, you can always see the replay later.*

Subscribe to Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

This is our first story slam ever at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

​Will it be a happy new year? Gee, we hope so.

We’re doing things here to contribute to the joy, but also to speak our outrage.

It’s time for us to get down to business. The business of being free to determine what we do with our own bodies and what gets DONE to our bodies, before that right was so jarringly stolen from us. Our bodies belong to us. Only we can say how they’re treated. That’s the theme of our slam this month.

What do you think?

​Come see 10 storytellers do their thing. (we just lost our tenth, anyone want to step in?)

1 story. 4 minutes. Zero dicks. This ain’t no open mic!

Our first show is January 17, 2026 at 5pm ET, our room has limited seating, so if you want to check this out, now’s the time to secure your spot. You can become paid subscriber or buy a ticket.

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Buy Tickets Now

Find out more

And now, meet our storytellers. These writers have stepped up, excited to support the stack and tell their stories. You can find out more about each of them by clicking their pink buttons.

Let the Words Fall Out

The Armchair Journalist

Can't Sink THIS Rainbow

Modern Mythology

Personal Statements

Mel's Messy Love Lab

Living Room

The HSP Sanctuary

The Pink Zones

Going Solo at the End of the World

Individual tickets are $12 if you’re a guy, and $10 for everyone else…it’s that pesky wage gap thing. We call it our SIRcharge. We have a lot of recouping to do!

Buy Tickets!

You can attend any slam live (12 of ‘em) if you reserve early, or in replay by becoming an annual paid subscriber because the replays will be for paid subscribers only.

You’ll be getting 2 shows for free and supporting this project at a time when building community is essential to our well-being. We’re speaking up, we’re speaking out, and we need your help to do that.

Become a Paid Subscriber

And, please restack this, if you have friends who might love to come.

If you’re a writer on Substack, and you want to tell a story, DM me!

*A good reason to become a paid subscriber:

The after-show posts will be paywalled, with a sneak preview of the slam…why it pays to become a supporter. You’ll have access to the live performance, which is first-come, first-serve and access to all posts in the archive.

Generosity that’s conditional is not generosity at all.

When giving to others comes with no strings attached, it’s a beautiful thing. For many years, I gave to others to validate my worth, thinking that if I just did enough––made myself indispensable––I’d be loved. I had no idea I could be loved for who I was, and that who I was and who I am is enough. I didn’t get that message growing up. I became a people-pleaser because making people happy brought me attention, a sense of security (that turned out to be false), and a modicum of love, however loaded.

People-pleasing was my coping mechanism, my survival skill.

There was a girl named Nina in my 1^st grade class who used to hand out dollar bills to our classmates. I’d think, “why would she do that?” She was selective about her distributions; I never got one. I remember feeling a flutter in my belly, a sense of unease, as I watched her pluck a single dollar bill out of a little pink wallet to gift to her next new best friend. The flutter, the unease, wasn’t because I felt left out. I felt those things because her actions were too familiar. It was a turn-off, but that didn’t stop me from doing the same thing in more ways than just handing out cash bribes.

I acquired the habit of doing for others, giving to others, not from a place of selfless generosity, but as a cry for connection and safety. The behavior became a regular practice in my life, a knee-jerk response when I saw something that I thought was needed and wanted. I thought my actions were genuine.

Yes, I started young. No, I didn’t realize that beneath my efforts, I had an ulterior motive. I took great pride in being a good-deed-doer. I did lots of good deeds. I raised money for charity. I went door-to-door at 10 years-old, selling raffle tickets to raise money for cerebral palsy because I wanted my neighbor, Mrs. Lingley, to adore me. She lived down the block; her house was my home away from home. She was the person who set me on the road to baby philanthropy, and C.P. was her cause. I would have done anything for her. I didn’t care about her cause as much as I wanted her love and approval.

She already loved me, and all these years later, she still does. I didn’t need to do more.

I was a well-trained, highly-skilled codependent. I became a rescuer. I watched for opportunities to be the helper; someone people could depend on to come through for them in a crisis. I became quite an expert at manufacturing need when none existed.

I lived this way for most of my life, doing for others and then suffering the backlash of my actions. I became resentful of the people I helped, because they weren’t loving me enough or reciprocating.

Helping can be a power play in disguise. A covert manipulation, conscious or not. When my dad died, he left me money. I spent a lot of that money on other people, to my detriment and to the detriment of my relationships with them. I picked up dinner tabs regularly and bought people extravagant gifts. I gave so much away thinking I was helping, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t selfless. I refused to see the discomfort I created for others. I wanted something back. I never got what I was looking for and now the money’s gone. And guess what? My friends still love me, even though I’m not a hot-shot anymore. Fancy that.

In those acts of loaded generosity, I was disempowering others and I wasn’t watching out for myself. I wasn’t thinking of my future; I was desperate to be loved, to be the center of attention. I thought I was being kind. On some level, I wanted to be the hero, when I didn’t need to do more than be a good friend. That’s how little I believed in my own value. And I’d be left grumbling and angry that nothing I did worked to fill the very large hole in my heart.

I’m telling you about my history because of the awakening I’ve had. I’ve changed dramatically over the last few years. I still believe in generosity. It’s one of my core values. But my focus has shifted. I give to give. I check in with myself before I do. Is it clean? No strings? When I released my expectations and gave to others with new clarity and a commitment to my well-being first, I began to receive gifts I could never have imagined. Not material gifts, but the gifts of self-esteem, courage, and an ability to see myself as others do.

To gaze into my new mirror and love the person looking back at me.

Learning to pause and get curious about my intentions has been a miracle. Not saying yes to every demand of my time and resources has given me the freedom to thrive, to not form resentments against others. I’m not being selfish. I’m being SELF-ish. I’m loving me, first. My evolution owes credit to my therapist, the 12-step work I do daily, and my willingness to live the best life I possibly can.

I’m on the threshold of celebrating 2 years on Substack. In that time, I’ve discovered myself as a writer, started a graphic design and tech business, and I’m about to premiere my new stack, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! It’s an online feminist story slam featuring writers who publish on the Substack platform. The first show, January 17, 2026, is on the second anniversary of my arrival here. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. Not one.

A primary reason for this project is to support women writers in this publishing space. I want to showcase and promote others.

One of the most beautiful things I’ve witnessed during my time here is that true generosity abounds. I’ve attracted like-minded givers. The writers and creators I’ve met here have helped me grow as a person, as a colleague, as a friend. They’ve helped me build my readership. They’ve contributed to my confidence, they’ve boosted me, sharing my writing and cheering me on. The thing I love most is the support I witness every day. People come from their hearts, expecting nothing in return. I want to believe that it’s not transactional. We get excited for one another when good things happen.

How lovely to witness generosity in action during this horrid time when so many seem to only be out for themselves.

When I coach my clients about growth on Substack, the first thing I tell them is to be generous, to promote other people’s work, to always respond to their readers comments. To engage and be real. No one is our competition because we’re unique. We have distinct voices.

I tell my students, my clients to read and recommend the smaller stacks. To restack other peoples’ work, but to take an extra minute to add a comment. To slow down and and take a sec to tip their hats to a writer who’s moved them. To be kind.

The big names, the “stars,” don’t need our help, not the way those of us with smaller followings could benefit from someone else noticing us and sharing our efforts.

I sing the praises of Substack every day, even when I complain about things they could do better. There are a lot of things they can do better, but mostly, they’re doing great. Being here, in combination with the work I’ve done in my 12-Step program has been utterly transformative. I’m living the life I’ve always dreamed of. I know, at last, that I am enough, MORE than enough. I matter and I belong. That’s the crux, isn’t it?

I belong.

I’ve never felt that way before. I’m part of something greater than myself here. All of you, the people who read my stories and comment so generously, the writers whom I’ve become friends with over these last 2 years, the writers I LOVE to read––you’ve been my sustenance. I’ve seen what’s possible when people come together and lift each other up. That’s the work. The love. The relationships. The community. We’re building it together. We’re making miracles here.

I’m so happy to be a citizen of Substackland. It’s a magical place to reside.

I’m clear about what the next right thing is for me.

I’m going to continue the spirit of generosity at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! I hope you’ll join me there, it’s gonna be a helluva great time.

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Thank you for the best 2 years of my life.

Periodically, I like do shout-outs for my writer pals, the people who inspire me, who I want you to know, so you can be inspired, too. I’m going to do my best to not miss anyone, but I’m not sure I’ll get it right. So please, if you know in your heart that you’ve touched mine, accept my thanks, my x’s and o’s, and forgive me for my lapses. Or call me out in the comments, that could be fun. Then I’ll add you to this post. If you think you should be on this list, then I agree.

To my readers, I love calling you my readers: Every single one of you. Thank you for your vulnerable and kind comments, your encouragement and your all-around support whether you are a free or paid subscriber. I cherish your interest in what I have to say. I cherish what you have to say. It’s the best gift ever.

To the writers: For inspiring me every day. You make my life rich with your wisdom and humor, with your over-the-top support. Readers, if you’re not familiar with their work, take a look. You won’t be sorry.

• • • • • • • • • • • •  • • • • • • • • • • •  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

And geez…get your tickets to January’s first show! We have 100 seats and they’re going fast. If you haven’t seen Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! yet, head on over and take a look. I’m very proud of the work I’m doing with my pal, .

Visit Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

Buy a ticket to the show!

AMAZEMENT SEEKER

[B]OLD AGE

BRAND THERAPY

CULTIVATING TERRAPHILIA

THE ARMCHAIR JOURNALIST

Can't Sink THIS Rainbow

THE JOY OF FINANCIAL SECURITY

THE LONG CLIMB

PERMISSION GRANTED

RANDOM CONVERSATIONS

SARAH FAY

THE PINK ZONES

THE NEXT WRITE THING

STYLE YOUR STACK

WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU! SLAM!

Do you need a wordmark? Or some other brand assets (logo/icon, welcome page collage, divider, email banner)? Message me, or skip that part and make an appointment. We’ll work together and make something beautiful that represents you the best.

Zoom with Nan

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Logo and icon (favicon) design is just one element of creating a brand identity. It’s an important element for a writer or content creator to have in place. I work with my clients to home in on the meaningful values they hold, and the message or mission they want to convey to potential subscribers. A great logo that represents you and your brand is a must!

Here are a collection of icons (favicons) that I’ve designed over the years. Favicons are the little images that appear in browser tabs for regular websites. For now, though, an icon must occupy 3-4 different places on Substack. The top left corner of the desktop version of the site AND the Substack app, and the browser tab. It also lives in all the publication lists found on the app. That’s a lot of work for one simple icon. So it has to POP! Simplicity, contrast, and an image with personality are key. They can be initials or some meaningful symbol that only you know the meaning of; a talisman of some kind.

Here are some logos I’ve created over the past 15 years. I can design one for you, for your Welcome page or your About page. It’s more involved than your icon and can serve a purpose by telling your reader more about you. But it can’t be used for Substack’s idea of what a logo is…

SEE MORE LOGOS

And, a wordmark. What’s a wordmark? I’ll tell you. It’s the graphic representation of you stack title. And it shouldn’t be the boring default text that Substack provides. It should be eye-catching, it should be clean-looking, and inviting. It should have flavor and introduce your readers to YOU. Here are some I’ve designed. Wouldn’t you like to look your best, too?

Some examples.

SEE MORE WORDMARKS

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Here are a collection of icons (favicons) that I’ve designed over the years. Favicons are the little images that appear in browser tabs for regular websites. For now, though, an icon is what Substack calls a logo. But Substack’s logo is really an icon, because it must occupy 3-4 different places on the platform. The top left corner of the desktop version of the site AND the Substack app and the browser tab. It also lives in the list of publications you subscribe to, found in your profile. That’s a lot of work for one simple icon. So it has to POP! Simplicity, contrast, and an image with personality are key. They can be initials or some meaningful symbol that only you know the meaning of; a talisman of some kind. A logo, in general, can say more than an icon. Let’s call them what they are, Substack.

You can click on the gallery to view each icon separately.

TALK TO NAN

I’ll design an icon that works and makes you smile!

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TALK TO NAN

On this night, I’m going to tell you a story. A story about a different kind of savior. One who saved millions of American homemakers (yes, they were women) who wanted to enchant their husband’s palates with something a little more interesting than beef stew. So, they learned to cook with the best. JC, heretofore referred to as Julia Child. And what did those women learn to cook first? Boeuf Bourguignon! Beef stew. Oooh, la, la!

THEN:

It’s 1969, and I run into the den, where my parents are watching TV. I say, “Mommy, I’m hungry, it’s dinnertime!” And in stereo, they “SHHHHHHH!” me.

Oh. Yeah. They’re watching Julia Child. That funny lady who cooks French food on Channel 13, the “educational” channel. The rule was I could hang out with them and watch if I didn’t utter a word.

Julia Child was revered as a god in our house. A very odd god. Her strange voice, her towering height, the way she threw ingredients around and pounded meat and dropped things and made mistakes. She was funny, though I think most of the time it was unintentional. So, I’d sit with my folks and watch. Eventually I came to appreciate how special she was, though she never tempted me to cook. My mother loved her chocolate soufflé. My father adored her cassoulet. I just liked watching, waiting for the next faux pas. She made me laugh.

20 YEARS LATER:

It’s 1989 and I’m working as a server at Union Square Café in Manhattan. It was a dream job in the business. At the time, it was one of the top three restaurants in NYC and was so popular that getting a reservation required luck, patience, or fame. I arrive for a Tuesday lunch shift, and my manager, Bobbie, pulls me to the side to tell me which station I’m working.

“We have a very special guest coming today for lunch, and you’ve got her table.” And I think to myself, it’s about time, I never get the important guests.

“Who is it?” I ask, expecting someone in the book business because the restaurant was in the publishing industry neighborhood.

Bobbie looks at me, a huge gap-toothed grin on her beautiful face, and excitedly says, “Julia Child! Julia Child with a party of twelve!”

I choke and stop breathing.

Julia Child? No way can I wait on Julia Child. She’s JULIA fucking CHILD. The grande dame of French cooking. I almost throw up I’m so nervous at the thought of it.

I say to Bobbie: “Why me? I’m not your best server. I’ll screw up. Can’t you give the table to someone else?”

She assures me I’ll do fine, and to remember that we’re a team at Union Square Café. I’ll have backup from the food runner, the other waitstaff, and our sommelier. Gaining my breath, I tuck my blue and white striped button-down shirt into my pants, snug the knot of the stunning floral necktie we all sport, and re-tie my white apron at my waist––the uniform––and I start setting the table. I’m meticulous with every detail, making sure that the cloth napkins we folded the night before are flawless. I go into the kitchen to do my butter side work. We cut 1/4” slices from square 1-pound blocks, bisecting each square diagonally, forming perfect isosceles triangles, 2 per dish. The butter is top quality, the best you can get; the bread, fresh-baked.

12 people. That means 6 butter dishes, but I grab 8, because I know that butter is Julia Child’s favorite food group. I lay the dishes out on the table, so that the butter will be perfectly softened by the time of her arrival. I’m told we’ll be offering both menus, lunch and dinner, including the Tuesday night special.

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The entourage arrives on the dot of noon, nine men and three women. Bobbie seats the party, with Julia in the middle of the long table, not at the head or the foot. The room itself is lovely, decorated with the most stunning, always-fresh flower arrangements, sunlight flooding the space. Menus are handed out, and I stand slightly behind JC at her left side. I’ve lost the ability to breathe properly, alternating between holding my breath and sipping little wisps of air. I can’t get a good inhale. I can barely make eye contact with the guests. My manner is obsequious and formal, a shocking departure from my usual ebullient nature. I barely recognize myself. I’m nervous and worry that the sweat at my armpits is noticeable, my necktie feels like it’s strangling me. Julia orders the dinner special, a bone-in rib eye steak for two. For two! I think to myself as she orders, that I’m swiping that bone for my dog once she’s finished her meal. It’s a famous bone. The dogs belonging to the waitstaff love Rib-Eye Tuesday. When we scrape plates for the dishwasher on Tuesday nights, we lay aside a pile of bones and divvy them up at the end of the shift. My dog Sophie always loves me, but on Tuesday nights I get extra kisses.

Our sommelier goes over the food order and takes care of the wine selection for the table. All is good. The wineglasses sparkle, spotless in the sunlight. I’ve got the first bottle in hand; a lovely Cabernet. Thank god it’s not necessary for me to decant this one. I pray to the fine-dining angels that I’ll open that bottle flawlessly. That the cork won’t break. That I won’t drip the red wine onto the pure white table linens. I try to breathe, only filling half my lungs, then I pour. She swirls, she examines the legs running down the inside of the goblet with a discerning eye, she sniffs, she tastes, she nods for more. I hover nearby, not too close. JC isn’t terribly friendly––not rude by any stretch, just not as cuddly as I’d hoped for––so no sweet stories from my childhood. No “Oh, Mrs. Child, I used to watch you on PBS when I was a little girl.” She’s there with her people. My job is to wait on her, not make friends. I go into the kitchen to start serving entrees with the food runner, and I grab her rib-eye, taking it to the table and suddenly forgetting if I serve to the right or the left. I struggle for a breath again. Ah, to the left! Right!

I place the rib-eye in front of her with care. I offer pepper, she says yes. As I back away, she does the oddest thing: she leans forward, stretching each of her very long arms to the right and to the left, and enlisting the help of her dining companions, she gathers all 8 butter dishes in front of her, and places those golden triangles on her steak in a neat little overlapping row. She waits a beat or two for the butter to melt. Then she digs in. I stand there in awe, smitten by her appetite. I quickly break the spell I’m in to move around the table pouring wine for her guests.

She polishes off the entire steak, leaving a very clean bone (Sophie will be mighty disappointed). Julia drank two full bottles of the Cabernet with that meat. She completes her meal with creme brûlée. I’ve expertly torched the sugar on top of the custard to a glass-thin, caramelized shell; the best one I’ve ever done. Maybe being in her presence has graced me with culinary skills I’ve never possessed? Nah, just got lucky, I guess.

At meal’s end she rises from the table, dwarfing all of us. She says thank you to me, bending down slightly, a little bow, to accommodate the difference in our heights, smiling most graciously, then walks as upright as can be on low heels out the front door. And I exhale.

And as the great lady would say, “bon appétit!”

Some lovely quotes from Julia Child, the French Chef:

• If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.

• I think every woman should have a blowtorch.

• Always remember: If you’re alone in the kitchen and you drop the lamb, you can always just pick it up. Who’s going to know?

• People who love to eat are always the best people.

• I think careful cooking is love, don’t you? The loveliest thing you can cook for someone who’s close to you is about as nice a Valentine as you can give.

• Drama is very important in life: You have to come on with a bang. You never want to go out with a whimper. Everything can have drama if it’s done right. Even a pancake.

• The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to cook.

• It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate, you know someone’s fingers have been all over it.

• Fat gives things flavor.

• Celebrity has its uses. I can always get a seat in any restaurant.

And an important tip from Nan Tepper, a former server with savvy:

• If the bathroom in a restaurant is disgusting, you definitely don’t want to see what the kitchen looks like or eat anything that was cooked there.

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The most exciting news? My new stack, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!’s first show is on January 17, 2026, which is ALSO my two-year anniversary on Substack. Join us, on Zoom for an amazing story slam. The gathering is intimate. 10 storytellers, 100 audience members. And if you miss the live show, it will be available on the site for paid subscribers. Tickets are selling, but there are still some seats left…come play!

Eileen Dougharty, Slamone de Beauvoir, and I can’t wait to see you!

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The second reason is I want you to know that recovery is possible.

It’s available to anyone who wants it. And while this post was originally about my body shame, now it’s about so much more. I’m not taking a back seat in life ever again.

There was a time when I couldn’t fathom being on a stage in front of a roomful of people. I did it anyway, even when I was uncomfortable. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine being on camera telling you my stories. But I’m doing that from not only a place of comfort but also from a place of excitement. It’s time for me to stop riding other people’s coattails and strike out on my own. I’ll write more about that another time. My body, my size, no longer plagues me as it did before. I’m still fat. I’ve lost a fair amount of weight, but I may always be fat. The difference is that now, I love who I am.

I’m doing the next right thing. I’m celebrating my life and making my dreams real.

The other night, I was in a story slam.

One of the other storytellers shared a piece that included a joke involving a 300-pound woman giving a man a spanking. It was supposed to scare him. Why did that detail need a 300-pound woman to make it funny? The audience laughed and I sat in my chair (on the stage, waiting for my turn), triggered, angry, and feeling enormous shame. I also had one of those moments when I was flooded with righteous indignation. I sat there fuming. I fantasized about contacting her, asking her why using a fat person as the punchline was acceptable? She, of course, was in a slim body. I took a quick mental survey of the storytellers that night. I was the fattest person among the 18 people on the program.

While she was telling her story, these were my thoughts: I was going to EDUCATE her. I was going to ENLIGHTEN her. I would make her face her internalized fat phobia. But how would I do it? Facebook? Find her email address and write her a real scather? Embarrass her in public? I’ve got a vivid imagination when it comes to plotting revenge and rehabilitation. I run scripts in my head. Thankfully, that’s mostly where all these great ideas stay. That’s where they belong, until I can heal enough to stop writing the scripts. Conjuring thoughts of payback only gives me temporary relief, serving as a distraction until I get where I really need to go. Those thoughts? They don’t reflect who I truly am. They only point to how much work I still need to do. Beginning with, but not exclusive to dealing with my own internalized fat phobia.

Her story was 4 minutes long. That 4 minutes took forever to live through. I kept checking in to make sure that my facial expressions were firmly in neutral. It’s the best I could summon. I was incapable of faking a smile.

I spiraled to those old familiar places called self-loathing and shame. In this slam, all the storytellers in the act sit in two rows of chairs on the stage so that they can easily get to the mic when it’s their turn. I choose to sit in the back row whenever I participate in this slam. I once saw myself in a photo from a previous slam when I was seated up front. I was horrified at what I saw. I had no idea how fat I was.

So, I made sure to hide the next time by taking a back seat.

I sat in the back row, feeling exposed, wondering if people were looking at me. I thought about fat-shaming. I’ve defended the so-called president––hard to call him that, but I won’t write his name––when people on social media used the word “fat” as an insult, a way to judge his character. I challenge people when that comes up. It’s not okay. Fat is a descriptor, it’s not a personality trait.

After my internal roil, the stages of rage, the implosion of shame, I turned back to myself, remembering that when I get triggered, it’s a message to heed. A wake-up call. There’s something for me to examine, to take responsibility for. It’s a reminder that there’s a hurt little girl who sometimes takes over when she really needs soothing and to hear from me that she’s safe.

My story was just okay, my delivery was off that night because I was so rattled, so self-conscious. A friend offered to record me telling my story. I said he could if he shot me from the chest up, explaining that I don’t like the way I look because of my size. He sent me the video after the show. I haven’t watched it yet. I may never.

Over the next couple of days, I took an emotional inventory to check in about how my recovery is going, because I know there are things I need to address:

• What have I been avoiding?

• What don’t I want to own?

• What am I still unwilling to do?

• Am I handing this over to my higher power?

• Am I still trying to be in control?

• Am I reaching out to fellows in program and to my sponsor for support?

• Am I remembering that recovery is a long game?

I thought about the full-length mirror that fronts the beautiful antique armoire in my bedroom. The mirror that I rarely use to look at all of me, even with clothing on. I hate having my picture taken, unless it’s by my friend who’s a brilliant portrait photographer, but even those pix? No full body. Chest up, only.

Forget about looking at all of me naked. That one’s way too hard right now.

In my 12 Step program the guidelines recommend that we not weigh, measure, or track anything. No weighing ourselves or our food, no measuring ourselves or quantities of food. No tracking weight, exercise, or calories. We’re encouraged to either hide or throw away our scales.

We avoid these actions because the point of this work is to find balance. Balance with food and balance within. The philosophy makes so much sense to me. When I diet, I don’t trust myself, I don’t learn to listen to my body. I obsess. I think about food all the time, I think about weight all the time. I think if I only weighed “so and so” then everything would be okay.

I know that’s not true. That’s not what recovery from an eating disorder is about. Unlike alcoholics who abstain from drinking, those of us with disordered eating can’t abstain from food, but we can make healthy choices. Recovery is about letting go, telling the truth, and showing up for ourselves and one another. It’s about loving ourselves just as we are. I’m not there yet.

When I was in my twenties, I tipped toward anorexia. I got very, very thin. Too thin. I loved shopping for clothing (I hate shopping for clothing), and I loved looking in the mirror. In the years when I was being a thin person with an eating disorder, I was nearly an exhibitionist, I liked showing off my body. I worked as an artist’s model (nude), I taught yoga, wearing skin-tight leggings and sports bras. I felt powerful and strong. I was powerful and strong, but I didn’t love myself then, either. I smoked like a fiend thinking it would keep me from eating. Smoking was just another avenue to tamping my feelings.

When I moved away from that thin body and got some distance, I looked at old photos. I saw in me a young woman who was emaciated. It was shocking. Body dysmorphia occupies a broad spectrum. I don’t see myself clearly. When people tell me I’m beautiful, that I’m “luscious,” I don’t know what to do with that other than doubt their words. I would hazard a guess that there are people who see the Nan I really am more clearly than I see myself. But I need to see her, too. That’s the work.

I do know that I’m quite fat. I know roughly what I weigh. I know that I don’t take care of myself as well as I could. I barely exercise. I need to do that more. I need to keep going to meetings. I need to talk about deeper feelings. I need to keep unpeeling the layers of dysfunction so that the real Nan can take center stage. I need to love that little kid inside who is so much a part of me, that frightened, tender girl.

Just like at the slam, I’ve taken a back seat too many times in my life and not just when hiding my physical self. I want to sit in the front row more often, but sometimes an unoccupied back seat is what I need more, and giving myself permission to sit there is also a form of self-love.

Living fully, out loud and in full view, may just take some more time.

Do you have questions about Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! as a storyteller and/or audience member? Our resident muse Slamone is taking a break from philosophy and cigarettes and would love to set the record straight (or bicurious at the very least) Please submit all of your burning queries below for an upcoming Q&A! You can also message me, if you prefer privacy.

If you’ve been reading my essays for a while and enjoy my work, becoming a paid subscriber may just be the next right thing for you. I’d be thrilled to receive your support.

Subscribe now