🎧 Listen to the audio version of the essay below.
I think what’s important to understand—right out of the gate—is that I did not arrive here quietly.
Some people are assembled.
Carefully. Thoughtfully.
Like Scandinavian furniture with illustrated instructions and a tiny Allen wrench that comes with a sense of emotional stability.
I, on the other hand, appear to have been…
workshopped.
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By a committee.
Or maybe a writers’ room.
A very enthusiastic writers’ room.
A group that had clearly just discovered espresso.
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Because I have this little movie in my head about my creation.
And it plays at the most inconvenient times.
Like when I’m standing in line at Walgreens for 45 minutes.
Or trying not to slam my forehead against the table while having a meaningful conversation about tax law.
Or, ya know, just attempting to feel like a grounded, spiritually evolved adult who has managed to dress herself.
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And instead—
Cut to:
God.
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Holding a marker.
Whiteboard.
Full showrunner energy.
He looks tired—run ragged, honestly.
He’s ditched the traditional robes I assume are required for a supreme being and gone fully off-duty: hoodie, jeans, a ball cap. Possibly one of those T-shirts that says:
OMG you guys! I never said that!
He looks like he’s been in this meeting too long and no one is listening.
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And my DNA—posing as the writers—just bursts in with:
“Make her six feet tall at birth.”
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And God pauses.
“…Seems excessive.”
Writes it down on the whiteboard anyway.
Because apparently we’re yes-anding this situation.
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And my genes—God bless them—are just getting warmed up.
“Okay, okay—hear me out. Blue eyes. For four years.”
one of them says, pacing and gesturing wildly like Jim Carrey channeling Ron Howard in How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
God nods.
Reasonable.
Classic.
“And then—surprise—hazel.”
God stops writing.
“…Why.”
“For character development.”
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“Also—important—give her the darkest, thickest eyebrows imaginable.”
“Okay…”
“And skin so pale, people occasionally ask if she might need a transfusion.”
God blinks.
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no. She just looks like she might be.”
“That feels misleading.”
“It’s atmospheric.”
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And now the room senses momentum.
“Give her a complicated relationship with time.”
“Define complicated.”
“She understands it conceptually… but lives slightly outside of it. Has too many unfinished projects to count.”
“Noted…” God says, already tired.
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“And—this is important—make her boobs so small they just… disappear when she raises her arms.”
God stops.
“…Why are we doing that.”
“No reason. Texture.”
“That’s not what texture means.”
“Agree to disagree.”
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“Early years—let’s make her a bit of a train wreck.”
God looks up.
“A bit?”
“…Okay, have it your way. A full train wreck.”
“Of course.”
“Messy decisions. Big feelings. Let’s really let her marinate in that.”
God removes his glasses and rubs his temples.
“We’re still calling this a functioning human, correct?”
“Technically, yes.”
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“And then—midlife—this is key—after her long marriage ends and her Mama dies…”
“Have her overthink the joy out of everything.”
“Not all the time. Just enough that when something is good, she pauses and goes, ‘Wait… but what if…’”
“…and quietly dismantles her own happiness.”
“…but let’s give her two exceptionally loving children to ease the pain.”
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God puts the marker down on the table.
Slowly.
Pinches the bridge of his nose.
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And I love this part.
Because it implies that even God was like—
This is… a lot.
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But the writers’ room?
Undeterred.
“Oh—and her feet.”
God closes his eyes.
Of course.
“They need to be… substantial.”
“Define substantial.”
“Load-bearing.”
God nods.
“That actually makes sense.”
“And aesthetically…”
“…like they were purchased at a flea market.”
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And somewhere in all of that—
the chaos,
the overthinking,
the disappearing breasts—
I ended up here.
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A fully grown woman
who has lived an entire life already—
marriage,
children,
caregiving,
loss—
and is now standing in the middle of what comes next…
without instructions.
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Which feels…
on brand.
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Because if I was built in a writers’ room,
this would absolutely be the part of the story where things get interesting.
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Where the character has to figure out:
Who am I now?
What do I actually want?
And what parts of me were real…
and what parts were just…
carried.
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So this is me.
Mid-story.
Slightly overthinking it.
Occasionally funny about it.
Trying to tell the truth about it.
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And if you’ve ever felt like you were built to handle everything—
and are now quietly questioning whether you want to keep doing that the same way—
you’ll probably feel at home here.
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So—
welcome.
We’ll figure it out as we go.
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Love, Lannie🖤
