15 million adolescent girls aged 15 to 19 worldwide have experienced forced sex in their life.
1 in 3 women worldwide have experienced physical or sexual violence, mostly by an intimate partner.
650 million women and girls alive today were married before their 18th birthday.
And I’m just so fucking done.

- Victoria Canal, “DOG.”

I am Jane Doe. And, as many of you know, I hate The Pitt.

On October 20, 2024, an anonymous female student at Cornell University was gang raped by seven members of the Chi Phi fraternity at a party1.

On April 2, 2026, news broke that Supriya Ganesh, the actress who portrays Dr. Samira Mohan in HBO Max’s The Pitt, would not be returning to the show in season 3.

These events have nothing to do with one another. Except…

I’m sure my readers are well and truly sick of me talking about this. I will most likely talk about it again. But I needed to get it off my chest, and “standing ten toes down” with a full-blown article is somewhat less likely to be ignored than a rant-y text post that will be immediately drowned in a sea of opinions I (mostly) agree with. Besides, everyone else is using their text post function to make pithy statements about the very real and undeniably vile crime that was committed by seven young men two years ago. I was about to use it to write a glorified follow-up essay on the ways this fictional tv show did one of its most talented stars, and her character, so incredibly wrong, before realizing I should just commit to the bit like the properly unhinged fan I am. There may be something here worth examining, or it may be another result of the steadily declining state of my mental health. I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

This all started with a concerning thought I’ve been mulling over lately…

My initially positive reaction and subsequent attachment to The Pitt was, to a degree, contingent on my complacency as a member of a certain privileged demographic (white). I overlooked the red flags that cropped up between the first two seasons because I was hooked on the overall story. I actually thought the lead character, Robby, was a good man. Heck, I thought the actor portraying him was a good man2. I thought the writing was some of the best I had ever seen in television. I trusted three overpaid old white men to tell the stories of a diverse group of underpaid, overworked health care professionals, the majority of whom are young women of color, competently.

I don’t think I was wrong to want to trust them.

The thing that disturbs me the most about my relationship with The Pitt, as it stands today, is that it took Supriya Ganesh getting FIRED to knock the rose-tinted glasses right off my face. Because up until that moment, I passionately defended almost every decision the show made. Fellow fans pointed out how weird it was that Supriya’s scenes were cut down until nothing much was left but the skeleton of her character’s potential. I waved them off, rationalized it. Thinking it was all for a purpose that would be revealed, all for some long game where Robby would finally see the error of his ways, take accountability for the disgusting way he treats his female staff, especially the women of color, and at the very least begin to take steps toward making things right. If not that, I thought the writers would be bold enough to understand that their main character was the problem, not everything happening around him.

But instead of telling a compelling story, they decided to err on the side of so-called “realism,” removing arguably their most important character from the equation so that Noah Wyle can continue to hog the spotlight and suck up all the air in the room. All this shouldn’t have surprised me, and yet it took all this for me to realize how blind I’d been to the glaring issues that were there from the beginning. Baked into the story by writers who view diversity more as window dressing to their one-trick lead’s ego vehicle. Decisions were made to prioritize the development of white/male characters and completely sideline the far more engaging women of color.

I just didn’t want to see it.

I wonder how many people didn’t want to believe that those promising young men could do something so abhorrent, so evil. How many thought they could trust the administration’s judgement when dealing with the allegations levied against them. Moreover, how many countless dickheads have we seen come out of the woodwork (Elon Musk’s fascist propaganda app, X) to delegitimize Jane Doe’s testimony, or to proclaim with their whole chest that she deserved what was done to her?

How many viewers will be content to ignore the replacement of (yet another) brown female character, as long as they get to see their favorite white, virtue-signaling doctor engage in some dubiously consensual queer baiting with his young, white, male employee, all while he continues to circle a mental illness vortex of his own making at the expense of nearly every competent female in his vicinity that he feels inferior to?

Maybe some tangential line can be drawn between this and the way we as a society have responded to the Cornell 7 and the rape of Jane Doe. Maybe I’m just over-rationalizing and trying too hard to find a good reason to still be livid about a tv show. I can certainly make the case that people (white people in particular) have a habit of only really caring about things when they are personally inconvenienced by them. I was perfectly content to blindly sing The Pitt’s praises until a character I connected with deeply—who deserved so much better—was arbitrarily discarded so the show can go on harboring the illusion that it’s a documentary instead of a basic fucking hospital drama with a premise that only marginally sets it apart from all the other primetime slop our culture can’t get enough of, myself included.

That was a mouthful.

Regardless, I figured there’s no harm in putting my thoughts out there for your consideration or indifference, either of which is completely valid. I’ll wrap it up by saying that, even though I am ashamed that it took Supriya losing her job for me to engage with this show critically, at least I didn’t bury my head in the sand like most casual viewers seem to be doing, accepting it as “just the way things are.”

There’s the tangential connection I’ve been looking for!

Women are abused, violated, shamed, discarded, and silenced. Men are given a slap on the wrist or congratulated for doing the bare minimum. Less than the bare minimum. And we’re just supposed to tacitly absorb it all. It’s just the industry. It’s just the patriarchy. It’s what we know. It’s what we get.

Fuck that.

TLDR; women deserve better. I may not inspire a mass boycott of The Pitt with my rage posting over the firing of one actress, and the patriarchal system underpinning and enabling the violence done towards women by men like the Cornell 7 may not crumble overnight, but that doesn’t make it any less worth talking about.

No woman is free until all women are free from the patriarchy. And no female character on The Pitt is safe until Robby is fired or killed off.

End of sermon.

After graduating from college, a cord was cut. I didn’t know it then, but I had started spinning out, very slowly. Like the annual tilt-a-whirl of the earth, nearly imperceptible to the human eye. Even with a roof over my head, I bumped and bobbed under it like a balloon. Even with food in my belly, water drained out of me through a tiny crack, the carpet soggy under my feet. Still I spun, like the little wild dancer I’d always been. But I didn’t know I was spinning. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know anything. I applied over and over again but wasn’t accepted. I found a job and quickly hated it. Found another job and lost it. Kept the first job, but didn’t want to work. All the while I kept spinning, like a jellyfish in the deep dark. My head kept bumping. The water kept draining.

I volunteer at a hospital now because I want to do good. Maybe because the character I love from the show I used to love is a doctor. I don’t want to be a doctor. But when I’m there I feel awake, more so than I’ve felt in months. Or years. I sit at a curved desk in front of two monitors and I open the doors for visitors to the maternity ward. I see brand new babies every day. So impossibly little it makes my teeth ache. Grabbing and suckling the dry air when they’re not folded into a linen cone, pacifiers wobbling from the soft press of their tender lips. They don’t have teeth yet, so it’s harder for them. Most things are hard for them. It’s why every movement pushes a grunt of protest from their chests. It can be so hard, all the time, to just move, I know. I don’t remember when it was that hard for me, but I think I understand. It’s why I’ve been spinning so slowly. Otherwise the centrifugal force of reality would rip me to shreds: clothes, hair, flesh. It used to be softer. Or at least I think it was. I believe it was.

I don’t know where I am now, where this whirlwind will set me down. If it will be gentle, let me hover just above the ground for a bit. Or if I will be thrown from the sky, hurled down head over feet, breaking upon impact. If the earth breaks me, I know my broken heart won’t love it any less. This much I know.

Not sure where I am right now. Physically? Yes. Hospital, second floor, “Mom & Baby” ward, front desk. Otherwise…

I’ve been here before. Not the hospital—I mean, I’ve been volunteering here for a few months, but I don’t mean that. I mean this place in my head, in my body. This liminal, nameless location. Nudged up just under the ribs, hidden thoracic temple. Split open in a jagged line down the middle, spilling out in front of everybody. I came here—the hospital—to learn how to stitch myself back together. Arduous process. Painfully slow procedure. One suture at a time, dragging the halves of me back together. Train tracks knitting the land. Broken zipper on a frayed winter coat.

I don’t mean to be so maudlin. I’m actually a very funny person, most of the time. Started volunteering because it’s hard to find a job. Because I don’t need one as urgently as others, because at twenty-six I live with my parents who love and support me. Went off mom’s health insurance when I turned twenty-six in June. Not a lot of clinics seem to cover medicaid in Colorado. Had to stop seeing my therapist, my dermatologist. Late-onset acne gathers forces to make a slow reentry. Know I should be looking for a job right now, should be doing something. Not sure where I am, though.

Sat in a little rowboat, rope tied around my waist. Trying not to let go. This is not rock bottom, not even close. Remind myself of that every time. Not even plummeting, barely moving at all. Dip my hot fingers into the cold water, not to steady but to sense. Lazy waves lick like kittens. Still at the hospital, floating on a stream of consciousness in the shape of a circle. Snap myself in and out when I’m needed, when a smile is appropriate. I love what I do here. First time in months I’ve felt so needed. Wonderful feeling. Beautiful blanket to cover up where I’m healing. It itches. It feels like breaking. Not sure what it feels like.

Other people need me now so I can stop thinking about that for a while. I can stop thinking about it for a while. Repeat myself incessantly while I set up rooms for new moms, bags full of things they’ll need to feel more comfortable and cared for. Water bottle, lip balm, lanolin. Pink pads, green pads, Kleenex. Diapers, wet wipes, folder with paperwork and support group information. I remake the bed already made by custodial services, adjust the height, prop up the head about forty-five degrees so they can see their baby sleeping in the transparent bassinet at the foot of the bed. Sometimes I play music, quiet, to fill the room with a different energy than hospitals normally have. Artists who understand how music can heal. Everybody knows music can heal. Speeds up the process, eases the tension between stitches, tightness of skin. The reason I listen to it every single day. Song is a suture, is a tincture. Symptom frothing in the solvent melody.

Best if taken orally, administered topically. Fed through an IV directly into the wound.

Not sure where I am right now, but at least I’m here.

Don’t feel like going home at four, so I pick up another shift. The nurses thank me, thank me, thank me. They are so beautiful. Exhaustion coats the edges of their eyes like drying paint, cracked in elegant lines. Ask me sometimes if I think I might go into health care, become a nurse myself. Honest answer: I don’t know. Wish I did. Maybe if I knew where I was. Maybe if I could stop this constant sadness. I don’t tell them all this, don’t want to burden them. Staff assistance alarm goes off and they all go running to the same room. Amazing every time.

Recently, I’ve realized that a part of me likes to wallow in sadness and deep pain. As if I haven’t know this in some way for years. As if it makes me special. So why did this knowledge hit me with force the other night? Why does it feel like I never knew it until now? I do it so easily, like slipping into a warm pool, wading out until the water is chin-high, lying back and floating on its surface, watching airplanes go by in the smoke-silken sky.

Maybe it’s easier lately. To just let it happen. But I think I’m stronger now than I used to be. I don’t drown, don’t flounder. But as a child it was hard for me to climb out of the bath once submerged. Skin remembers the womb, remembers warmth, all-surrounding moisture, the host of my mother’s arms. I don’t drown anymore, but I stay in long enough to prune, fingertips creasing like mildewed wallpaper.

I am frightened by my propensity to tuck inward. Fold myself down. Retreat into shadow and sound when light and silence become unbearable.

There’s a certain time, late at night, when the rage lifts to reveal the sorrow that’s always been there.

And the rage is no less real than the sorrow.

And the sorrow is no less powerful than the rage.

They feel different.

But they hurt the same.

I received definitive, professional confirmation from my neurologist that, per my growing suspicions built off of well-meant observations from various friends and peers over the past couple years…I am, indeed, AUTISTIC. That’s right. Capital-A, Autistic. On the spectrum. For realzies. It’s ‘Tism Time bros.

Okay. To be real for a second (and only for a second), the official diagnosis is “Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1, without accompanying intellectual or language impairment,” which means that my particular flavor of Autism does not seriously impact my learning functions or affect my ability to speak. I am fully verbal and Average-brained. So no Savant syndrome for me. We love demolishing restrictive, ableist understandings of what being Autistic actually means!

Basically I got my toe in the door and qualified for the ‘Tism Team: ability to hold eye contact, practically nonexistent; hyperfixations, noted; recognizing social cues and boundaries, dubious at best; preference for predictability, in the bag; sensory sensitivities, PRESENT; atypical language, YES.

Comedic writing skills—getting there.

So…what now? The question that hits most people my age or older who find themselves suddenly slapped with a label which previously held very little personal meaning, or if it did then it was self-given and therefore given a lot less legitimacy by the people who arbitrate these kinds of things. Not sure who they are, but they’re probably neurotypical. For me, the answer to this question was initially quick and simple: now…nothing. You’re you. That’s all. Nothing’s really changed from before you got this auspiciously peer-reviewed title. You get on with life, because it’s the same as it ever was. Queue Talking Heads “Once in a Lifetime” from the Stop Making Sense live album. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” Ask yourself, “How do I work this?” Letting the days go by, let the water hold you down. Same as it ever was. Water dissolving, water removing. Under the water, carry the water. Same as it ever was. Into the blue again. Water underground. Remove it from the bottom of the ocean. Same as it ever was. After the money’s gone. Look at where your hand was. Days go by. Days go by. “Am I right, am I wrong?” Into the blue. Days, days, days. Same, same, same. Silent water. Time isn’t holding up. Bottom of the ocean, water flows over your head. Underground. Same as it ever was. Time isn’t after us. Same as it ever—but every once in a while, once in a lifetime, you learn something about yourself that makes it stop for a moment. Makes it all feel a little lighter, seem a little quieter. And suddenly, you belong somewhere. You are somewhere being something. You are seen in a world crammed with people who are special. You are seen.

And you may ask yourself, “What the fuck am I reading?”

You’re reading an article about Autism written by a person who’s going off the deep end a little bit. Deal with it.

This kind of thing isn’t new to me. I’m one of those lucky girls who’s mom saw how difficult school was getting for me and took steps to get me diagnosed with ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder), complete with a 504 plan and a fancy-shmancy planner, a year before the rest of my cohort got theirs. This was so long ago I literally can’t remember when it happened. Not long after, the gods bestowed me with a moderate helping of Depressive and Anxiety Disorder (both currently unspecified). I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that my body image and self-worth were involved. By middle school I developed an eating disorder, which began as outright anorexia but mellowed into a more cerebral presence that has remained with me ever since.

On top of all this—the inability to sit still, the hyperfocus on meaningless shit, the slight sensitivity to fluorescent lighting, and the severe panicked reaction I have to accidentally seeing myself in a mirror—I also found out recently that I have something called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. In exchange for having little to no physical pain during my periods, I just get mega depression and anxiety to compensate for the agony deficit. Being a woman is so fucking neat.

To recap:

• Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, Predominantly Inattentive Presentation, Mild

• Depressive Disorder, Unspecified

• Anxiety Disorder, Unspecified

• Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD)

• Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1, without accompanying intellectual or language impairment

How’s that for a full psychological profile? I can’t wait to give my future date the shake-down on all the reasons why I’m Like This.

There’s more to it than lists, of course, however badly my autistic brain wants it to just be about lists. Check marks. They’re too easy, aren’t they? Hell, even shame and self-hatred are too easy. I don’t hate myself, by the way. I’ve never hated myself. But I’ve been disappointed with myself. I’ve beaten myself up about things I can’t control. I’ve held myself to impossibly high standards that I never seem to have the energy or stamina to reach. All of this comes so easy to me now, after so many years of habit. What is elusive is the beyond, the in-between, the inherent mess and joy and hope that constitute the fabric of my daily existence. Same as it ever was, etc.

But you may ask yourself, why did it take this long to figure out? (I’m only 25, geez.) Why now? Why didn’t they see it in me way back then? I’ll answer with a segment of my neurologist’s report—containing no personal identifying information—because I am physically incapable of writing an essay without a secondary source to pad the length a little bit.

My neurologist’s report is a gripping read, by the way. I wish I could cite it for further reading but, you know, HIPPA. However, if you’re as much of a stickler for corroboration as I am, I’ve linked some additional sources pertaining to adult female Autism diagnosis, which are not HIPPA-protected, at the end for you to peruse at your leisure.

Before my ADHD diagnosis, I thought I was just slow and stupid. If not stupid, then painfully average and unremarkable, unwilling or unable to commit to anything long enough to become remarkable at it. Including the thing that I’m doing right now, the only thing I can imagine myself doing for the rest of my life. Before my Autism diagnosis, I thought I was just weird and offputting. For someone with an already established laundry list of preexisting neurological conditions, this can create a unique kind of isolation. You know you belong to the broader community under the umbrella of neurodivergent. But you share it with a lot of people who can do things you could only dream of doing. Who have talents you always wished you developed sooner, but there was never an internal drive, an ambition, to excel at these things. Never mind using your diagnoses as an excuse to get out of doing things that are hard, an inclination you are constantly aware of and do everything you can to avoid. Maybe you’re just…lazy. Maybe you’re just…unremarkable. You simply don’t have what it takes to stand out…whatever that is. If my ADHD, depression, anxiety, and whatever else I have gurgling in the caverns of my psyche, can’t explain why I feel so lonely, so out of place, so strange…maybe I’m just Like This.

Not everyone understands why I wanted this diagnosis so badly. Why I felt so compelled to draw this shape around myself. Even one of my doctors thought it was a frivolous undertaking. “It won’t change anything,” she said, “you’ll be the same person you always were.” She said it in a way that was meant to be a kind of pep talk, to make me feel better. But this was never just about feeling better. I have blind spots all over my body, places I fear to tread or open up to the eyes and hands of others. And that’s just my body. A chasm exists in my mind where nothing has shape, nothing is tangible, is knowable. Every human being has one, even if they think they don’t. Mine separates my brain from my body. My love for humanity from the love I should have for myself. In so much of my poetry, I can’t help but describe myself as an ocean or landscape or weather pattern. I know I have form, but what is my form? What do people see when they look at me? Lots of people think of a diagnosis as a label or box to be put in. They don’t want to be defined by just one aspect of themselves. I don’t either. But when you grow up feeling like a boat floating on a big, empty body of water, having something to name that feeling is a tether back to shore.

One thing in my report that really threw me for a loop was the description of a condition called “autistic burnout,” which I’d never heard of before. Once again, the cruel specter of laziness, that grotesque ableist-capitalist amalgam stalking the shadow of every child reared in a working class household, blown to dust.

My mother doesn’t know this but, like her, I frequently wonder why it is that I don’t write as much as I probably should. Well, she knows it now, because she reads my newsletters. Hi, Mama!

I could do it. Publish something on a weekly or bi-weekly basis. Come up with whatever I think might interest a general Substack audience, make it short and pithy. Get my name out there, get some recognition, some traction. All that jazz. Consistency and routine are my #1 ops when it comes to things I do just for myself, like writing or working out. Forget it. If no one else is counting on me, or I don’t feel like my life is at stake if I don’t finish by an externally-set deadline, my brain files it under “hobby” and it gathers dust. At least until inspiration strikes or I get a random boost of energy. There are exceptions: I’d intended to release my Samira Mohan article at the same time as the season 2 finale of The Pitt, but try as I might, I couldn’t quite make the sprint to the finish line. So I lit another fire under my ass and pledged to publish it before I lost the momentum generated by my anger. I am capable of holding myself accountable for things that really matter. But things like losing weight and job searching and publishing my work on a semi-regular basis start to feel a bit like screaming into the void when the rest of the world is screaming so much louder.

How to do something for yourself, something that fills your heart to bursting, without feeling like you’re just making more white noise?

The above excerpt from my report references the toll that “manag[ing] social expectations” takes on people with Autism, how that kind of prolonged strain, especially when a lot of things change rapidly, leads to burnout. Few studies on autistic burnout touch on how it impacts BIPOC communities, LGBTQIA+ communities, and other marginalized groups. I belong to a demographic that consistently gets the most focus when it comes to neurological difficulties in western society: white, middle-class, and “able-bodied” (for lack of a less ableist term). Unhoused people, Black people, nonbinary people, non-western people…where are the studies on how autistic burnout factors into their daily lives? How it intersects with food and shelter insecurity; intergenerational trauma and the violence disproportionately visited on Black men with special needs by law enforcement; making the transition from one gender to another, or realizing that you don’t feel comfortable with either, all while your parents may not accept your identity or your peers may viciously bully and abuse you for being different. A member of Gen Z (such as myself), regardless of identity, has to live with the fear of homelessness, unemployment, invisibility, loneliness, political upheaval, climate change, illness or injury, powerlessness, on a daily basis. And that’s before you add to the pot things like student loans, medical bills, depression, anxiety, gender identity, cultural background, social media, global pandemics, legislation that threatens our very existence, deaths of loved ones.

Is it any wonder that fictional bullshit affects people like me so much? That is our happy place, our refuge from the storm of life. Not all autistic people are obsessed with stories and fandoms, of course, but we all have our things that help us get through the day. The same week the news broke about Supriya Ganesh being fired from The Pitt, my downstairs neighbor, a woman I adored, lay in a bed in her living room, surrounded by her husband and adult children. Almost a year ago I was fired from my full-time job, partly due to clashes with my team, some of whom were also neurodivergent.

As of writing this, I haven’t yet found another job. I’m not sure I’ve been trying hard enough.

I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to my neighbor.

Days go by. Everything changes. Same as it ever was. I can never tell if I’m just using all this as an excuse, or if there’s something actually wrong with me. I’m not suicidal. I don’t drink or take drugs. I don’t harm myself. I live with my parents in two houses filled with love and frustration and cat hair. My mother tells me every single day to do things around the house, reminds me to job search, apply for health insurance, clean my room. Sometimes I do. Whether I am depressed or experiencing autistic burnout is anyone’s guess. She never calls me lazy, would never say that, but I’m sure she’s thought it at times. It’s understandable. People were tougher when she was my age. Had more hope I guess. Could afford their own house, their own car. Didn’t think about things like the environment or Palestine or mental health as much. The water flowed safely, silently underground. Now it’s over our heads.

How did we get here? How do we work this? What are we to do?

Some days, I’m not sure how much more of EVERYTHING I can take. I want it all to stop, slow down, BE QUIET! My god, it’s a lot.

I want to leave this article on a positive note. I have to. I began with a freaking meme for Christ sake. Getting my Autism diagnosis is honestly one of the best things to happen to me these past couple months. I would’ve been heart-broken if the diagnosis had come back negative. If the answer had been no.

There is saltwater coming from my eyes now. I’m so sad and I’m so happy. I’m part of something. I rewatched Thunderbolts* with my dad to remember what it feels like to love something that loves you back. I’m on the spectrum, and a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing has fallen into place. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

Further reading

Understanding undiagnosed autism in adult females

Women and Autism: Diagnosis and Treatment in Adulthood

Diagnostic challenges of autism spectrum disorder in women without intellectual or language impairments: a narrative review

Discovering ADHD or autism as an adult woman: Why it happens so often

Autism Burnout: Causes, Signs, and How to Support Recovery

Understanding autistic burnout

Autistic burnout explained

Burnout as experienced by autistic people: A systematic review

Autistic Burnout vs. Depression: Understanding the Difference

Autistic Burnout: What it is and how to prevent it

“Having All of Your Internal Resources Exhausted Beyond Measure and Being Left with No Clean-Up Crew”: Defining Autistic Burnout

Addressing Stigma-Related Health Disparities for Autistic Individuals Through Cultural Competemility: Insights from Research and Lived Experience

Autistic Burnout: What It Is, How It Feels, and How to Get Your Energy Back

Burnout through the Lenses of Equity/Equality, Diversity and Inclusion and Disabled People: A Scoping Review

The Impacts of Ableism & Racial Trauma on Autistic People of Color

[Warning: This article contains spoilers, read at your own risk!]

Before The Pitt, I had very little interest in medical dramas. I assumed most of them were over-dramatic, sensationalized pastiches of one another. (I don’t think I’m wrong.) But this show completely turned me over. I’d felt starved of quality television for a long time. It had been years since I fell in love with Aaron Sorkin’s political opus The West Wing—another John Wells production, if I’m not mistaken1. The second season of Fallout had just concluded, leaving quite a bit to be desired, though nothing that four more seasons can’t (hopefully) fix. I decided it was time I returned to the really good stuff. Lucky for me there was plenty of show to sink my teeth into, as The Pitt’s first season had been out for about a year, the season 2 premier soon to follow. And from the very first episode I was, proverbially, HOOKED. Since then I’ve been bingeing it with my best friend and my parents, I’ve had multiple rewatches of season 1 and some episodes of season 2, and I’ve even dipped my toe into ER, Wells’s previous medical drama juggernaut.

What ended up being my favorite part of The Pitt came out of nowhere, but in hindsight really wasn’t all that surprising considering the types of characters I am typically drawn to.

Paging the Incredible Dr. Mohan…

Although I quickly became fond of most of The Pitt’s central characters, what ultimately made me see that this show was truly special was the presence of one character in particular. Dr. Samira Mohan is an R3 (third-year resident) at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, the titular setting of the show, played by Supriya Ganesh (she/they). From the moment we meet her, Mohan stands out as a singular physician within the realm of emergency medicine. Respect and kindness, patience and empathy: these are Mohan’s modus operandi as a doctor. Unlike many of her colleagues, Samira takes the time to sit and listen to her patients, getting a full understanding of how their lives impact their medical histories. She sees what others miss because she is thorough. Not to a fault, though, because in her line of work, the things you miss could mean a razor-thin difference between life and death. Not only is she careful with the minutia of her work, but her character also serves a much greater purpose in The Pitt’s thematic tapestry.

Fellow blogger has pointed out that “Samira Mohan entered The Pitt […] doing two things no one else on the staff was doing: researching racial disparities in emergency care and taking enough time with her patients to earn some of the highest satisfaction scores in the department.”

Considering how full of potential this perspective is, I find it a bit crazy that the show didn’t focus more on her storyline from the jump. While it’s understandable that they had limited time to devote to everyone, given the sheer amount of people in this cast, it does seem like a massive missed opportunity to really delve into the diversity of experience that this show claims to value. Oftentimes characters who are relegated to the background garner a lot more attention than the writers originally bargained for. This is largely down to Ganesh’s rich and layered portrayal.

Supriya Ganesh’s singularities as an actress are not always obvious, but they certainly inform and bleed through her performance as Dr. Mohan. Although she’d had early aspirations of pursuing acting, her academic focus shifted to premed after moving from India to New York at the age of 18. Ganesh would go on to score in the 99th percentile on the MCAT, meaning she was placed with the top 1% of test takers. While working as a tutor, she decided to take yet another turn in her career and pivot back to acting, with the arrival of an exciting new medical drama on the horizon.

In an essay published by Vulture on April 15, in which she opens up about her experiences of being a South Asian person and a queer person, Ganesh writes

There is a lot to unpack in her article, but it is immediately clear that Supriya shares similar fundamental challenges with her character in The Pitt, namely being put into a box that doesn’t allow for much movement or growth. Samira isn’t just slow and careful, she’s also extremely passionate and quick-witted. We see this especially with her treatment of Joyce St. Claire, who is brought into the ER screaming in pain, described by paramedics as being “combative” and “drug seeking.” Samira is the only one who realizes that Joyce has sickle cell anemia, and quickly puts a stop to their abusive treatment of her. We also see how crucial her attentiveness is when she discovers that Nandi, a young woman they initially suspect is having some kind of psychological breakdown, in fact has mercury poisoning due to using unverified skin care products from overseas. Without Samira, neither of these women would have received the care they really needed. No one else in the department has the unique perspective that she does, having tragically lost her father when she was 13 to a myocardial infarction (heart attack) that was overlooked by his doctors. She, more than anyone, understands the need for intersectional awareness in the ER. Not only does she validate both women’s experience, she earns their trust on a much deeper level as a person of color, knowing intimately the harm that inherent biases can cause in emergency medicine.

I hadn’t seen Ganesh in anything before this. Meeting so many characters in the first hour alone, she all but blended in with the overwhelming ensemble at first. But as the season wore on, and the central characters began to step up and leave their marks, I came to understand that Samira Mohan—and, by extension, Supriya Ganesh—stands a foot apart from the rest. Both because of who she is as a doctor, but also the relationships she has with other notable cast mates. Her mentorship of the newer staff, at times firm but always fair, doling out complements and constructive criticism where it counts, where it actually helps. Versus the contentious dynamic she shares with Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robby, her attending at PTMC, the man largely responsible for ensuring she fits into the mad ebb and flow of ER medicine…who fails at almost every turn.

Her storyline is, quite honestly, one of the most compelling in the entire show and even with a notable lack of development—across two seasons and 30 episodes—Supriya Ganesh imbues her with so much life and relatability that a casual viewer like my friend can instantly connect with her. So many fans have come to see her as the true touchstone of this series, more than Robby who, despite being the literal face of the show, and suffering from suicidal ideation—all too common among healthcare workers—is much harder for the average audience member to find common ground with. For one thing, a considerable portion of The Pitt’s fanbase is comprised of young women, who see themselves and their experiences in Samira Mohan. Watching her be beat down at almost every turn by someone the show is telling us we should all be looking up to (while showing us, again and again, why we really shouldn’t), one can’t help but feel that some contradictory messages are being sent.

Either way, I like many others have been eager to see how the second season would continue to explore Samira’s complicated relationship with her mentor and how her career in emergency medicine would progress.

Or at least I was. Until this happened.

Devastated doesn’t really begin to cover how I felt when I saw this news. First I was blindsided by the suddenness of it all, the forced reality of having to say goodbye to a character I had come to see as a friend. It didn’t take long, however, for me to become aware of the darker implications of this decision. Implications that, simply put, cannot be reasonably justified as “story-driven” or “realistic.”

Let’s start with the most egregious, shall we?

Brown women are not tokens.

I feel like this really shouldn’t need to be said in 2026.

Using the news of Ganesh’s exit to casually slip an announcement of Ayesha Harris’s promotion to series regular is, to put it mildly, suspicious. To put it more accurately, it is downright gross and disrespectful, to both actresses. I don’t know who told Joe Otterson to present this news to fans of The Pitt as if we’re infants easily distracted by a shiny new toy, but whoever it was should take a good, long look in the mirror. Maybe return to school and take a class about how minorities…especially women of color…are often treated as pawns in the entertainment industry’s diversity game.

On top of all this, showrunners’ use of the word “realism” to explain away why Samira won’t be back next season is, frankly, insulting to the intelligence of the fans. Enough has been said about Tracy Ifeachor’s (Heather Collins) quiet departure from the show after season 1—an unfortunate amount of which has been debunked as little more than unsubstantiated slander—and the frankly concerning ways it mirrors Supriya’s. In hindsight, perhaps Ifeachor deserved a lot more vocal support from fans following said departure than she got. Especially since she, too, was essentially replaced by another woman of color, Sepideh Moafi, who plays Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, the Pitt’s new attending. The showrunners gave practically the exact same excuse: realism. Fool us twice, I guess.

The question has been asked before, far more eloquently, but for the sake of really driving the point home: where was this “realism” when you deliberately adjusted the time-jump between seasons so that Frank Langdon—a white resident who last season was revealed to have a Benzos addiction that he was feeding by stealing and diluting some of his patients’ drugs—could come back from his mandatory 10-month stint in rehab? Don’t get me wrong, Langdon is one of my favorite characters on the show, and I’m glad he came back. But it’s a touch hypocritical to claim realism as the end-all-be-all while skirting deftly around it so Langdon could return to work without having gone to prison. Or so Dennis Whitaker, introduced as an M4 in season 1, can still be there several months later, long after his rotation should have ended. Or so Robby can have his tantrums and his borderline HR violations when addressing his female subordinates, getting off completely scott free because he’s [check’s notes] the hero of the show? I could go on…

But by all means, continue to feed us your rote answer to the dismissal of one woman of color after another. Do another bait-and-switch, presenting us with a new diversity statistic to replace the old one we will inevitably become attached to and then be forced to watch while you either make them feel weak and incompetent next to the great Dr. Robinavitch, or unceremoniously show them the door. Toe the company line while the actresses you discarded exceed your expectations. Don’t be so shocked when we speak their names about a thousand times more than their white co-stars’, until you can’t attend a televised event without getting interrogated about them again.

Media critic Olivia Truffaut-Wong astutely points out that the fact that “The Pitt is writing out a woman of color for the second time makes it feel less like a story-driven decision and more like the show’s way of meeting a strict woman of color quota that it can’t—or won’t—exceed.” Why is there plenty of room in the show for all the white members of its ensemble, but not enough for all of them?

Brown women are not interchangeable. They should not be made to feel as if their mere presence is expendable, contingent on the coin-flip mentality of a rich, white studio executive. Or the producers of their own show.

But when you continually treat them as such…when you exchange them and use them to purchase attention, to garner hollow praise…don’t act surprised when their eyes flicker and dim at the poor space you give them to move within. When they refuse to follow your rules. When they stop trusting you altogether.

The “Mohabbot” Connection

Yes, I’m going to talk about the ship. No, I do not subscribe to the notion that a romantic relationship in any way diminishes Samira’s character or that fans are stupid to fixate on it. Here’s why…

Beyond the age gap—and the objective attractiveness of the actors—there is something to be said for the incredible draw that a pairing like this has for a show like The Pitt. When we first meet Jack Abbot (played by Shawn Hatosy) he is standing at the edge of the hospital’s roof, looking down and wondering aloud why he keeps coming back. This man has suffered tremendous loss in his life. He is a veteran who lost part of his right leg in combat. His wife died an indeterminant number of years ago, but he still wears his ring. And he is the night shift attending at PTMC, meaning he’s probably seen things during his tenure that would put most grown adults flat on their ass.

We don’t see him interact with Samira Mohan until later in the season, during the PittFest mass casualty incident. Jack returns for his shift in episode 12 to find the Pitt preparing for an incoming barrage of trauma patients, victims of the shooting that occurred at the music festival that day. Samira is assigned to work with Jack on the most critical patients and they both jump head-first into the mayhem. This is the first time that we get to see Abbot in action as an emergency room doctor. This is also when it really clicks for the audience that, regardless of the pace she often works at, the ER is exactly where Samira Mohan belongs. The two of them are at their very best for nearly four hours straight, as trauma after trauma rolls in and their white gowns are splattered with blood. We’ve never seen them work together before, but the rhythm that they fall into as a team makes their chemistry impossible to ignore.

While tending to a police officer who got shot in the neck, Jack impresses her by performing a “crike” (cricothyrotomy) with nothing but a tactical airway, a trachea hook, and an introducer. His battlefield techniques excite her and she eagerly asks him what else he has in his bag of tricks. “Oh, just wait and see,” he responds mischievously.

Two episodes later, a navy corpsman is wheeled in with a gunshot wound to the thigh. Jack joins Samira in Trauma One, and with a differential diagnosis of intracardiac air embolism he orders a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter. The plan is to aspirate the excess air directly from the man’s heart—a successful but little-tested procedure called intracardiac aspiration. Then he turns to Samira and tells her that she is going to do the procedure.

The plan receives immediate pushback from night shift surgeon Emery Walsh (played by the severely underrated Tedra Millan). “This is not the standard of care,” she says. Before Samira can start to doubt herself, Jack hands her the catheter and looks into her eyes, nodding silently as if to say “You can do this. You CAN.”

The procedure goes off without a hitch. Abbot stands close by and watches as Mohan performs the intracardiac aspiration perfectly, with no complications. Afterwards he commends her with an almost uncharacteristically fond look in his eyes. When Samira tries to pass the credit off to him, he encourages her to “take the win.”

I won’t belabor the point by saying what’s already been said about the ICONIC shirtless scene in season 2 episode 7. I’ll just leave these here…

It’s never explicitly stated but it can certainly be inferred that one of the main reasons why Jack Abbot comes back to the Pitt every night, besides his vocation of service to a higher cause, is Samira Mohan. Who she is as a doctor and as a person. In a leaked early script, we see him advocate for her in a scrapped scene where some of his colleagues make fun of her pace when she isn’t in the room, dubbing her “Slow-Mo.” Abbot responds with “She’s smarter than all of us.” Shawn Hatosy himself has even gone on record saying that if Jack could give Samira any words of encouragement, they would be that she is “the future of emergency medicine.” To him, Samira is a shining beacon of everything that emergency medicine should be about: care, empathy, passion, kindness, and humanity. It should be about treating patients as human beings before all else. Not letting ER conventions rob you of your heart’s intuition. Because that is Samira Mohan’s superpower.

“Mohabbot” is the least important reason why Samira Mohan needs to return to The Pitt, but it is one of the things that fans latch onto the most. To ignore that would be a colossal mistake, robbing both characters of a vital source of development, and further alienating a considerable portion of the fan base as a result.

And lest we forget, “Mohabbot” means love. You are missing out on a diamond mine of quality character work and storytelling. It quite literally writes itself.

WHAT’S THE POINT?

When it comes to Samira Mohan, The Pitt is one of those shows that has, at its core, a schism between theory and practice, paradoxically seeming to do two contradictory things at once. In theory, it sets Samira up as a hero, a stand-out, and an inspiration amidst a system that devalues her. In practice, however, it simultaneously bolsters the narrow-minded, trauma-informed philosophy of the one telling her to “go faster” or “go home.” The show offers plenty of indications that the ER is, in fact, exactly where Samira Mohan belongs, as we see her lock in with the best of them during the worst of last season’s mass casualty incident. We see her perform a procedure with a pigtail catheter that only a handful of doctors have attempted before, doing it perfectly and without breaking a sweat. Beyond the adrenaline rush of a high stress situation, we also see how her diligence to help sickle cell patients like Joyce (another woman of color), or diabetic fathers who can’t afford Medicaid like Orlando, is, in fact, what SAVES LIVES, far more than the system’s speed-over-satisfaction philosophy.

(What is it Dr. Abbot says? “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”2)

But the show also has little not-so-clever ways of covering its own ass should it decide to go ahead and kick its best resident (arguably) to the curb. The adrenaline come-down Samira experiences in the aftermath of the MCI—something that ANYONE who thrives in that kind of environment would most certainly experience without it being an indication that they should seek other employment. The missed triple-A on Arthur Green’s ultrasound…which, by the way, was not only NOT HER FAULT, it wasn’t even due to Samira’s proclivity for careful observation and persistent patience. One could go so far as to argue that it was indirectly Robby’s fault: the one trying to instill a speed-oriented mindset in her from the start, doing his utmost to mold her in his own warped image of what he should have been as a resident. What he thinks would have saved his mentor, Adamson, who died during COVID.

The philosophy of the show should not be that you can only have one speed as a doctor, only go about things one way, and never question your teachers or try something new that could actually help someone being overlooked by the system. It shouldn’t be that Samira’s goal to do right by the memory of her father was all for nothing. And it SHOULD NOT be that feeling burnt out, having panic attacks, or being constantly belittled by someone you look up to, mean that you just aren’t cut out for the work. The Pitt’s philosophy shouldn’t align solely with Robby—a man spiraling through shame, guilt, and a deep-seated self hatred that doesn’t allow him to treat her with the kind of respect she deserves. The respect that people like Jack Abbot afford her in spades.

Some people defend the decision to write her out of next season by making the argument that Samira would be better suited to a slower-paced specialty like geriatrics. Based purely on two of her attendings broaching the idea to her in season 2—instead of what we actually see her doing for the majority of the show. Crucially, only one of those two attendings makes this suggestion in good faith. The one who does has only seen Samira at work in the ER for a day. Wasn’t there to see her defend a young, black sickle cell patient against bias and discrimination…or later in season 1 when she made that intracardial aspiration procedure her bitch. And the other attending, well…I think we’ve already established why he doesn’t have the most reliable perspective on her career.

Samira doesn’t want to go into geriatrics. We all know this. It wouldn’t make any sense for her to. She needs to be in a place where she can defend a woman of color who has sickle cell. Where she can help a diabetic father get the treatment he needs without going bankrupt. Where she can listen to the elderly AND the young, the aging patients who don’t want to move out of their home, the Hispanic mother with a blood clot that could kill her without immediate attention. She is the one who reads between the lines. Who is a steady force in the storm of a mass casualty event, hardly breaking a sweat during the worst of it. Who performs a highly experimental procedure (under the guidance of someone who really ought to be her attending) and does it perfectly3. That is someone her father would be proud of.

And at the end of the day, what is even the point of good, prestige television if it isn’t willing to do something brave, push the envelope, go above and beyond pure “realism” to give us, the audience, something to jump out of our seats and cheer for? Is that not the kind of thing we need in this day and age, when healthcare funds are being slashed left, right, and center; when studies on racial disparities in medicine are trashed and global pandemics cause brilliant people to all but lose the will to live?

To the producers, writers, and directors…

You are BETTER than this.

And if we, the fans, have to force your hand in order for you to remember that, then so be it. Because the fact is these stories don’t belong to you. This character doesn’t belong to you. They belong to all of us. You may have conjured up the idea of Samira Mohan, like Athena piercing the roof of Zeus’s cranium, but Supriya Ganesh has breathed every ounce of their life, their passion, and their love into her. Supriya Ganesh made her real. Without Supriya, there would be no Mohan. And without Mohan, The Pitt wouldn’t have a heart. It would be little more than a hollow Tin Man…no oil can, no Dorothy. Simple as that.

I’ve seen what this show is, and I believe in what it can be. It cannot be that without Samira Mohan.

I understood Heather Collins leaving because her arc had a mostly satisfying conclusion, or at least one that was easier to accept. I understood Kiara leaving because a lot of social workers rotate through hospitals, and she can’t be the only one there. I even understood Gloria not being in this season because she’s busy managing the hospital.

But Samira is different. She is the HEART of this show, because you wrote her that way. She isn’t just a central character, she’s central to the thesis of The Pitt: that there is more than one way to be a good doctor, that there is a place for empathy, patience, and advocacy within emergency medicine. She has touched the lives of every other main character, just as she has touched the lives of so many fans in exceptionally deep and personal ways.

We know doctors don’t stay forever. We know residents rotate out. But this is far from the only conclusion that could be written for Samira, especially if she is in the middle of her R4 year still. You claim to value realism above all, and realistically Samira does NOT need to leave. She is the future of emergency medicine. Those words may not have made it into the show, but they are the truest thing about it.

Samira Mohan deserves so much more than to be relegated to the past, mentioned briefly in an offhand comment by a former colleague and then all but forgotten. WE, the fans, deserve better than cold, hard “realism” if it comes at the expense of a character so many of us look up to and see ourselves in. She may not be the only doctor capable of listening to patients and speaking out when something goes unnoticed. But there is only ONE Samira Mohan, and we need her badly. So I implore you to see how vitally important she is, how loved she is by the fandom, and how necessary it is to have a Desi woman be allowed to grow and flourish as a whole person, beyond the limits of her attending’s character development.

Samira Mohan is more than just a character. Just like Robby is more than just a character. And Dana, and Mel King, and Trinity Santos, and Frank Langdon, and Jack Abbot, and Baran Al Hashimi. Samira is every healthcare worker who has been spread far too thin by a system that insists there is no room for compassion, for patience, or for empathy. She is every woman who has heard the words “too slow,” “too much,” “not good enough,” and has endured despite it all. More importantly, she is every Desi woman overlooked by the media, too frequently used as a device with which to prop up the arcs of their white colleagues. The loom, not the thread.

I know so many people, myself included, who would feel extremely let down by this show—which we adore and find refuge in—if one of its most essential parts were excised completely. I know even more people who would stop watching altogether. Samira Mohan has inspired more people than you think and we are NOT ready to say goodbye to her.

She is needed now, desperately. We have waited too long to meet her, and you CANNOT just rip her away when her story’s barely begun.

To the Fans: Samira Mohan is NOT dead.

So stop talking about her like she is. They cannot kill someone as powerful and cherished as Samira Mohan. They cannot erase her existence, her significance. The weight of her in our hearts. The hole her absence leaves in the fabric of this show.

Samira Mohan is not dead. She’s not even mostly dead.

She is ALIVE.

DO NOT give up on her.

And to Supriya…

Our love for you is unquantifiable. It cannot be measured by ratings or views or any other kind of number. If you feel you’re being pushed out because nobody wants to hear your story, you are mistaken. If you think they want to get rid of you because people don’t care, nothing could be further from the truth.

You are seen.

You are heard.

You are needed.

You are loved.

All of the incredible work and care that you put into Samira Mohan wasn’t for nothing. You ARE an inspiration, you ARE someone who so many people can look up to and say “THAT is the kind of doctor I want to be,” or “THAT is the kind of doctor I want tending to the people I love, speaking up for them when their concerns and fears and hopes aren’t listened to by other doctors.” You did that. YOU. No one else could have done it like you did. No one else WILL ever do it like you did.

We need you still. And we’ll be waiting anxiously for Samira to return.

நாங்கள் உன்னை நேசிக்கிறோம்

(We love you.)

எப்போதும் உன்னுடன் காதல்

(Always we love you.)

Don’t just take my word for it…

Before publishing this letter, I tried gathering quotes from fellow fans of The Pitt who are equally outraged by this news, but wasn’t able to collect as many as I hoped before the deadline. So in the spirit of this being an open letter, I will add more below as they roll in.

From Discord…

I first started watching The Pitt because of Supriya’s character, Samira Mohan. From the moment she appeared on screen, I was instantly hooked and felt a strong connection to her. Samira is such an inspiring character, especially for young women—particularly women of color—who aspire to work in the medical field.

Supriya is an incredibly talented actress who brought so much depth and authenticity to the role. That’s why it’s been so emotional for fans to lose her. It truly feels like Samira’s story had so much more potential, and many of us aren’t ready to see it end here.

If you happen to see this, please consider bringing Supriya back. Losing this kind of representation is heartbreaking for so many of us. Many women, especially women of color, saw themselves in her, and it’s deeply upsetting to see her journey cut short.

Thank you.

- Olivia

Dear Supriya,

Thank you. Truly, thank you for bringing Samira Mohan to life in such an honest, human, and unforgettable way.

My first introduction to The Pitt was through a TikTok edit of Samira, and from that moment, something just clicked. I was struck by her ability to never give up, no matter the circumstances. Even when no one believed in her, when she was underestimated and labeled “Slow-Mo,” Samira kept going. And more than that, she always treated her patients with the same level of care and concern—something that, as patients, we all hope to find in a doctor.

That’s what made her so special. You showed us a doctor who wasn’t afraid to feel, to get involved, to go the extra mile for the people in front of her. And instead of being a weakness, that was her greatest strength.

It also meant so much to see that, even when others doubted her, there was always someone who truly saw her. Knowing that she could rely on Jack Abbot—who supported her, encouraged her, and reminded her that she was exactly where she was meant to be, that she belonged, that she was good at what she did—brought so much comfort and joy. Because Samira deserved to be seen that way. She deserved someone who understood that her ability to deeply connect with patients made her a better doctor, not a worse one. That her empathy was a virtue, not a flaw—and one that is so rare to find in medicine today.

In season two, watching her carry so much—her personal life, her doubts, her mental health, and the weight of a system that so often fails—only made us connect with her even more. You made her real. You made her relatable. You made her unforgettable.

That’s why it hurts so much to see her and you go. Because it’s not just a character leaving—it’s someone who represented something truly important within the story, and for those of us watching.

Thank you for Samira. Thank you for everything you made us feel.

With love,

Fernanda

From Change.org…

“Dr. Mohan has been an inspiration for me these past 6 months so this news was devastating. She not only encapsulated who I am as a person but she also inspired me to fully lean into healthcare and advocate for patients on a consistent basis. She was an important part of this show and her exit will be their biggest loss.” - Emma

“Samira represents thousands of healthcare workers out there and honestly is one of the best written medical characters out there. Supriya Ganesh does a fantastic job playing Samira. If you loose her, you will loose someone [who’s] such a vital part in the story and honestly a lot of your viewers won't be interested in the show. Believe it or not a lot of us watch it because of her.” - Anastasia

“Supriya Ganesh has been such a vital part of the show. Her character highlights such important issues and the lesson that we learn from her shouldn't be to leave but to fight back. To prove to others that there should be different doctors in the ED. To not be bullied by superiors and have the opportunity to fight back. This is the biggest mistake the Pitt is doing and honestly you will loose a lot of viewers because of this. What is the point of addressing health disparities when you are taking away the one character in the show that feels passionate about it?” - Eliza

“As someone with chronic illness, Dr. Mohan is the reason that I have decided to go back to seeking treatment instead of suffering silently, because she represents so many caring physicians.” - Katherine

“Supriya Ganesh's portrayal of Dr. Samira Mohan is inspirational and one of the best things about The Pitt. To lose her is to lose a huge part of what makes the show so beloved by its fans.” - Caroline

“The representation, heart, and compassion Supriya Ganesh has supplied to Dr. Mohan has been such an inspiration. So many have connected with this character and we want to see her story continue. We want this show to tell people that representation matters, women of color are not disposable, and these characters deserve more than an off-screen exit.” - Julia

“I started watching The Pitt for Samira and she made me want to go to school for nursing. She's impacted my life majorly.” - Raven

“Samira Mohan is by far one of the best additions to the Pitt. Her empathy and guidance is loved by many and a woman of color being admired like her is rare. Getting rid of her character to highlight her white counterparts more is just despicable and completely disregards the message that the Pitt is trying to share to the medical industry.” - Hannah

“Dr. Mohan's character arc is about gaining the confidence to say she, her listening ears, her open heart, and her tenderness all belong in the ED even when the rest of the world brands her as too inefficient for it. Her empathy makes real change for patients who would otherwise be ignored or dismissed because of their marginalized status, making her quite literally the embodiment of narrative medicine. If anyone on this show deserves to stay, it is her. As Dr. Collins said in S1, listening to her patient is her superpower. To write her off now would go back on that message and do a disservice to everyone who has ever believed in working within broken systems to make them a little less terrible for even one person, suggesting that those who incentivize anything and everything over human compassion and connection are right in saying that there is no point in striving for change. She has fought tooth and nail to claim her space here, and the writers should show more respect for her, for the people she represents and inspires, and for the story they were trying to tell in the first place.” - Leucine

“So many future doctors and nurses with empathy now only see her departure as a sign that we don’t belong in medicine. Empathy does not equal incompetence.” - Meris

“As a healthcare provider myself, Samira Mohan is the heart of The Pitt for me and so many others who see ourselves in her. Having a voice for the underserved and the underrepresented felt so monumental. Losing this character feels like the antithesis of the “love letter to healthcare workers” the show claims to be.” - Lila

“Supriya gave us such a rich and relatable character in her portrayal of Dr. Samira Mohan. It is clear that the decision to have her exit the show was an abrupt one that was not made with much forethought. By not continuing Dr. Mohan’s story, the show will be losing a wonderful character […] To have her exit her program before her residency is finished would not be a realistic choice for her character or for any resident. She deserves to have a fully realized arc. Beyond the confines of the show, it is a massive blow to such a young and talented actress to dismiss her from the show with such little notice or apparent reason. Whatever has gone on behind the scenes is clearly a new development that does not line up as story-motivated. After her stellar performance and continual positive words about the entire team behind The Pitt, it is hard to imagine a reason that would warrant her departure, especially in the way it has been handled. For a show that prides itself on diversity and the growth of new young talent, it is in direct contradiction to continue the pattern of booting their ensemble, especially women of color. We saw it first with Tracy in S1 and now with Supriya. The continued party line of “realistic nature of the medical profession” is tired and not supporting a strong culture behind the scenes or on screen for the larger narrative. In a time when everyone is feeling the economic strain, it is an upsetting and morally abhorrent decision to make coming from a well-funded network like HBO. You cannot expect to continue to have a successful show when you mistreat your talent. Since the shocking announcement of her departure (timed concurrently with the promotion of another WOC, Ayesha Harris, to main cast, overshadowing her success), I have not watched the show, as it has left a bitter taste in my mouth knowing that any groundwork they laid for the character and for the actress will not be further explored. I hope that the powers that be reconsider this decision and that, if Supriya so chooses, she can continue her exceptional portrayal of Samira Mohan in some capacity in seasons to come.” - Emily

“women of colour should not be used to grab an audience's attention and then be discarded. their stories are valuable and MUST be told!!!” - Val

“Samira is the kind of doctor I want to be. She’s kind, compassionate, and overall an inspirational character. Writing her off is a grave mistake.” - Audrey

“I’m currently studying to be a midwife, and I also suffer from multiple chronic health issues. Seeing Samira’s empathy and patient centred care in television is hugely important to me as a role model, a future healthcare provider and a patient. Samira’s empathy is her superpower. Supriya’s portrayal of the character is nothing short of inspiring and beautiful. My heart breaks at the thought of never seeing Samira Mohan on my screen again. We need to showcase how pivotal empathy, kindness and care are in the healthcare space - Dr. Mohan and Supriya are the perfect way to do this.” - Amanda

“BRING HER BACK.” - Gabbie

“BRING HER BACK!!!” - Evelyn

Not just a manifestation. A demand…a necessity.

Say it with me now…

Samira Mohan WILL be back.

She will be back SOON.

And she will be the same Samira we all love. But more confident. More sure of herself. Certain in her purpose as a doctor and an advocate for those who go unheard. She will still have struggles, as all human beings do, but the core of her character will no longer revolve around the fickle attentions of a man so consumed with self-hatred that he cannot see her as more than just a mirror of himself.

Samira Mohan WILL be back.

Sources & further reading

What Happens When The Medical Show Loses Its Heart?

We Need to Talk About How The Pitt—& Dr. Robby—Treats Women Of Color

Op-Ed: The Pitt’s Creative Choices Don’t Exist in a Vacuum

Supriya Ganesh’s exit from The Pitt underscores TV’s broader representation problem

The Pitt Star Supriya Ganesh Unpacks That Major Dr. Mohan Episode

My Strange Dysphoria - Growing up in India, I never questioned my gender. When I moved to the U.S. at 18, I began to feel disconnected from my body. by Supriya Ganesh (non-paywalled version)

SIGN THE PETITION: Bring Back Supriya Ganesh as Dr. Mohan on The Pitt

Cathedral Ridge is a 160-acre retreat center located in Pike National Forest, just north of Pike’s Peak, and is owned by the Colorado Episcopal Diocese. Its mission statement is “to provide both a sanctuary and a stimulating environment in which lives are transformed in relationship with God and one another.”

For the past few years, members of St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church have been making the trek up to Cathedral Ridge for a weekend-long summer retreat, engaging in community building activities, nature walks, and much needed relaxation time in between three square home-cooked meals. My mom and I joined them for the first time in the summer of 2024, over the 4th of July weekend. Although the retreat itself is paid for by the church and is therefore an ostensibly religious one, it is by no means its sole purpose. We’d been going to St. Tim’s since before COVID, and by this point many of the people we were joining were friends. While I don’t consider myself a religious person—I attend service sporadically, if at all—I have grown immensely fond of this community as a source of open-minded support in difficult times. Even as a half-Pagan, I feel understood and comforted by its two spiritual leaders, both women.

My reason for going that weekend was mainly to take my mind off things. In a few days I’d be starting my new job as a student success coach with City Year. I didn’t know at that point the level of responsibility I’d have, the stress that would come with it, or the sense of fulfillment I’d feel at the end of the year. I had worked as a mentor before with peers at college, but nowhere near this capacity. I was excited to be doing something meaningful, that would make a difference, but I was also scared. When my mom signed us up for the retreat, I couldn’t have been more eager to escape into the Rocky Mountains. I always felt safe there.

Relaxation isn’t difficult to find in a place like this. Surrounded by miles of seemingly unbroken pine forest and rolling mountains, one feels swaddled in the nature sprawled around them, in the dip of a vast bed of deep green stretching as far as the eye can see—from the vantage point of the lodge, at least.

The sun emerges in the morning like a jewel in the soft crook of the nearby peaks, casting its final muted glow like a veil over those same peaks in the evening.

The property itself includes a lodge and dining hall, branched by nature trails that lead off to a ropes course, an archery range, and a gazebo overlooking Rule Creek. Within easy walking distance of the lodge and the dining hall are two outdoor chapels consisting of rough-hewn “pews” aligned in mirrored rows on either side of an aisle in front of a simple raised dais. A few feet from one of these chapels, nestled in a little clearing humming with new life, is a small prayer labyrinth that was made by volunteers—St. Tim’s Reverend Kim Seidman among them—during the 2020 quarantine.

On the morning of the 7th, around 7am—an hour before breakfast—Kim led a group of us down a narrow dirt path near the entrance to the retreat center. We found ourselves in a low, grassy area populated by wildflowers, aspen groves, and pine trees1. Despite its proximity to the road it felt secluded, one of those charming little nooks almost certainly home to the Fae. The path stopped at the edge of the clearing, from which we could see both the chapel and the labyrinth tucked in together.

According to Grace Chapel, the prayer labyrinth “is simply a place to walk and pray. There is nothing mystical about it. It gives you the freedom to walk around while focusing your mind on God - and not worry about getting lost.” Unlike a maze, which is what most people think of when they hear “labyrinth,” (and is more of a game or puzzle) there is nothing to be solved in a prayer labyrinth. Mother Kim describes it as a way of having a free-flowing dialogue with God.

She explained that this particular labyrinth is known as a Baltic or “Goddess” labyrinth. Because this particular labyrinth has two “mouths” (entrances) that both lead to the center, no matter which end you choose to go in, you will eventually come back out the other. The Reverend Dr. Lauren Artress, whose home parish is Grace Cathedral in San Fran, uses three simple words to sum up the process of using this type of labyrinth for prayer: Release, Receive, and Return. As you walk the winding path you release your storm of prayer, doubt, and conflict into the ether for God/the universe to absorb. You then quiet your thoughts and allow yourself to receive whatever answers may come back to you at the labyrinth’s heart. Finally, you exit the labyrinth and return to the world with what you have been given2.

I don’t know exactly what came over me when I entered that labyrinth. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t yet had breakfast—my brain is pretty effectively useless when I haven’t eaten—or the slight chill in the air that penetrated the only warm piece of clothing I had packed. Maybe it was the fact that, in a few days’ time, I would begin training for a job I worried I wouldn’t have the requisite stamina for. The things that had been overwhelming me in the past months. The genocide. The environment. My body. My future. All at once.

Perhaps the graceful calm of that place, the quiet buzzing and chirping of the creatures that live there, lulled me into a sense of security that I don’t often feel. A real one. As I walked the path and let my thoughts and fears loose, I got the sense I was being listened to, even though I was completely silent. Like someone was there, hovering just above my head, nodding along as I emptied my soul. The inside of my mind became an enormous enclosed space, like a ballroom, walls and ceiling encrusted and clustered with stars. It felt like God was listening. Both He and She. I could hear their Voice clearly in my head, my past and present in concert. In harmony.

I didn’t try to reason with myself what they might want to hear, what god was to me, if it was real or just a coping mechanism. All those silly things the brain does to force out even the possibility of magic, or of madness. I forgot it all. Maybe I was still half asleep. None of that mattered. I let it be loud in my mind and filled that room with everything I had kept inside me like insects in a jar. It’s one thing to let your friends, family, therapists look through the glass, not even darkly, everything on display, because you can’t bear to keep it all to yourself. It’s another thing to be able to unseal the jar and release all of it into a much bigger space where they’re seen and received with understanding. No judgement. You know when you’re done they’ll all come back to the safety of the jar, because a creature like fear is a hard thing to set free. For now, you let them flit and float around, careening from corner to corner in a room so big you can’t even see the floor.

When I reached the center, it was like a switch had been flipped. My voice fell silent, the one I spoke with in my mind. Their Voice filled my body like breath fills a lung. They told me…well, I won’t say. The moment was too precious, too personal to be given up to anyone else. All I will say is, when I threw my inner voice far beyond myself, into that cavernous room, there was an answer. Echo returning as two: Mine and Theirs.

I was crying as I made my way out of the labyrinth. My peace of mind—what I perceived as peace—had been stirred like fish in a pond. Waves of gentle tears came spilling out of me. A warm sunbeam broke through the trees. I sat down in the long grass and closed my eyes. The Voice and the Presence in me became one: a Mother. The sunbeam was Her; so were the grass and the tears and the whispered prayers of the trees. I pulled my knees up and She held me like a baby. Humming a song I knew.

It’s okay…It’s okay…It’s okay…

So many small things grow in that little pocket of the world. New growth fed by the black, decaying leaves left by winter. Brown-eyed Susans, violet harebells, sweet woodruff. A fuzzy leaf apparently called “lamb’s ear” that my mother stroked my cheek with when she saw me crying in the grass.

Rousing myself from the waking dream, I felt such a heaviness that demanded distance. I had to get away from the group, just for a moment. I stood and walked into the aspen grove behind the chapel…letting the Voice dissolve into my body. Listening to the rippling song of the forest.

When I am lost, overwhelmed, or afraid, I sometimes go back to that chapel in the wilderness. The sweet smell of early summer, the song of quiet it taught me. I find my way through the labyrinth, find myself at its center. I can always meet Her there. Where everything is more quiet than here.

[addendum…]

Derry (Doire)

In the North of Ireland
the cows still graze when it's raining,
the goldenrod still blooms.
This is how I want to remember the world
when I die.
The heaviness of a cough like rain fog
in my chest,
the thick, wet green of the land rolling by my window.
The train that took me from Belfast to Derry
that gray, dripping morning.
Let my eyes be full of green when that day comes,
this beautiful, cracked island I cherish like kintsugi shards
-stolen-unhealed-
gold mixed with blood and pain, music and memory.

- written on the train to Derry, June 14, 2025

Walking the winding streets of Derry, I tried to imagine what it was like at the height of the conflict. This is a futile attempt, of course; you’d hardly know there was a conflict to see the city today. Unless you’ve seen the films and TV series or read the books, it’s difficult to picture this quiet, hilly city as ground zero of the Troubles. Car bombs going off on either side of the River Foyle, soldiers armed to the teeth watching from every wall, the black shroud of fear hanging stale above its ancient cobble stones.

The city center is about as quaint and gorgeous as any Northern Irish city can be, a charming conglomerate of pizzerias, taphouses, clothes shops and cafes. My first stop was the Tower Museum, there to see the Derry Girls Experience exhibit. I’ve been a fan of the show created by Lisa McGee for many years now, so I was properly ecstatic to see many of the places where the hilarious misadventures of Erin Quinn and her friends were filmed. Although the exhibit was small, seeing so many iconic items from the show brought a smile to my face.

Exiting the museum, you find yourself facing one of Derry’s legendary walls at the corner of Magazine Street and Union Hall Place. Climbing the narrow stone steps, I looked down at the Guildhall Square, where 30 years before Bill Clinton delivered a momentous speech to the people of Derry after the 1994 ceasefire. It just so happened that a housing rights demonstration was taking place in the square on that day, wrapping up as I was leaving the museum. A man was addressing a small crowd of umbrella-wielding citizens. I stopped to watch and to listen: “…with record numbers of children living in temporary accommodation, which has all sorts of impacts on their education and mental wellbeing,” he said. “Let’s build a movement that says housing is a right for all. Let’s build a movement that says across this island of Ireland everybody has a right to a house. Housing for all is a human rights demand!”

Housing rights has been a main point of conflict in the North of Ireland since before the Troubles began. The discrimination against Catholics specifically when it came to housing, representation, and employment became vital parts of the powder keg that would explode in the early 70s as the conflict neared its peak. I had no idea that housing was still an issue to such a degree in Derry.

After picking up some souvenirs, including a tote bag and much-needed extra shirt at the visitor center, I wandered down Waterloo Pl. and rounded a sharp corner onto William St. By accident, I had found myself in the Bogside proper, just beyond the city walls. From Rossville Street to Lecky Road is probably the highest concentration of political murals I’ve ever encountered. All of them commemorating the victims and heroes of the Troubles; civil rights leaders and activists such as Bobby Sands, Nelson Mandela, and Martin Luther King Jr.
These were not merely art exhibits, but painted on the outer walls of ordinary homes and shops, street corners the world may never have noticed if it hadn’t been for the memorials printed there for posterity. The people that live and work here, between the imposing, centuries-old walls and Free Derry Corner, do so in the shade of living history.

Overlooking the Free Derry gable wall is a low, grassy hill where the H Block Hunger Strike Memorial stands, commemorating the ten IRA hunger strikers imprisoned at Long Kesh. The names of all ten strikers—among them Bobby Sands, Francis Hughes, and Patsy O’Hara—who perished in the course of their protest, demanding rights as political prisoners, are inscribed on the large, H-shaped stone at the hill’s peak, along with the phrase “I’ll wear no convict’s uniform, nor meekly serve my time.”

A few feet from this monument sit the Derry Brigade (Briogáid Dhoire) Roll of Honour and Remembrance plaques. The names of men and women who gave their lives for the cause of Irish independence inscribed in gold lettering against dark stone. Beside this, a granite monument that reads: “dedicated to those Volunteers who died in places where circumstances do not permit the erection of a commemorative plaque.” Finally, the Easter Lily sculpture in the tri-colors (green, white, and orange) of the Irish flag, on the back of which is written, “Erected By Unrepentant Republicans, Derry.”

When people talk about Derry, they tend to reference its history, culture, and many charms—all valid talking points. But none of the books I read or shows I watched mentioned or properly portrayed Derry’s hills. Certainly not enough to prepare me for how many there were.

The city of Derry is like if you took Leadville, Colorado and put it in Europe. It goes up and down so often that just taking a stroll down one of its streets is a mini hike. I’m not complaining about any of this, but it’s one of the things that impressed me the most.

The character of this city is far more dynamic than its topography. Folks from both sides of the religio-political divide convene, conversing in thick, rousing accents, punctuated by expletives that sound so beautiful in their lexicon that you’d barely blink to hear it. The upper and lower classes, though still very much separated by location, felt from my outsider’s perspective somewhat squished together in this small place. There is no way for someone like myself to gauge the true depth of fission beneath the surface. Remembering the time preceding the ceasefire in the 90s, Derry-born Kerri ní Dochartaigh wrote in her 2021 memoir Thin Places,

“We do not know yet the journey that the land on which we live, and all of us who live on it, will make. We do not yet know the lengths and breadths, the words and actions, the negotiating that will be required to take us from being a land of violence to a land of (more or less) peace. Some of us, in fact, may never know the ins and outs of this process, our journey towards peace in the North of Ireland, our Peace Process. We will not know of the words whispered between people, between humans that had never broken breath to one another before. We may never know of the bargains and sacrifices made, of the leaps of something—something unthinkable—that were taken. Leaps of something that feels much stronger, even, than sheer ‘faith’. That border has seen it all—every last trace of violence, bloodshed, silence, trust—the peace that has been carefully and sensitively shaped. A peace as delicate as the wings of a moth.”

It becomes all the more difficult to sense these things when looking down on the Bogside from the Double Bastion on the Derry Walls. But the markers are still visible, from the base of the grassy hill to the crest of the time-worn stones, of a history that refuses to be forgotten, that is all-too present for its inhabitants, for better or worse. Yet another memorial landmark stands at the base of a flight of steps that lead up to the walls, remembering IRA volunteer, and former chairperson of the Derry Citizens Defence Association, Seán Ó Cianáin (Sean Keenan). From 1986 until his death he served as Honorary Vice-President of Republican Sinn Féin, a splinter faction of the larger Sinn Féin party. His memorial stands solitary and proud, crowned by an austere Celtic cross, commendations listed on its base in English and Irish.

Following the cobbled wall path I came across St. Augustine’s Church, built on the original site where Saint Columba established his abbey in 543 AD. Overlooking the largely Catholic Bogside, this Anglican church represents the other half of the sectarian divide, a gorgeous wee building situated just above Derry’s cultural fracture. Yet it is also another reminder of how ancient Derry is, the diversity of its ongoing history and its powerful potential for peace and coexistence. Its picturesque rose window and gothic arches were not what ultimately drew my eye, but the tiny, moss-laden graveyard that sits beside it, typical of a classic Anglican parish. We poets often dream of such places: cold gray headstones draped in lichen and time’s erosion, the soft green of close-cut grass creeping up the trunks of maple, oak, and ash.

Northern Ireland is covered in historic cemeteries; this one is no less grand in my mind.

In my life, there haven’t been many opportunities to step into the locations of my favorite works of fiction (or, in this case, semi-fiction). Being in Derry was a different experience than visiting the Great Hall at Christ Church College at Oxford University1 with my parents when I was seven, but still incredible. When I found myself standing outside of The Yellow Yard on Palace Street, I knew exactly where I was. Self-described as a vintage retro marketplace, vending everything from clothes to records to antique items, this technicolor boutique is famously the spot where Erin, Orla, Claire, Michelle, and James went to get their tickets for the Fatboy Slim concert in season 3 of Derry Girls (and where James almost fought a grown man for said tickets).

Next on my impromptu self-guided Derry Girls tour was Limewood St. One of the more recognizable locations to fans of the show, this quiet residential lane instantly transports you to the world of Lisa McGee’s childhood, with the added delight of feeling a bit like a teenage girl yourself after hiking all the way to the top just to capture both views of this iconic street—sweats and all2.

Something I knew I had to do before leaving the city that afternoon was seek out the famous Derry Girls mural. This particular landmark took a bit longer to locate, and I ended up nearly as sweat-drenched as I’d been in Dublin. When I said Derry is like a Colorado town in the Rocky Mountains, I was not lying. She kicked my butt.

In my directionally-challenged search, I had misinterpreted Google maps and missed the mural by several blocks before realizing my mistake. By the time I reoriented myself, my battery was running low and my mom was freaking out over text, worried I wouldn’t get back to Belfast before my phone died. But it was worth the stress in the end as I eventually found myself in Orchard Street Square, right where I needed to be. I let out a heaving sigh of relief as I stared at the lifelike faces of James, Michelle, Erin, Orla, and Claire, sending me off in perfect fashion with that lovable mix of teenage mischief and bemusement.

This city has endured more turmoil and change in over three decades than most cities see in a century. Although these seismic events are a large part of its identity, Derry is so much more than the tragedies of its relatively recent past. Murals and memorials commemorating the deaths of freedom fighters and ordinary citizens also reveal the depth and power of these people’s love, and how memory can be as much a salve as it is a scar.

I honestly hadn’t expected this blog post to be as long as it ended up being. I’d planned on making this series about my time in Ireland a two-parter, but my day in Derry seems to have seeped under my skin like Éire’s perpetually dewy air.

But there really is something especially powerful about this city. A quaintness that belies its roughness, and the struggle that it took to reach this point of precarious peace. A former battleground where people who remember grow old. A place of seismic movement where the land lies still. A flower growing up through concrete fissures. More than anywhere else on this trip, I left the city of Derry knowing I would return.

The thing about romance that really draws me in isn’t necessarily the sensual aspect of it, but also how it reflects and speaks to our humanity. How we can touch and be touched by others, leaving invisible marks that remain long after a relationship has ended. Of the many ways that humanity has endured throughout history, love is the most impactful, yet it remains a mystery, as heavy and complex now as it was in the time of ancient Rome. The ways in which we understand love may have changed a little over time, but its effect on us is always unmistakable.

Paloma Blue’s debut novel The Saturnalia Queen not only does its homework, beautifully fleshing out this largely unfamiliar ancient world, but puts in the hours to make her readers really understand the perspectives of her two main characters, how they diverge and, ultimately, align. A romance involving a powerful man and a (relatively) powerless woman isn’t news. In fact, one could argue that it’s been done to death and we would all benefit greatly from a departure from this tired, problematic trope. Enter Caracalla, emperor of Rome from 198-217 AD, and Gelvira, a healer from a pagan tribe in Germany during his short-lived reign. On the surface, these two differ little from the typical romance fare we see over and over again on today’s bookshelves. But look a little closer and you’ll find that Blue not only takes the time to weave a compelling relationship, but cares deeply about placing her characters within a time and place that is equal parts dangerous and entrancing.

When we first meet our titular character, Gelvira, she is being initiated as the Maiden in her tribe Circle, symbolizing one part of the tri-goddess (Maiden, Mother, and Eldest). From the prologue, we get a clear sense of Gelvira’s character, her position within that society, and the fundamental values she holds.

Gelvira is about a dozen times more intelligent, complex, and capable than a lot of the heroines in literature’s most recent forays into “romantasy” rolled together (I’m looking at you, Fourth Wing), and her relationship with Caracalla doesn’t dumb her down or diminish her character’s intricacies in any way. She brings to mind heroines like Diana Bishop in A Discovery of Witches, a defined yet ever-evolving character who remains true to herself. Gelvira’s strong sense of dignity in the face of oppression, even as she begins to doubt herself as a result of her growing attraction to Caracalla, is captivating and refreshing.

Something a lot of authors, especially in the romance genre, struggle with is establishing a strong central character that readers can latch onto from the get-go, and then keeping them consistent through the rest of the book. Blue never lets us forget who Gelvira is as a person, and even as her point of view about the world she was born into changes, she is still the same person at the end of it.

The same can be said of Caracalla, although his character is more mercurial and harder to pin down. This works in the book’s favor, as we initially get to know him through Gelvira’s eyes. Caracalla the historical figure is all the more unknowable, given that what little we know—or think we know—about him comes from accounts that were politically motivated to paint him as a brute and a tyrant. What is relatively certain about him is that his relationship with his brother and co-emperor Geta was highly contentious, marred by hatred and distrust. A very short time into their joint reign, Caracalla had his brother killed and enacted a damnatio memoriae, erasing all depictions of Geta from art and records so as to cement himself as the rightful emperor. He also likely had his wife killed for infidelity, so it’s safe to say that he was someone who lived and died by violence. In The Saturnalia Queen, Blue delves into the parts of Caracalla’s character which are largely unknown, picking apart the visage of a wicked ruler and exploring his humanity and vulnerability.

The book portrays a heavily power-imbalanced relationship in a way that fans of romance will be entertained by, without downplaying its fundamentally problematic (for lack of a better word) nature. While it follows certain tropes of the “romantasy” genre, I would hesitate to call this story a romance. The fact that Gelvira falls for Caracalla over the course of the book is only the tip of the iceberg. In many ways, their dynamic symbolizes the intrinsic conflict between conquered and conqueror. History has shown that conquest, though often violent and destructive in nature, yields dramatic change. Depending on the nature of occupation, it can lead to the subsumed country evolving or devolving. Gelvira and Caracalla’s relationship serves as a microcosm of how fraught and complex the relationship between two peoples can be. Though Rome is vastly more powerful, it relies on its imperial subjects to sustain the heart of the empire itself. Rome’s most shrewd dictators viewed this as an opportunity for trade in the service of expanding their reach both militarily and culturally, while those with more brutal tendencies took advantage of their subjects’ relative weakness, abusing their power over conquered nations.

This endlessly fascinating relationship at the heart of Blue’s debut is wrapped in velvet layers of atmosphere that draw the reader in and hold them tightly in a trance of historical intrigue and ancient magic. While the world-building may appear clunky at times, it is in service of laying the groundwork for a world we can step into and more easily understand the characters we follow, and it is ultimately greater than the sum of its parts. From the beginning, Blue weaves a sense of magic through her establishment of historical setting, holding both up as equally true, and showing how they are inextricably linked.

After finishing the book, I had a conversation with the author about how she conceived the story and developed its characters and central relationship.

CB: How did you view the relationship at the heart of this story when you were writing it? Did you intend for the audience to see it purely as a romance, or something much more complex? Was it meant to be a kind of allegory for the wider historical implications of the story? Or a combination of all of these?

PB: I originally started writing this as a series of standalone short stories based around the Roman holidays, starting with Saturnalia. I was very interested in the idea [of] status, and what would happen if the most powerful and least powerful individual switched places, even temporarily, and then add to that the layer of that being a man and woman. So it turned into this idea of what would happen if a person who was considered the pinnacle of power in what I consider to be a very male-centric culture, which was the Roman Empire, and what it might look like if he entered a world where there was female power, and what that dynamic would look like. So to answer your question, it was more about exploring the anthropologic aspects more than the historical aspects, if that makes sense.

CB: That makes total sense!

PB: Also, I happened to work with a couple of German historians who provided me with more historical context for these matron cults in that part of Germany at the time, and that just kickstarted the story even further. Both characters are sort of pulled by the expectations of the roles they’re expected to play in their respective societies. And I wanted to play with the idea that the attraction to each other is partly a desire to escape those rigid definitions.

CB: What was your thought process in making Caracalla a protagonist? How did you reconcile in your mind the things that we know (or think we know) from history and the vision you had for him as a character?

PB: When I was doing research on Caracalla, in particular when I was reading Caracalla: A Military Biography by Ilkka Syvänne, it was mentioned that a lot of historians, especially Dio, had political reasons to paint [him] more awful than he really was. I also went back to the idea that a villain is usually more interesting than a hero, and why he would be the way he is—because he was raised to be. Also, the historians and I talked about the rumors of Caracalla having gay liaisons, and that he might be drawn to a woman who didn’t present as traditionally feminine as the patrician ideal. The first draft didn’t have his POV as much, but I realized it needed his voice to even out Gelvira’s arc. My vision for him was someone who had learned how to be a man in a very flat, two-dimensional way, and that it takes getting out of his comfort zone (and perhaps a little magic) to get him to become a man in a very different way, i.e. fighting for his lover and daughter.

What was so obnoxious about Gladiator II, in my opinion, is that Caracalla was a “man’s man,” a military strategist, and probably very much a tyrant, but they painted [the brothers], literally, to be more like Elagabalus and Caligula, because they were going for a “Sid Vicious/Johnny Rotten” vibe, which is stupid beyond belief.

CB: If I remember correctly, the reason why you initially reached out to me was because you had read my post about Gladiator II, how the film completely rewrites the Severan brothers (Geta and Caracalla), fitting them into the generic, maniacal villain role—Commodus 2.0—and doing them a huge disservice in many ways. Did their portrayal in the film in any way affect how you wanted to treat the two brothers in your books, or was it always your plan to delve deeper into the human side of these larger-than-life historical figures?

PB: You are right, and both. Full disclosure, I like the actor who was originally cast to play Caracalla, and that was what initially inspired me to learn more about him and potentially write about him—Roman fan fiction, if you will. Then that actor slid into the Geta role mid-production. I was excited to see how the film depicted them, and was so massively disappointed I wanted to almost correct the record. I think both actors are good actors, but we can only imagine what they could have done if the roles had been conceived more three-dimensionally. So the film inspired me to write the book, but I was thinking about exploring Caracalla before it came out.

CB: You might recall from my article that I had many good things to say about Geta and Caracalla’s mother, Julia Domna. I didn’t know anything about her until I started doing research for my article about Geta, and I found it so incredibly fascinating that a woman in such a heavily male-dominated world not only rose to such power but maintained it long after her husband and sons died. In The Saturnalia Queen, you portray her as being much more unscrupulous, even antagonistic at times, which makes sense given the lengths she must have had to go to in order to survive, as well as her relationship with Caracalla and how that would have affected how he saw her. How did you go about developing her character?

PB: By channeling really difficult older women that I knew. Kidding! I think Julia was always set up as a foil for Gelvira—and when the historians and I talked, we also talked about how Caracalla was groomed from the start to basically be sociopathic—the good of the empire at all costs. If Geta was her favorite and Caracalla killed him, a part of her hates him but also clings to him, as without her son she has no significance. Indeed, after he was killed she committed suicide. It’s more interesting that a lot of Caracalla’s character was chafing against this cage of masculinity his mother put him in—by emasculating him at times. It was very fun to write her.

CB: The most blatantly villainous character in the book is the Mother of Gelvira’s tribe Circle. Towards the end we learn that, not only was she responsible for the death of Gelvira’s parents, but that as a young woman she was assaulted by a Roman soldier, who she then killed. She took on the mantle of a religious fanatic, almost evangelical in her approach to punishing people for, in her mind, betraying their way of life, becoming too friendly with the conquering Romans. While you obviously aren’t meant to agree with how she projects her own pain and self-hatred onto other women, I still felt a lot of sympathy for her. How did you feel about the Mother’s motivations and building her up to be a legitimate threat to Gelvira?

PB: The Mother is interesting because she was a late addition to the story. In that period in history, Roman provinces were incredibly cosmopolitan with all types of people trading from all over the known world. The Romans recruited everywhere and legions were deployed far and wide, bringing wealth. Most people felt the way that Adelmar and the other leaders felt—glad to have plumbing and an improving quality of life. It was rare to have a group of people who were not open to this at the time. We talked a lot about the kinds of people who would be hostile to rapid change—those who had something to lose with the adoption of new customs. This character represented that worldview—of a purist who’s grasp on power is losing their grip, which causes them to hold on more tightly. The people who resist an incoming worldview are those who have the most to lose. Since the Roman worldview was incredibly patriarchal, I set up a character who would rather die than succumb to that worldview. Gelvira actually embodies a lot of her philosophy—self sufficiency, self sacrifice and honoring their deity, but Gelvira also discovers the world is more complex. One of the most likable characters is Julius Martialis, and we all know he eventually is the one who stabs Caracalla. I wanted to give the Mother a strong backstory that would explain why she felt this way.

CB: I love when antagonists make you really think about how events in history can affect different people and how complicated and messy change can be, especially when it comes with equal parts violence and progress (which are often intertwined). Throughout history there are very few actual “heroes” and “villains”; 99% of the time there have been people just trying to survive and thrive. To me, understanding that is just as interesting as understanding the motivations of the “important” people in history. That’s another thing I loved about this book, the focus on the everyday people behind the scenes that history forgot.

PB: In some ways Caracalla and Gelvira have been controlled their whole lives by restrictive worldviews. Their attraction to each other is how they start to empathize with different points of view.

CB: One of the things I struggled the most with in this book was actually the relationship between Gelvira and Caracalla. It takes many forms throughout the book, and at times it almost felt less like a romance than a cautionary tale. Even taking into account the fact that things were far more complex in the ancient world, it was difficult to read the scenes where he essentially rapes her and still see this as a love story—as an example, the scene in the forest when she declares she’ll never lie with him again. However, I did appreciate that moment for acknowledging the complications in their dynamic, the conqueror and the conquered. How do you personally view Gelvira and Caracalla’s relationship? Was your intention to challenge readers to look at love in a very different way, to sit with that uncertainty and draw their own conclusions?

PB: This was definitely a challenging aspect of their relationship. I didn’t want to sugarcoat that Caracalla was not a good guy. He’s a tyrant, he considers himself a god, he manipulates, he takes women by force. He assaults Gelvira and she has serious emotional repercussions from it, like any SA survivor would. And she still pines for him, because sometimes abusers are people we still love. He wins her back in a way and she gives in to her desire. Obviously, the time and place are a key element here—women were second class citizens in Rome and women’s bodies always have been weapons of war, which is part of Caracalla’s mindset as he returns from Rome—he needs to subjugate the tribes, one way or another. He is angered that Gelvira doesn’t run to him. Gelvira, for her part, challenges him about the death of Fulvia Plautilla (who I am writing about now, by the way).

As I was writing this, the back-and-forth drama of what happens to them, they are both buffeted by forces beyond their control. I wanted them to start to cling to each other emotionally In some ways, they are they eye of an emotional storm. And often love isn’t perfect, people can love each other and still hurt each other terribly. I wanted to show that bad things can happen, but people do learn and grow from it. She gains strength from him and he learns how to love and be vulnerable.

CB: One of the things I hate about a lot of today’s popular romance books is that the central love story is either too bland to hold my interest, or—much more often, it seems—explicitly abusive and manipulative, and the authors either completely ignore that fact or gloss over it. So even though it was a “happy” ending for Gelvira and Caracalla, I was really glad to see them wrestle with each other, and especially Gelvira actually fight him and challenge him over the horrible things he’s done. That takes a lot of courage to confront in romance.

PB: As I have learned about the romance genre (and dark romance genre), I honestly don’t get it. There are dark romance fics out there that are insane in my opinion. Rape, torture, murder, feeding women kept in a glass box with a tube, you name it. And it’s all okay as long as there is a happily ever after at the end. Like, he’s raped you and murdered your family, but if he makes you happy and you’re together at the end, all is okay. I think that’s literally insane. It’s why this book is not a romance, it’s a love story. A bad thing happened, and while they do come together [at the end], there are emotional repercussions from it. She is not the same and stands up to him more, and he stands up to Julia because he loves [Gelvira]. Maybe I didn’t express it as well as I could have, but I wanted to write something that felt more authentically real given the period, as well as the ups and downs of a complicated attraction.

CB: I think you expressed it very well! It really made me think and wrestle with the complications of their relationship.

PB: Thank you! That was my hope.

CB: My final question for you is what was your favorite part about writing this book? What was the hardest part about writing it? And what will you be carrying forward into your next novel?

PB: My favorite part about writing the book was getting inside my two main characters’ heads and exploring their thoughts in reaction to what was happening to each of them. That omniscient view was fun to experience. The hardest part was choosing to write historical fiction and trying to remain as accurate as possible, while still telling an original story. A novel is not a textbook, but you want your characters to be true to the time and place. In my next novel, I explore Caracalla’s brother Geta more, through the eyes of Fulvia Plautilla, Caracalla’s wife. There was a reason why [he] condemned both of them to a damnatio memoriae. You will have to read the next book to find out why.

The Saturnalia Queen is the first novel in Paloma Blue’s duology surrounding the Severan emperors, Caracalla and Geta. Her second novel is expected to release some time next year. In the meantime, you can find The Saturnalia Queen at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and Bookshop.com, as well as on Kindle or Apple Books. Read more about Paloma Blue’s books at her website.

The drive to Denver Airport was stormy; thick, dark clouds laced with intermittent tendrils of lightning overhanging the Front Range. I was nervous, but not about the weather. The weather I found comforting. Storms make me feel more alive. I was nervous about the journey itself. I had never been outside Colorado alone before, let alone outside the US. Change sizzled in the air, and as I pulled my knees up to my chest in the passenger seat, I tried to steady myself by breathing slowly. My mom drove, her presence steadfast and calming. We’d left home at 4pm, my flight was at seven. When we arrived, the parking lot was full, so she couldn’t go in with me. We said our goodbyes at the terminal entrance, then I went inside to check in and go through security. A couple hours later, I was in my seat.

If you’d have told me a couple years ago that I’d be traveling to Ireland for the first time by myself, I might have looked wistfully into the distance and talked about that being “the dream.” I don’t know if it was the election, my newfound confidence from my job as a middle school mentor, or some other third thing that kicked my ambition into high gear, but this year I did something that I’ve never done before: I manifested. Telling myself and anyone who’d listen that I was going to Ireland at the end of the year.

Things fell into place after that, and I took charge of my own journey: looking up hotels, buying plane and train tickets, booking visits to exhibits, you name it. Things I’d never done before on my own, had only ever watched other people do, I was suddenly taking on with relative ease. With invaluable advice from my parents (particularly my mom), friends, and coworkers, I had almost everything I needed by the time I boarded Aer Lingus flight EI58. I was going to Ireland.

After the plane took off, I wrote in my journal:

The clouds are so still this high up. Thin sheets of blue-gray, underscored by the red-gold sunset over the mountains. Colorado passes below like a slow-moving river; even the lights of towns and homes are like fish lounging at the bottom. I hope I’ll sleep tonight. I hope tomorrow is clear and cool.

Dublin (Baile Átha Cliath)

Arrival in Dublin quickly replaced nerves with excitement. I gave myself over to the whimsy of the situation I was in, looking around wide-eyed and child-like before I even left the airport. Got myself a bus ticket and I was on my way to the city.

If I had to describe my first two days in Ireland in one word, it would be: wet. Fliuch. Rain coated the windows in shimmering shades of green and gray. I texted my Irish language group: “my goodness what gorgeous rainy weather!! Tá sé stoirmiúil agus fluich! Tá sé ag cur báistí. Is aoibhinn liom!!!” The second I stepped off that bus, my Trial by Water began. The thing about being on an island at this latitude in the midst of summer is that when it rains, it does not stop for a while. Rain like this also creates its own kind of heat, regardless of the atmospheric temperature. By the time I got where I was going, I couldn’t tell what was rain and what was sweat.

Regardless of these conditions, I couldn’t have been more thrilled to be where I was. I’d dreamt of going to Ireland my entire life, and now I was here! Dublin in all its cosmopolitan bustle, all its traffic and movement, truly is the beating heart of the Republic.

Despite being over 1,000 years old, Dublin is an overwhelmingly youthful city. I suspected that a large percentage of the people were there for work or to attend Trinity College, where I would be staying for the equivalent of a day at one of the dorms they open to the public in the summer. Although I had a map of the campus, with directions from a very helpful receptionist, I still got a little lost trying to find my room. Luckily, I’m not as awkward with strangers as I used to be, and a nice woman, who sounded like she was from England, helped me out. A reliance on the kindness of strangers is hardly ever an issue in Ireland.

Once I got settled, I took a much-needed shower, then scrounged around the campus for some dinner (which came in the form of a veggie wrap from a cafe a short walk from my building), all the while trying and mostly failing to keep myself dry. During this trip I ended up using a hair dryer, which I haven’t been comfortable using in literal years. Turns out it’s pretty easy, especially when you’re mainly using it as a makeshift fan. If my mom was there, she’d probably say something like “See? Told ya.”

I felt so oddly normal for being completely on my own. I had shelter and food, I was safe, and I had got myself there. On my own. If anything, I was a little bit bored. With nothing much else to do at the end of a whirlwind day, I wrote:

What to say after months of nothing?
On the plane I didn’t sleep at all. When I landed in Dublin it was raining. Clouds so thick we couldn’t see the ground until we nearly touched it.
Everything was gorgeously wet today. Wet that hung close and lingered like a heavy kiss. Thick drops falling from shop awnings to slap the cobble stones below.
By the time I got to my room at Trinity College I was soaked with sweat and rain, despite my mother’s coat and umbrella. I spent most of the day walking under an umbrella. It hasn’t quite sunk in where I am, the fact that I’m alone. I felt it more before I left. The fear isn’t there now.
It’s hard not to soak up this city when there’s so much of it around you: the buildings, the streets, the people. Everyone is so different from one another, and yet they all seem to move with similar purpose. A gravitational pull that keeps the city flowing like the River Liffey through its heart.
I thought I would melt under the weight of all that wetness, but as I settled in a cool calm descended on me. Now I feel the air for what it is: a song sung by many human voices, sung by the cry of the massive seagulls and magpies that home this place.
My ears are still popping despite being on solid ground now. Must be the lower altitude.
I’m eating dinner on my bed, listening to the gray city drone outside. Waiting to finally fall asleep.

The Book of Kells exhibit was stunning. Also balmy, since the whole room has to be kept at a certain humidity in order to preserve the book. I took pictures of everything I could but the actual Book of Kells, as photography of the book itself is strictly prohibited.

After that, the exhibit led into Trinity College’s Old Library. An over 400-year-old, barrel-vaulted space referred to as the “Long Room”—spanning nearly 65 meters, or 213 feet—it is the largest library in Ireland and, arguably, one of the most impressive in Europe. Under normal circumstances the shelves would be filled with books (over 6 million volumes, in fact). However, as I’m writing it is currently undergoing an extensive restoration project, and a large number of their volumes had been taken out. Even nearly empty, the Old Library truly is a sight to behold. Lined on either side with busts of some of the greatest writers and thinkers in Western history, including Socrates, Shakespeare, and Wollstonecraft, you’ll also find copies of the original 1916 Irish Proclamation of Independence and the Brian Boru harp, which is the oldest surviving harp in Ireland.

Also featured in the Long Room is the art installation Gaia, created by Luke Jerram. Impossible not to notice upon entering the library, this 6-meter-diameter orb of the earth’s surface, superimposed with 120dpi detailed NASA imagery, hangs in the center of the room, spinning slowly. According to its description, the purpose of this installation is to instill in viewers “a feeling of awe for the planet, a profound understanding of the interconnection of all life, and a renewed sense of responsibility for taking care of the environment. Jerram’s intention for Gaia to highlight the beauty and fragility of the Earth chimes with that of the Old Library Redevelopment Project to safeguard the 18th century building and conserve its precious collections for future generations.” She dances like a glamour, impossible in its contrast against the carved mahogany world of man, yet strangely perfect in its place amongst the leather and ink of humankind’s inspiration.

I’d planned to visit the Museum of Archaeology, which has free admission and is only a short walk from the college, but by the time I left the Kells exhibit, it was getting late and I needed time to find the train station. As it turned out, this was a wise decision on my part. Despite notable improvement in weather and absence of rain for the first time in over 24 hours, I checked out of my room at Trinity the exact same way I’d checked in: drenched in sweat, as if I’d just run a marathon (I hadn’t). Then I walked the 0.2 miles from Trinity to Eden Quay to wait for a bus that would, hopefully, deposit me right outside of Connolly Station.

It became quickly apparent that I should’ve put in for a transit pass; the fare is about 2 euro per person (though it varies depending on how far you’re going), but I had all of my cash stuffed into a pocket in the underbelly of my suitcase. I barely had time to start panicking before the bus driver, likely trying to keep things moving, told me to just take a seat; yet again, the interminable blessing of Irish grace intervening on my behalf.

At Connolly I grabbed a quick lunch and stopped to charge my phone at a Pret
A Manger1. By the time I finished my hot cup of tomato bisque, I was fully dry and proud to have had a healthy lunch that (hopefully) wouldn’t aggravate my extremely mild oral thrush. There’s a certain feeling experienced by the young adult who, for the first time, finds themselves completely on their own and, shockingly, not fucking it up. It’s not quite euphoric, but close enough. I mean I’ve never done drugs, but for an insecure, socially anxious youth, maybe this is better. Forgetting about nitty-gritty’s like taxes and jobs and jury duty, you start to feel like maybe you aren’t so bad at this whole “adulting” business. But I digress.

This was the most exciting leg of my journey. Almost everyone I’ve met who’s visited Ireland will talk about Dublin and its environs, or the rest of the south, but for over a year I wanted nothing more than to be in the North of Ireland. I had been populating my mental landscape with things like Derry Girls, Say Nothing (first the mini series, then the book) and anything to do with Anthony Boyle2. So, finally boarding the train and finding my pre-paid seat, it’s safe to say I was buzzing. I needed to keep my expectations in check. I wasn’t going to
Disney Land or some mystical place beyond the veil of time. As a tourist, it’s easy to forget that the places you visit are other people’s homes. What’s great about going to a place like Belfast is, there’s plenty to see, but not a lot of it is flashy or iconic. You’re not really there to see grand houses or monuments or shopping centers; you’re there to see the people. To see where they live. Get a
sense of the history of the place from the pedestrian everyday.

The real charm and pulse of the North of Ireland is its people because they all carry its history. This is where I’d been buzzing to go for months. I was finally on my way.

I am learning that the earth is the earth. One place can look and feel so wildly different and so strangely similar to another. I can’t deny how dearly my heart has thirsted for green like this, all around me, wet and shimmering, overgrowing, perfect. Rolling hills of green and gray and brown and blue pass by my window. I wish I could spend the rest of my life riding a train across this land.

Belfast (Béal Feirste)

Ah, Belfast. Rough and tumble city with a thousand rough and tumble charms.

Birthplace of the Titanic. Battlefield of the Troubles. Home of…the DeLorean? In so many ways, this city is a special place, and not just because of its tragic moments that continue to reverberate to this day. It is a divided city, like a lot of places in the North of Ireland, though you might not be aware of that if you stayed in the city center. It is also a culturally vibrant and energetic city. I felt this energy the minute I stepped off the train.

Every city on earth has its own unique texture. You only really get a sense for it when you’ve been there. Belfast’s brick and concrete walls, painted over by graffiti artists over the decades, may still retain traces of soot from its varied past, but the city as a whole has a kind of rusty shine that comes from within. It’s a light that has been kept alive by both conflict and commiseration. Tears and laughter. The people there are tough, but rarely unkind. Salt of the Earth in its truest sense.

Having walked all the way from the train station to the hotel with my suitcase and carry-on in tow, I arrived at House Belfast, yet again, drenched in sweat. House Belfast is a small but well-known hotel in central Belfast, nestled in the cosmopolitan stretch of Botanic Avenue, amidst culinary establishments that range from Mexican, to Indian, to Asian fusion, to Subway. The staff at House Belfast is as lovely and charming as its Bohemian interior, and were incredibly patient with me while I figured out how to pay for my room3, dripping salt in their lobby.

Towards the end of my first day in Belfast, I decided to get on a bus bound for the Falls Road. For those who aren’t familiar with the history of the Troubles, the Falls is an area of West Belfast occupied primarily by Catholics, and while the Troubles were in full swing, it was one of two major neighborhoods which embodied the deep division within this community. The other neighborhood, Shankhill Road, is the predominantly Protestant side of town. The root reason for the outbreak of violence that would become known as “the Troubles” was the historic discrimination and disenfranchisement of Irish Catholics living in the North of Ireland. For around 800 years, the island had been under English rule until the Irish War of Independence (1919-1921). At the end of this war the Irish Free State was able to establish itself with 26 counties out of the island’s total of 32. The remaining six stayed under British rule.

That first day, I really wanted to get a glimpse of the Gaeltacht Quarter4. I got off the bus at Dunville Park and read the sign that said “Páirc Dunville, An Cheathrú Ghaeltachta (The Gaeltacht Quarter).” I took a walk around the park and observed that it was very similar to many of the city parks we have in Denver. Children played on the grass and jungle gym, just like they would anywhere else in the world. At the center of the park stood a weathered stone fountain that looked like a remnant from the turn of the century, its surface chipped and tanned. Walking a couple blocks further down the road, I found the Cultúrlann (Cultural Center).

For those who don’t know, Cultúrlann McAdam Ó Fiaich (McAdam Ó Fiaich Cultural Center) is at the epicenter of Irish language culture and education in the North of Ireland, and is considered “the hub of Belfast’s vibrant and fast growing Irish language community.” Originally built as a Presbyterian church in the 19th century, it closed in 1982 and was then leased to a group of Irish language activists in 1991, who named it after Irish language pioneers Robert McAdam and Cardinal Tomás Ó Fiaich. Today it houses a bookshop, a tourist information point, an art gallery, a theater, and Raidió Fáilte HQ. (See photos of An Cultúrlann landmark sign below for more information.)

On my way back, I passed by St. Mary’s University College, one of the filming locations used to shoot the exterior of Our Lady Immaculate College in Derry Girls. The perfect ending to my first day in the North of Ireland.

To be continued…

Despite my deep and abiding love for all things ancient history, I have never been one of those people who thinks about the Roman Empire every single day. I find it a fascinating part of world history, as I do almost any ancient civilization, but it was never in my top three (in order: Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient Britain). In fact, until just a few weeks ago, I really had not thought about Ancient Rome at all, except when I’d listen to my mom gush about it for hours at a time (she happens to be part of that demographic at the moment).

However, as of late I’ve had cause to ponder the Roman Empire quite a bit more often than I usually do. One particular cause, in fact. You already know what it is if you’ve clicked on this article, so I’ll quit it with the preambles.

Part I: In which I acknowledge that, yes, it’s just a film…

Gladiator II is the sequel to Ridley Scott’s y2k classic Gladiator, and follows a young soldier-turned-gladiator named Lucius who sets his vengeful sights on the leaders of the Roman Empire for conquering his home and causing the death of his beloved. Unless you’ve been living under a rock (or you’re not a fan of Joseph Quinn, Paul Mescal, Pedro Pascal, or anything Ridley Scott has done), you probably know about this film and its predecessor, and you don’t need me to tell you how huge it’s going to be when it comes out in two days.

Full disclosure…I’ve actually never seen the first Gladiator.

Do I fully intend to watch it at some point in the near future? Yeah, probably.

Do I also intend to watch Gladiator II at some point in the near future? I don’t know. Maybe.1 When it comes out on DVD. (Leave me alone.)

The only thing—and I do mean the only thing—that would stop me from doing that is something which, I believe, no self-respecting student of film should get too up in arms about, especially when it involves people we know next to nothing about: historical inaccuracies.

Here’s where I lay out my hypocrisies when it comes to historical accuracy in film and TV, using Bridgerton as an example: I could not care less about all of the anachronisms and inaccuracies in that show, from the fashion to the cast of multiracial characters, to the music. I know that those kinds of things mean a lot to some people, but for me it just gets in the way of my enjoyment of the steamy, compelling romance plots. I visit the world of Bridgerton for an escape from modern, colorless (romance-less) life, and that’s all it ever needs to be, in my opinion.

The same, you would think, ought to be said about the Gladiator movies. And I will be the first to concede that getting in a tizzy about the portrayal of an Ancient Roman emperor who probably didn’t contribute much of value to his community and died long before he could have done anything of note, is not a wise use of one’s time. In many ways, these characters are blank slates since they all lived so long ago and there are so many different interpretations of historical records anyway. For all we know, Nero may not have been as bad of a guy as the annals report.

And yet…

Part II: In which I ignore all that and proceed to point out every single way Ridley Scott gets the Severus Bros WRONG

Them’s fightin’ words, Mr. Scott! Completely unbeknownst to him, of course, I have no life, so it looks like he’s just gonna have to deal with me and my ilk for the foreseeable future.

So let’s begin with the stupidly obvious, shall we?

1. Why are they so pale?

Perhaps the most immediately striking feature of our cinematic Severus Bros is how gaunt and deeply underslept they both look. Apparently anemia is one of the symptoms of moral depravity. Certainly plenty of big screen villains have sported the sun-deprived pallor to visually communicate that something is seriously wrong with these individuals (and not just medically). However, I appreciate the use of this tried-and-true tactic because, yeah, they look scary as hell!

Practically vampiric.

The reason I bring it up here, though, is because…they really shouldn’t be.

According to Wikipedia2, “A strong distinction in skin color is frequently seen in the portrayal of men and women in Ancient Rome. Since women in Ancient Rome were traditionally expected to stay inside and out of the sun, they were usually quite pale; whereas men were expected to go outside and work in the sun, so they were usually deeply tanned.” Add to that the fact that Septimius Severus was born and raised in North Africa, and most likely would have been dark-skinned—in fact, he is widely regarded by historians as “the first African emperor of Rome”—it’s not a stretch to conclude that his children would have been mixed race.

Certainly not translucent. Now there is an argument to be made that we really can’t presume to know the actual skin tone of ancient peoples, even based off of where they grew up. It’s certainly the case today that most people in North Africa tend to have lighter skin than Sub-Saharan peoples, and the Mediterranean is home to plenty of light-skinned folks. That same SlashFilms article, written by Hannah Shaw-Williams, argues that,

“While Africa and Black identity are often treated as synonymous in modern society, the ‘Africa’ of the Roman Empire was limited to a small portion of North Africa that today includes countries like Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria, and was formerly part of the Carthaginian Empire before Carthage was conquered by Rome. We can debate back and forth (and people certainly have) about how much melanin the ancient Carthaginians typically had in their skin, and how much of it would have filtered into Caracalla and Geta’s particular blend of Roman, Libyan, and Syrian genetics. But trying to transplant complex modern concepts of race onto Ancient Rome is like trying to stick a triangular block through a square hole.”

But still…I’m going to go out on a limb here and argue that the Severus Bros would have, at the very least, had a healthy bronze tint, rather than the pasty, glittering skin of a killer.

2. The strange case of the Freaky Friday-esq body swap of Caracalla and Geta

Here’s where things get a little weird. For me, at least.3

Say what you want about Scott’s portrayal of Commodus in the first Gladiator movie, but at least he was somewhat comparable to his real-life counterpart. I’m honestly not sure what he was thinking when he chose to write Caracalla and Geta like this.

For one thing, in the new Gladiator movie, Geta seems to be the elder brother, and Caracalla the younger. Even though, in real life, Geta was born one year after Caracalla, in 189 and 188 AD respectively. Some sources have said that at the start of casting, Joseph Quinn was originally meant to be Caracalla, which would make a lot more sense for their apparent characterizations. Aside from Fred Hechinger’s portrayal of the younger brother as flamboyant and shallow4, Caracalla was, by all accounts, every inch the military ruler, and had an exceptionally fragile temper. If he had remained as Caracalla, that would’ve been a major point in the movie’s favor, historical accuracy-wise. But Quinn is instead playing Geta, which brings me to the thing that irks me the most about his characterization in this film. Emperor Publius Septimius Geta was, according to every source I could find, the vastly more sensitive, learned, and administrative of the two brothers.

Despite the haunting lack of information about him—for reasons I’ll get into in the next part—there seems to be just enough evidence to suggest that Geta was far from the crazed ginger demon we’ve seen thus far. “In his time” writes historian Franco Cavazzi, “[Geta] became quite literate, surrounding himself with intellectuals and writers. He showed his father much more respect than Caracalla and also was a far more loving child to his mother.” Cavazzi also says that Geta “suffered from a slight stammer,” but I haven’t been able to confirm whether this is true from any other sources, so take it with a big grain of salt.

Historians are pretty universally in agreement about how different from each other the two brothers were, further feeding the widely held perception of Caracalla as the brutish tyrant and Geta as the favored son. Much of this may be little more than speculation based on the scant clues we have about their individual personalities, but we can infer that the dichotomy between the two brothers was wide enough to create a rift in the empire itself (that could only be healed by the administrative genius of their mother, Julia Domna, but we’ll come back to her). According to YouTuber Accessible Art History,

“Even though they were only a year apart in age, the two royal brothers could not have been more different. Caracalla, the elder of the two, was known for his fierce and aggressive nature. He was ambitious, ruthless, and had a militaristic outlook. He was often eager to prove his strength and dominance. In stark contrast, Geta was more reserved, intellectual, and inclined towards the administrative side of ruling the country. Their differing personalities and approaches to leadership further fueled their animosity. They simply couldn’t see eye-to-eye on how to rule an empire.”

The more you learn about what these two emperors were like in real life, the more bizarre Ridley Scott’s decision to diverge so far from the truth (which, in this amateur historian’s humble opinion, is way more intriguing than fiction) becomes. As I’ve stated above, I understand the motivation behind making the Severus Bros more villainous in order to raise the stakes of the story and thus make the hero’s quest for vengeance that much more heroic. But the question I always come back to, then, is why would he change them so thoroughly they become essentially made-up characters with almost nothing tying them back to their historical namesakes beyond, well, their names? Geta has become the older brother who is obsessed with power and glory, meanwhile Caracalla has backslid so far in his portrayal, he’s unrecognizable from either of the real-life figures.

Joseph Quinn himself stated in an interview with EW, “Geta certainly plays the role of an older brother…Caracalla is having some cognitive erosion occurring in one of his lobes in the brain. And that is affecting his ability to be cognizant and conduct himself in a way that’s becoming as a young emperor.”

So Caracalla has a cognitive disability now. Great. I’m sure that’ll be handled with much tact and respect as we root for these two over-the-top villains to die horrible deaths. Hey, I’ll take my diversity wins where I can get them!

(Maybe that’s why he keeps saying “war” all the time…🤔)

All jokes aside, I really can’t fault Scott for that character decision. Even if we ignore the Trump-sized elephant in the room, there is a plethora of examples of corrupt rulers throughout history5 who showed clear signs of mental and emotional decline. Though whether they were the cause or the result of such corruption is never clear, and perhaps ought not to be, given how often these historical figures have been used to demonize and stigmatize the mentally ill and disabled. Perhaps Quinn’s “Geta” serves as a counterpoint, showing that a ruler can be just as wicked and morally bankrupt with all his mental faculties (seemingly) intact.

3. They hated each other, your honor.

Caracalla (born Lucius Septimius Bassianus) was made joint emperor with his father in 198 CE, at the ripe age of ten. Although Geta, eleven months younger than Caracalla, was named “caesar” (heir) in 198, he did not become joint emperor with is brother until 211, upon the death of their father. Reportedly6, Septimius Severus’s final words to his sons were: “Be good to each other, enrich the army, and damn the rest.” It has been stated, ad nauseam, just how thoroughly Septimius failed to instill the first part of this request in his sons.

Prior to his death, Septimius Severus had brought both his sons with him on a campaign to Britain, in an effort to show them the ropes of ruling an empire, and to try to get them to stop quarreling incessantly. By all accounts Geta and Caracalla thoroughly despised each other, probably from the moment they were both made heir. Septimius’s strategy, ill-advised though it turned out to be, was to bring them closer together by giving them shared responsibility of certain aspects of governance. Geta took charge of civil administration, while Caracalla went to Scotland with Septimius to continue their campaign.

It was during this protracted military roadtrip that Caracalla allegedly tried to murder his father on several occasions (according to both Dio and Herodian). Although he did not succeed, Septimius did eventually die, in modern-day York, of an unspecified illness.

Once their father had passed, Geta and Caracalla were officially declared joint emperors and promptly returned home, there to continue their never-ending mission to kill, disavow, or otherwise back-stab each other until one of them remained standing as the sole emperor. The promise of power has always had a way of corrupting the bedrock of any family fortunate enough to have it.

According to the YouTube channel Walks Inside Rome,

“Septimius Severus died in 211, leaving the rule of the Roman Empire to his two sons, Caracalla and Geta. From the beginning of their joint reign, these brothers had a very strained relationship. Their mutual mistrust meant that they always surrounded themselves with armed guards in case either brother made an attempt on the other. Caracalla, however, ultimately proved more devious.”

Ridley did get one thing right, at least. These two were, very possibly, massive pricks to one another, and, by extension, to the country they were meant to govern. Geta may have been the one to actually give a shit about other people beyond just himself, but at the end of the day, they were both spoiled princes who were given far too much power far too early in their lives. And, for better or worse, they both wanted more.

In the end, however, Caracalla was the one who triumphed. “Cassius Dio tells us that on December the 26th, 211, Caracalla asked their mother, Julia Domna, to organize a private meeting in her apartment so the two brothers could discuss a truce.” Geta arrived unaccompanied by his guards, and was swiftly and brutally attacked by one of Caracalla’s guards, who stabbed him several times in front of their horrified mother. Geta, only 22 years old, bled to death in his mother’s arms.

Remember when I mentioned the stark absence of substantive information in Geta’s case? That is as a result of the damnatio memoriae (literally “damnation of memory”) undertaken by Caracalla following his brother’s assassination. He spent a considerable amount of time and resources wiping out any traces, visual or otherwise, of his ill-fated brother: records, coins, arch friezes and even family portraits. You name it, he deleted it.

Caracalla also gave his wife, Fulvia Plautilla, the same treatment after he had her exiled and then assassinated—he wasn’t on good terms with her either—but that’s another story about another woman completely erased from Scott’s epic narrative.

Let us take a moment to talk about the stone-cold legend that was the dowager Empress Julia Domna

Ridley Scott you will forever be on my shit list for denying this incredible lady the chance to be portrayed on the big screen.

Because let me tell you, this woman was so freaking cool.

Born in Syria in 160 CE to a powerful and highly influential family7, the future empress married General Septimius Severus in 187 CE. He was a widower, and their meeting was supposedly the result of both receiving a cosmic portent of their impending marriage.

“[Septimius Severus] came to Syria on the advice of an omen, which stated that Severus would find his second wife there. He met […] Julia’s father […] who introduced him to his youngest, unmarried daughter. Julia Domna’s horoscope had predicted that she would one day wed a king: this would have proved irresistible to the prophecy-minded Severus.”

As empress, Julia Domna was an esteemed patron of the arts and personally supported, lauded, and otherwise hobnobbed with members of the empire’s learned society. Not only was she astoundingly learned herself, but sources claim that her husband, and later her sons, often consulted her in matters of governance and public relations. She was, essentially, an unelected official.

At one point during Septimius’s reign, Julia Domna was accused of adultery as a result of her struggle for influence over her husband with Plautianus, his praetorian prefect. Don’t worry, though, she totally won. That fake bitch got executed for plotting to overthrow their family.8 She traveled extensively with her husband and sons during their campaigns in the east and west. After Septimius’s death in Eboracum (modern day York), it was Julia who persuaded her sons to accept their father’s dying wish that they share power and rule as joint emperors.

From then on, she acted as the primary mediator between Geta and Caracalla and was largely responsible for holding the empire together when they tried to split it in two. They literally only felt safe in each other’s company provided their mother was there to keep some semblance of peace. This, of course, did not last.

“According to Cassius Dio, Geta died in Julia’s arms, and Julia herself was so thoroughly covered in Geta’s blood that she failed to notice that she had sustained a wound to her hand in the attack. After Geta’s death, Caracalla became the sole ruler of Rome, and he immediately instituted a damnatio memoriae against Geta […] Because of this policy, it was likely unsafe for Julia to express any sorrow over [Geta’s] death, even in private, for fear that Caracalla would also have her assassinated.”

Yet, when Caracalla became sole emperor, Julia Domna maintained her role in the politics of Rome, remaining one of the emperor’s most trusted advisors and, for lack of a better analogy, “first lady” of the empire. She kept the home fires burning—although she spent most of her time in Antioch—and in 217 CE survived her eldest son when he was assassinated by his own men in Syria. Macrinus, the man who brought about Caracalla’s death and succeeded him as emperor, was well aware of her political prowess and influence, letting her keep her place at court and all of her attendants.

After trying and failing to stage a coup to become Rome’s first sole Empress, Julia Domna was forced to leave Antioch, and, whether due to her fear of losing power and security or as a result of her late-stage breast cancer, she eventually died of starvation at the age of 57, not long after Caracalla’s death.

So widely beloved was this woman that, following her death, she was deified by many people across the empire, including her nephew (and successor to Macrinus) Elagabalus. In this author’s humble opinion, Ridley Scott missed a cinematic DIAMOND MINE in choosing to leave out such an undeniably fierce and compelling historical figure, not to mention “one of the most powerful and active empresses in Roman history,” according to Ulrich Hiesinger. As a director and a storyteller, you could hardly go wrong with a female character so badass that four different emperors deferred to her when things got messy in Rome.

One final note before I let you get on with your doubtlessly stressful work day:

Elagabalus, is that you??

I was today years old when I learned that Elagabalus (famously portrayed by Mathew Baynton in the CBBC hit series Horrible Histories) was actually their cousin, and became emperor after Caracalla kicked the bucket!

I suppose it makes sense, then, that Ridley would get a little confused trying to differentiate him from his predecessors. They were, at the end of the day, a bunch of rich little pricks who tried and failed miserably to run a government which spanned most of the western world at that time. You can hardly blame Hollywood for getting them mixed up. Besides, as a sentimental man once said, “The best way to bring folks together is to give them a real good enemy.” Can’t argue with that logic, especially when it comes to the Gladiator movies.

Anyways, if you’ve made it this far, I deeply, deeply apologize for wasting your time. I’m not even going to see this movie when it comes out (I’m going to see Wicked for crying out loud)!

Sources

https://www.slashfilm.com/1620982/gladiator-2-emperor-brothers-villains-real-history/

https://www.dexerto.com/tv-movies/gladiator-2-could-solve-2024s-biggest-movie-villain-problem-2814508/

https://roman-empire.net/decline/geta/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geta_(emperor)

https://www.worldhistory.org/image/13004/geta-facial-reconstruction/

https://www.worldhistory.org/Julia_Domna/

https://www.worldhistory.org/Caracalla/

https://www.worldhistory.org/Septimius_Severus/

https://www.worldhistory.org/image/13003/caracalla-facial-reconstruction/

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Publius-Septimius-Geta

https://ancientromelive.org/geta/

https://www.unrv.com/emperors/geta.php

https://www.livius.org/articles/person/geta/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_people_in_ancient_Roman_history

https://medium.com/@LesliePoku/the-african-roman-emperor-septimius-severus-cdbbe837d8b0

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julia_Domna

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commodus

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fulvia_Plautilla

I’ll never watch Lord of the Rings the same way again. Actually, I probably will, but I’ll remember that ache when I see the fellowship ambling over boulders and snowy peaks at indefinably high altitudes. It’s the ache of success, and it’s primarily located in the hips and thighs. It lingers.

Did Jesus or Moses or Muhammad feel that lingering ache in their hips—or whatever parts of them hadn’t been claimed by the divine—in the days following their revelatory hikes? Perhaps the ache is the divine, sitting inside you like clumps of hard-packed clay. I can’t speak for my fellow travelers, but for me the ache is friendly, reassuring. A reminder that I did something I’ve never done before, and may or may not ever do again. Though I probably will, because like Frodo Baggins volunteering to carry an evil piece of jewelry for three movies straight, I’m just a little bit crazy.

According to 14ers.com, Colorado hosts a total of 58 peaks at least 14,000 feet high. Mt. Bierstadt (dubbed “The Busiest Colorado 14er”) stands at a cozy 14,066 feet on the Front Range, snuggled up next to Mt. Blue Sky (nee Evans1) like a lesbian couple’s Christmas card, so beautiful it makes you want to cry. Or throw up from the altitude sickness. But, like, in a good way. Bierstadt was named in 1914 after Albert Bierstadt, a famous landscapist who is said to have been the first man to summit this peak and Blue Sky, immortalizing the latter in his painting titled “Storm in the Rocky Mountains.”

Mt. Bierstadt is my first ever 14-er, at the ripe age of twenty-four. When I tell you I made that mountain my you-know-what, I mean I made that mountain my friend by being so reverent and conscientious the entire way. You couldn’t have paid me a million dollars to litter or defile her in any way (except for when I lost that little rubber foot attached to the bottom of my walking stick, or the two times I relieved myself on her slopes, but that’s just nature and I’m sure she’ll forgive me). Bierstadt is a real tough cookie and I love her so much for that.

For this auspicious hike, I joined a group St. Tim’s Episcopal (as featured in a previous newsletter2). At 4am we left the church parking lot and headed out to the Front Range. I rode shotgun in a car with three other women: Jo Ellen, the Reverend Megan—one of St. Tim’s two female priests—and Caitlin, our driver. On the way up, I played AURORA’s new album for them, because what am I if not utterly predictable? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d driven up to the mountains so early; the sun had yet to rise and all you could see was the faint outline of the Rocky Mountain crest. An hour later, we arrived at the trailhead behind a line of other cars.

I can vividly remember the pre-dawn chill that hit me the moment I stepped out of the car in the early hours of Saturday, September 21, almost instantly eating through my flimsy new green leggings. I also remember the tattered strap of my old college backpack, which up to that point had been hanging on by a few loose fibers, snapping off as soon as I tried slinging it over my shoulder, leaving me with the stupidest-looking one-strapped backpack you’d ever seen. I had to stuff the now-hanging strap into one of the side pockets, securing it with a zipper, then awkwardly shimmy the remaining loop over my head, which proved difficult with the puffy winter coat I was obliged to wear due to the aforementioned cold.

My legs began acclimating to the climate once we started walking and the sun slowly inched over Bierstadt’s craggy peaks. Soon, I barely noticed the cold beyond the mad rush of blood and breath through my body. I had expected to feel some kind of burn early on in the hike, but to my surprise that familiar sensation never really came. Maybe all the time I’ve spent wheezing my way up staircases lately prepared me for my first 14-er better than any other training could have. That, and all the squatting I did when I worked at Target.

Having remembered to bring my pretty dark-wood walking stick, procured at a Renaissance Fair a couple years prior—and untested in the field—didn’t hurt either. Without it my knees and ankles would have been in much worse shape coming back down that massive slope towards the end of the day.

Anyone who has never before hiked a 14-er has no conception of how long it’ll actually take to reach the summit. Starting at the Guanella Pass the roundtrip length of the hike is about 7.25 miles, with an elevation gain of around 2,850 ft from 11,669 to 14,066 ft. From far away that kind of distance looks folded like a length of string, and you can just imagine yourself reaching that peak by noon time. By the time you get a few miles in that vision starts to look a little blurry as the cold makes your eyes water.

By the time the cold burns off, you begin to question why you ever agreed to do this in the first place.

It took us seven hours to summit. The whole hike was eleven hours, there and back. Every minute was breathtaking. Literally and figuratively.

It’s a bit of a cliche, but there were several moments during that climb when I had to give myself a little pep talk. “You can do this,” I’d whisper to myself. “You can do anything.” Then I’d whisper back to myself, “I know.”3 Jo Ellen taught me a simple breathing technique that I still use when climbing up the cumbersome stairs at work: breathe in slowly through the nose, then make a hole with your lips and breathe out like you’re blowing out a candle. This allows your lungs to retain oxygen longer, helping to offset the burn in your muscles caused by a buildup of lactic acid, which is produced when the body has an oxygen deficit during exercise.

I carried myself up Mt. Bierstadt on that slow, steady breath. One breath at a time, one foot in front of the other. The whole thing a beautifully predictable metaphor for life.

I finally understood what Miley was really talking about.

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

And I know it’s not about what’s on the other side. But what was on the other side of this mountain was really quite something.

There was a hot minute when I thought the final trudge up to the summit would kill me, but after that it was pretty much smooth sailing. I even got christened by Reverend Megan with my very own 14-er nickname: The Beast. I’m sure you can imagine what a boost of motivation that was.

Not gonna lie, when you do something like summit a 14-er…like actually reach that little brass plaque that tells you precisely where the highest point is…you feel a little weird about it all. Did the last 7 hours, 3.5 miles and 2,850 feet just happen? You know you didn’t float all the way up there because you can feel it

You feel it in the blood, which is singing because it’s cold again. You can feel it in the ankles, which are somehow still intact after nearly twisting them about a dozen times. Humanity’s corniest tagline doesn’t feel corny in that moment: you can do anything.

Eleven hours later, your only regret (aside not having a normally functioning backpack) is that you didn’t get to crack open a cold bottle of cider with the guys at the top.

Apparently, it’s tradition.🍻

Yesterday, I visited the Denver Art Museum with a dear friend of mine to see the Biophilia: Nature Reimagined exhibit. I was initially intrigued by this collection when I had seen advertisements for it on banners around the city.

According to the exhibit’s event page, the term biophilia was “popularized by American biologist and author Edward O. Wilson to describe his theory that, as humans have evolved as a species, they have been intricately intertwined with the natural world.” But it is familiar to me because it’s the title of one of my favorite Bjork albums (as well as the music app created as an interactive companion to the album)

The album’s central tenets—nature, music, and technology (“Listen, learn, and create”)—are on full display throughout the exhibit: a concert of over eighty pieces by over thirty artists from around the globe, comprised of architecture, sculpture, digital art, fashion, and interior design. Emphasizing at the start that the exhibit is not meant to be a substitute for “nature-based experiences,” the works nevertheless “invite us to slow down and pay closer attention, prompting a deeper awareness of the natural world and the sense of wonder it evokes.”1 Nature has always been the greatest source of wonder to me, woven through and between all things, organic and inorganic. Every single thing we see, touch, hear, smell, taste, and intuit, is part of the natural body. Just as we, ourselves, are part of it.

The exhibit as a whole is comprised of three sections: “Topophilia,” “Natural Analogs” and “Natural Systems.” Each one explores different ways in which our innate connection to nature permeates our daily lives, as well as how we can deepen that connection on an individual and communal level. Themes range from aesthetics and patterns, to dynamic processes and phenomena, to humankind’s spiritual and physical bond with nature. I highly encourage readers to explore each of these chapters further, both in the digital catalog I’ve linked in the footnotes and in the online exhibition guide, which lists all of the pieces featured in the exhibit. These resources are also included on the Biophilia event page (linked above).

My little gallery shows only a portion of the full exhibit (and not captured in very good quality), so if you wish to experience the magic for yourself in all its glory, Biophilia will be open at the Denver Art Museum through August 11.

“Lightweeds” by Simon Heijdens (2005)

I’ve been feeling lately like my body is punishing me for being lazy. Symptom of menstruation, perhaps. Actually, it definitely is. For one thing, in the days leading up to and during menstruation, my hormones go off the rails and I start to have really bad breakouts on my skin. And not just on my face. I won’t go into the details for obvious reasons, but I think you get the picture. My body isn’t a mess, it isn’t malfunctioning, in fact it’s probably working just fine (comparatively). But I swear to high Christ, times like these I feel like peeling off my skin and setting it ablaze in a trash bin behind a Walmart parking lot. (I don’t know why I use Walmart for imagery; I haven’t gone near or shopped at one in nearly a decade. Perhaps, in my mind, it’s a place only fit for the deeply depraved impulses of human kind.)

I sit down a lot. My main mode of exercise is walking and I haven’t been to a gym in years. I occasionally set aside time for myself to do stretches and yoga, but I am really, REALLY bad at forcing myself to do things like that on a regular basis. I’m what’s called an ‘obliger,’ you see, which means I’m mostly motivated to do things when they are asked or demanded of me by outside influences. Like being given homework at school. Or going to weekly classes for yoga or some other form of healthy physical activity. Neither of which I’ve had occasion to do in a while. So when it comes to regular exercise, for now at least, I’m pretty effectively useless. This isn’t to say that I can’t do certain things for myself, or that I won’t ever develop the ability to discipline myself. I hope I will some day soon. But for now, that’s just the way I am. I love walking and being active, but my natural state is sitting in a comfy chair and reading a book or scrolling through Tumblr or watching one of my comfort shows. It’s a curse, I guess, or maybe a blessing. Either way, usually my period manages to get me all fucked up again. I’ve gotten a lot better at managing my BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder) and the depression and anxiety that came with it. They do still live inside my skin, firmly embedded there for god knows how long. At least now they have to pay rent.

Quick tangent: as I write, I am listening to this song…1

(You all know how much I love to share music in my posts.) I’m not sure why I am listening to this song in particular, but it’s in one of my Wes Anderson playlists—yes, I have playlists dedicated to music from Wes Anderson movies, I’m a nerd2—and this kind of music makes me feel absurd in the best way. When my body issues rear their ugly Hydra heads (cut one off, two more spawn, it really is the best metaphor I could have come up with on the spot), I need to start thinking of them from an absurdist point of view. My body is like a Picasso painting—not the ones he did when he was fifteen, but the ones he’s generally known for.

What I mean is that, in my mind—because I don’t often look at my reflection—I don’t really have a, shall we say, defined architecture. I see different versions of myself in different mirrors. I never know which ones are telling the truth, if any of them are (BDD is a real bitch that way). If I had any visual artistic talent I could probably make a fortune selling dozens, maybe even hundreds, of self portraits, all from different angles, with different lightings, colors, shapes and sizes. Or maybe not—it’s kind of rough out there for artists these days.

No one would know which piece shows the real me. Because none of them do.

But getting back to my tangent (I know, I’ve always been bad at writing essays that make sense structurally), I’m listening to this music because I wish I lived in a Wes Anderson movie. Maybe then I could articulate my problems in a more profound, prosaically proficient way. I could use words like ‘victuals and comestibles’ and ‘remitted’ and ‘ticker tape,’ and other such quirky lexicons to express my existential pain. I could even be ‘ugly,’ but the camera would make me look beautiful in my own way. Aesthetically pleasing. Hilarious. Colorful. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished. A fantasy.

And ridiculous music would play in the background and I’d feel like a clown. I wouldn’t actually be a clown, though. I’d be a glaring metaphor for something greater than myself.

Tangent over. I think…

I’m not sure what else I should say. I suppose I always feel the need to express my issues to other people because I don’t want to be the only one holding on to them. This is one of the reasons why my experience with the labyrinth was so moving for me. I reach out to people a lot—friends, family, even coworkers when it feels appropriate to do so—to articulate what I’m feeling. But why do I need so many people to know about my neuroses? Maybe I mistakenly believe they might hold some secret, sacred answer to the questions I have. Perhaps I just want to be taken care of. Mothered by humanity—stripped of some of my agency so I don’t have to take responsibility for myself. I need to be nurtured, I suppose. Like a flower. Except flowers aren’t ‘obligers.’ Yes certain situations encourage growth, while others cause them to whither. Yes, the very presence of the sun is enough to turn their heads in an entirely new direction and reach for the sky. But they have built in codes, they have their own rituals that are as sacred to them as breathing is to us. They also breathe. They know what to do. I do not.

I need to be watered and cajoled by the gentle hands of others. I cannot abide a harsh existence where every person looks out for themself. One of my great fears in life is of being left alone. Or being left behind. Isolation. I may be an introvert, but I generally love being around people. At least, until I run down my social battery and must return to my hideaway, where my skin slackens and wrinkles and sometimes bleeds in the dark. In the dark is where I mostly feel safe, or at least, unperceived. Because the dark makes you unperceivable. You can be truly formless. An entity of voice and noise but little more than a silhouette.

So there you have it. On display, though not fully. There’s a lot left to get off my chest, but I’ll save it for another time. I’m not happy with my body. I don’t think I have been since the fifth grade. What a time of terrible discovery that was. At least I don’t hate myself anymore. I just wish I were different. I wish I could offer some wisdom for the rest of us who are dealing with this bullshit. But the truth is, I’m in the same boat as you. I don’t have much hindsight; as a newly-minted twenty-four-year-old, in the eyes of the world I’m still a baby. I don’t know what to do to heal myself other than to talk about it constantly. I used to keep a diary, and sometimes I will write something down for my eyes only. But diaries can only do so much for you when you long to hear the voice of God. Ideally spoken in a human voice, in a language you understand. Ideally by someone you care about who also cares about you.

All I can really offer as a meaningful contribution to the conversation is what I feel in the moment. I can chronicle it, I can force feed it to you, I can sit back and wait while you digest. This isn’t a memoir looking back at the mess my life used to be. This is happening to me right now. I’m stuck in the middle of some long-winded soliloquy about the meaning of life. About why my body is a disappointment to me and why I wish it could be better. Oh look at that, my internalized fatphobia and ableism have also come out to say hello. Well hello, assholes! You still owe me last year’s rent. Dicks.

Maybe this will help someone. I want everything I write to help someone. Why else would I embarrass myself like this? Validation? Yeah, probably. But also a much more noble, outwardly-focused reason.

I don’t know how to end this. Someone should tell me to just do it. Okay, I will.

Cathedral Ridge is a 160-acre retreat center located in Pike National Forest, just north of Pike’s Peak. Owned by the Colorado Episcopal Diocese, its mission statement is “to provide both a sanctuary and a stimulating environment in which lives are transformed in relationship with God and one another.” My mom and I, with other members of St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church in Centennial, spent the weekend of July 5th-7th there. We engaged in community-building activities, such as games, archery, and nature walks, as well as some much-needed relaxation time.

Relaxation isn’t difficult to find in a place like this. Surrounded by miles of seemingly unbroken pine forest and rolling mountains, one feels swaddled in the nature sprawled around them, in the dip of a vast bed of deep green stretching as far as the eye can see (from the vantage point of the lodge, at least).

The sun emerges in the morning like a jewel in the soft crook of the nearby peaks, casting its final muted glow like a veil over those same peaks in the evening.

The property itself includes a lodge and dining hall for guests, several tranquil walking trails, and two outdoor “chapels” within easy walking distance of the lodge. A few feet from one of these chapels, nestled in a little clearing quietly humming with new life, is a small prayer labyrinth, made by volunteers—Rev. Kim Seidman, St. Tim’s current pastor, among them—during quarantine, 2020.

On the morning of the 7th, at around 7am (an hour before breakfast), Mother Kim led a group of us down to the labyrinth, located near the entrance to the retreat center. A narrow dirt path led us along the edge of a low area populated by tall grasses, wildflowers, aspen groves, and pine trees—one of which is apparently seven or eight centuries old, predating Columbus! It’s one of those charming little nooks only found in nature that you can be certain is also home to the Fae.1 The path ends at the edge of the clearing, and you can see the chapel and labyrinth cozily tucked in together.

According to Grace Chapel, the prayer labyrinth “is simply a place to walk and pray. There is nothing mystical about it. It gives you the freedom to walk around while focusing your mind on God - and not worry about getting lost.” Unlike a maze, which is what most people think of when they hear “labyrinth,” (and is more of a game or puzzle) there is nothing to be solved in a prayer labyrinth. Mother Kim described it as a way of having a free-flowing dialogue with God.

She explained that this particular labyrinth is known as a Baltic or “Goddess” labyrinth. Because this particular labyrinth has two “mouths” (entrances) that both lead to the center, no matter which end you choose to go in, you will eventually come back out the other. The Reverend Dr. Lauren Artress, whose home parish is Grace Cathedral in San Fran, uses three simple words to sum up the process of using this type of labyrinth for prayer: Release, Receive, and Return. As you walk the winding path you release your storm of prayer, doubt, and conflict into the ether for God/the universe to absorb. You then quiet your thoughts and allow yourself to receive whatever answers may come back to you at the labyrinth’s heart. Finally, you exit the labyrinth and return to the world with what you have been given.2

I don’t know exactly what came over me when I entered that labyrinth. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t had breakfast yet—my brain is pretty effectively useless when I haven’t eaten—or the slight chill in the air that penetrated the only warm piece of clothing I had packed. Maybe it was the fact that, in a few days’ time, I would begin training for a job which I still worry I don’t have the requisite stamina for. The things that have overwhelmed me the past months. The genocide. The environment. My body. My future. All of these at once.

Perhaps the graceful calm of that place, the quiet buzzing and chirping of the creatures that lived there, lulled me into a sense of security that I don’t often feel. As I walked the path and let my thoughts and fears loose, I felt like I was being listened to, although I was silent. Like someone was there, hovering just above my head, nodding along as I emptied my soul to God. Both He and She. I could hear Their voice clearly in my head. My past and present in concert. In harmony.

I didn’t try to reason with myself what they might want to hear, what god was to me, if it was real or just a coping mechanism. All those silly things the brain does to force out even the possibility of magic. I forgot it all. Maybe I was half asleep still. None of that mattered. I let it be loud in my head, filling that room with everything I had kept inside me like insects in a jar. It’s one thing to let your friends, family, and therapists look through the pristine glass, everything on display because you can’t bear to keep it all to yourself. It’s another thing to be able to unseal the jar and release all of those things into a much bigger space, where they are received and heard with understanding. No judgment. You know that when you are done they will all come back to the jar, because a creature like fear is a hard thing to set free. But for now, you let them flit and float around, careening from corner to corner in a room so big you can’t even see the ceiling, or the walls, or the floor.

When I reached the center, it was like a switch had been flipped. My voice fell silent. Their voice filled my body like breath fills a lung. They told me…well, I won’t actually say. The moment was too precious, too personal to be given up to anyone else. All I will say is that, when I threw my voice far beyond myself, into that fathomless room, the echo returned as two: mine and Theirs. When I called out, there was an answer.

I started to cry as I made my way out of the labyrinth. My peace of mind had been stirred like a fish pond. Waves of gentle tears spilled out of me. I sat down on the ground, in a warm sunbeam breaking through the trees, closing my eyes. Now the Voice and the Presence were One: a mother. The sunbeam was Her. I pulled my knees up and she held me like a baby. Humming a song I knew. Saying it’s okay, it’s okay.

Waking from that dream, I stood and walked into the trees. I had to get away from the group for a little while. Let the Voice dissolve in my body. Listen to the song of the forest.

So many little things are growing in that tiny corner of the world: new growth fed by the black, decaying leaves left behind by winter; brown-eyed Susans, violet harebells, sweet woodruff, a kind of fuzzy leaf apparently called “lamb’s ear” that my mother used to stroke my cheek when she saw me crying.

When I’m feeling lost, or overwhelmed, or afraid, I can always go back to that chapel in the wilderness, the sweet smell of early summer, the song of quiet it taught me. I can find my way through the labyrinth, find myself at the center. I can meet Her there. Where everything’s more quiet than here.

[addendum…]

You can read/download it online HERE.

Reflection

Well, I’m not entirely sure what else to say about this, other than my journey as a writer is far from over. I’m incredibly proud to see my work included amongst so many other fantastic writers and artists, in a volume as stunning as this one. But I suppose it also feels a bit strange, since I haven’t been doing a lot of writing lately. It may be that my body and mind have been so wrapped up in a perpetual state of transition that I haven’t been able to still myself long enough to actually write about any of it. Or this could just be my excuse for being so lazy.

As per my last post on the subject of feeling overwhelmed, I think it is safe to say that the feeling has not gone away since then. If anything, I feel even more exhausted than I did when I was still working at Target full time. Why is that, I wonder? Perhaps I was keeping myself in a near-constant state of alertness then, and never fully allowed myself to decompress even on my off days. Now that I’m (mostly) done with retail and looking ahead to working as a student mentor again, I need to stop myself again. Put down my phone, music and even my books. Freeze myself in time. Close the blinds in my room so the moving light doesn’t distract me. Not think about all the tasks I want to finish, all the emails and books I still have to read, all the subjects I still want to write about. Let my soft body commiserate with my soft heart.

Hopefully, after all of this, I’ll find time and energy to finish what I’ve started. In the meantime, dear readers, I hope my current lack of output does not give the impression that I’m not immensely grateful to everyone who has followed me and subscribed to my newsletter in this rather long interim. I fully intend to keep creating, musing, sharing with you the things that inspire and nourish my soul. Until next time…

- C

"Some Type of Skin," by AURORA

Hit me hard where I am soft
Should my heart reveal itself to be
More than a muscle
Or a fist covered in blood
However much it feels to bleed
It’s only temporary

We’re good people and we both deserve peace

My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin
I’ve got to build some type of skin)
My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin
I’ve got to build some type of skin)

I guess I should build some type of skin
And let breath be air
And love the things I know might disappear
And the last light of the sun
I let it slow me down
I’ll crawl where everybody runs

We’re good people
And we deserve peace
It’s difficult, it seems

My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin
I’ve got to build some type of skin)
My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin)
My God!
(I’ve got to build some type of skin)
My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin
I’ve got to build some type of skin)
My God! It’s a lot
(I build some type of skin)
My God! My God!
(I’ve got to build some type of skin)

It’s a lot
It’s a lot
My God! It’s a lot
It’s a lot, a lot to me
To me

Where do I even start? I think it’s safe to say the past few years have not been easy for most people. Speaking for myself, between the environment and Gaza and the political situation in my homeland, and the various and sundry emotional dramas I have on in my head at any given moment, I often feel caught between a desperate concern for the world and an abidingly self-centered state of worry about where my life is headed and what I’m going to do with myself.

On top of all that (I know, big deal), I’ve somehow roped myself into about twenty separate side-quests, ranging from the seemingly inane (“call Apple about Pages issue,” “donate/sell old books,” “buy more Wes Anderson movies,” “catch up on saved Substack articles”) to things I consider essential tasks (“reschedule doc’s appointment,” “catch up on emails,” fan fiction writing,” “make baking shopping lists w/ mom,” “stretch/work out,” “apply to more jobs,’ “read poetry books,” “buy new planner,” “create website for poetry”). The big question, of course, is which ones I will eventually get to, and which ones are doomed to languish in my “To do” list until I finally decide they aren’t worth it anymore. The fact that the list is growing longer, slowly but surely, isn’t helping those odds. I’ve put a little asterisk next to the things I’d like to accomplish sooner rather than later, but even those are beginning to blend together.

I’m not joking when I say I now have over 600 unread emails currently in my inbox, which doesn’t include the ones I have clicked on but, for one reason or another, didn’t bother to actually read. I estimate that over a hundred of these are unopened Substack newsletters I’m desperate to get to, but haven’t found the time, energy, mental capacity, etc. to tackle. Scrolling down, seeing them all lined up and ready to be engaged with makes me feel sad, annoyed, unaccomplished. I feel a loss of wisdom that I could be absorbing right now, that could give me answers to questions I’ve been asking lately, or that could lead me to other, more important lines of inquiry. I feel a lack of engagement with the world of writers I so badly want to be a part of. I want to dive into it head first, leave everything else behind. But, more than that, I want to finish rereading the Hunger Games trilogy, I want to get back into reading poetry, I want to write and I want to finish writing the Hunger Games fan fiction I’ve been working on for months (if you think that’s bad, look at the Star Wars fix-it I started back in 2017, picked up again after the utter travesty that was The Rise of Skywalker, and has been sitting patiently in my Ao3 drafts since 2020). I also want to keep applying for jobs I actually think I might enjoy so I can escape from the teeth-grinding monotony of retail. I think you get the picture.

Is mental illness something you can feel in your body? In your mind? Does it simmer like water in a shallow pot? There are days when I feel like a river running dry, stretched thin over protruding stones. I’m acutely aware that I have so many problems that could be solved with a better sleep schedule, a better diet, a workout routine of some kind. Cutting back on my technology usage, going outside more. Things that would make me feel like a healthier person, someone capable and accomplished. I’ve even come to hate that word lately, accomplished. Its casual self-assuredness, how its syllables wrap elegantly around my tongue, gently squeezing. My lazy mouth fills up with spit as I try to articulate it. Its bloody vagueness. Unidentifiable taste.

On March 20, AURORA released the third single for her upcoming album What Happened To The Heart? (forthcoming in June), “Some Type of Skin.” I was working that day from ten to two, but as soon as I had a break I went upstairs to the secluded nursing room, closed the door, turned off the light, and watched the music video. I’d been waiting for this song for weeks, but I had no idea just how crucial its timing would be for me until I heard it.

We’re good people, and we deserve peace. It’s difficult, it seems. My God! It’s a lot!

I feel like I’ve been crawling where everybody runs for the majority of my life. I’ve been slow to rise, slow to realize, slow to grasp certain things it seems like my peers were already fully aware of. I’ve always been soft, so everything that hits me hard hits me everywhere.

A day after this song was released, a friend of mine at work had a breakdown because she too was feeling overwhelmed by circumstances that I will maybe never know about. When I asked her what was wrong, she shrugged and said, “I work at Target,” laughing. I didn’t need to know the details to know exactly what she was talking about, because I felt the same way. Before I went home I got her number and later texted her the song, saying “it made me think of you and I hope you like it and it offers some comfort, like it does for me.”

This song has become my personal anthem in recent days, a head-banging ode to the feeling of being overwhelmed by everything life has thrown at you. When she screams “My God, it’s a lot!” you can feel it in your veins, like lightning, instantaneous. I play it when I’m frustrated, when I’m exhausted, when I’m angry. I play it when I wish some of my favorite celebrities would come out in support of Palestine, or when a show I really like bungles its finish and ruins seasons of character development (I don’t have a specific example, just know it’s happened way too many times). I play it when I’m thinking too much about things I have no control over, things I wish I could change but can’t. When I’m out walking I scream that chorus with AURORA, directly at traffic because my GOD! It’s A FUCKING LOT!!

Since I started writing this post I’ve had to take a pause, and a few important things happened in the interim that have shifted my circumstances considerably. First, I took ten days off from work so I could be a juror for the 2024 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards (which ended up not happening at all, but that’s another post). Second, I had scheduled an interview on the first day of my staycation for a position with City Year Denver. Long story short, the interview went very well and, that Thursday, I received an email offering me the position of student success coach. I accepted. And while I won’t go into the elation I felt at getting this news, which I had been hoping and praying for for months, I will say that, after the initial excitement, I started to realize some things about what this opportunity would mean for me. I’ll probably be leaving Target in late June or early July, before training begins. After that, I will most likely have a grace period of a few weeks before the tidal wave of what I’m about to undertake hits me. A tidal wave that I eagerly welcome, one which I know will challenge and enrich me in ways I never have been before. But it’s also going to be a full-time, 10-hours-a-day job where I work as a mentor to dozens of struggling students from underprivileged communities in the Denver School District. My days off will be pre-planned. I’m going to have to wear a uniform (again), this time with an even stricter code than at Target. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little bit daunted. Overwhelmed in a whole new way.

So I wanted to finish writing this post as soon as possible because I genuinely don’t know when I’ll be able to work on it again, especially after my break ends and I go back to that wearying monotony for a few more months. And I forget about it again. Before I know it, basic training starts and I have no time to do anything but worry about what I’ll do when it’s over, and I’m standing in front of a classroom full of kids whose wellbeing I’ll be partially responsible for.

It’s only temporary.

I guess the point of this article is…I have not updated “The Books That Made Me (Part 2)” since February 28. Shit slows you down. You get stuck on other things. And then other things. And then other things. But I guess we all have to build some type of skin, and maybe it’ll help me wade through it all.

[Postscript]

I’m setting myself a new, simple goal of doing at least one healthy thing every day. This will be a very easy goal to attain because if you think about it human beings already do about a hundred different healthy things every day. We eat, we sleep, we drink water, we clean ourselves, and we interact with the world around us in some way. Even when we don’t consciously take care of ourselves, our bodies perform broadly ten different automatic functions at any given moment, which include metabolism, respiration, and growth. A goal doesn’t have to be huge for it to make a daily positive impact on your life. It just has to be attainable, and contribute somehow to making you feel slightly better about yourself than you did before.

Yes, this is a (very small but important) call for action to all my followers. Few in number though you may be, each of our voices has power, and together we CAN and WILL make a difference with those voices.

It has come to my attention today (a day late, as I usually am in matters of the internet) that there is to be a Global Strike Week for a ceasefire in Gaza. From January 21-28, everyone who cares even a little about the future of humanity and about Peace on Earth can do something to call attention to the atrocities occurring in the Strip, whether that means taking a break from school/work, sharing vital (factual) information about the situation with others, or wearing something that represents Palestine when you go out. However, refrain from going out if you can, boycott companies that are known to either support the genocide in some way or have a history of misconduct (i.e. Starbucks), and do what you can to disrupt the economic flow in your country. It may not be much; I’ll still have to go in to work myself, but I plan to show my support by proudly displaying the Palestinian flag on my shirt or vest and doing as little shopping/eating out as I can.

According to filmmaker Bisan Owda (find them on Tumblr and Instagram), who originally called for the strike:

“it’s been 107 days of genocide, 15 weeks, 2568 hours of killing us, taking over our homes and lands in Gaza Strip, and forcing us to choose between leaving or death.. and sometimes we can’t even choose […] Now, we are without any connection, neither the internet nor the cellular, we can’t reach each other inside Gaza, we don’t know if our families and friends are alive or not, wounded or not.. still in their places or not! […] We can’t reach to you as well! The footage, information and news from Gaza are not reaching you as before because the Israeli army intentionally destroys the signal towers and the servers […] I am not scared of death, but of being displaced, scared of losing my family or friends, scared of being wounded and can’t have my treatment because the health system is collapsed in Gaza, and to die in pain! I am not scared of the destruction.. I lost my work place.. my home and my family work place and source of income, I am terrified of being killed by an occupier, and to be forgotten, one oppressed Bisan of a whole occupied people. The strongest governments and weapons manufacturers are supporting this genocide against my people, and you are our only hope! STRIKE globally and call for a ceasefire! Strike, protest, stop the economic movements and make pressure on your countries to stand against this and stop it, if [Israel] don’t find the financial and weapons support, or governments to hide their crimes they will be forced to stop the genocide! Go to the streets, protest and Globally strike for a week, (21-28) January! YALLA Brave and free people of the world, CEASEFIRE NOW!

Below are some very helpful graphics from Tumblr, along with some other official resources, to give you some ideas as to how you can peacefully but boldly protest this mass murder and support the people of Palestine where our governments will not…

1. https://www.tumblr.com/poniesart/740177055561531392/esims-for-gaza-for-usamericans-call-your-reps?source=share

This post also has links to Bisan Owda’s call to action; “eSims for Gaza,” where you can donate eSims to people in Gaza so they can connect with the outside world and with their loved ones; links for Americans to call or email their reps and urge them to take action; action toolkits from the US Campaign for Palestinian Rights and for January 26th International Day of Action; a Google drive with printable posters; and links to other infographics about the strike.

2. https://www.tumblr.com/doodleloverz/740157832263041024/join-me-in-the-global-strike-week-for-palestine?source=share

3. https://www.tumblr.com/clownngutzz/739798799441117184/bisan-has-called-for-a-global-strike?source=share

4. “6 ways you can support Palestinians in Gaza” - American Friends Service Committee, Jennifer Bing, updated Jan. 18, 2024

5. Free Palestine Movement home page

6. For those of you in the UK: “Palestine” - War on Want

7. US Campaign for Palestinian Rights home page

If you can, please do this with me.

“The era of global warming has ended, the era of global boiling has arrived. The earth is unbreathable, the heat is unbearable, and the level of fossil fuel profits and climate inaction is unacceptable […] The consequences are clear and they are tragic. Children swept away by monsoon rains, families running from the flames, workers collapsing in scorching heat […] Leaders must lead. No more hesitancy, no more excuses. No more waiting for others to move first. There is simply no more time for that.”

Antonio Guterres, United Nation’s Secretary-General

I wouldn’t call this an existential crisis. At least, I don’t think it is. Wikipedia defines existential crises as “inner conflicts characterized by the impression that life lacks meaning or by confusion about one’s personal identity.” No, I’ve had those before. This is different.

While anxiety about climate change certainly can (and does) trigger a kind of existential crisis, it has in itself a specific weight and effect on the brain. The technical term for this type of anxiety, eco-anxiety, is defined by the American Psychological Association (APA) as “a chronic fear of environmental doom” (2017). According to ACE (Action for the Climate Emergency), “There are also several different forms of eco-anxiety. For example, ecological grief is feeling a deep sense of sadness at the changing ecosystem. Solastalgia is the feeling of nostalgia for your home environment. However, it is important to note that eco-anxiety is not yet a diagnosable condition and is not the same thing as a clinical anxiety disorder […] these fears can worsen and/or trigger pre-existing mental health conditions” (2022; emphasis not mine).

Over the past few years I have experienced several bouts of climate anxiety. They’re usually brought on by something I hear about or read in the news. I know, consciously, that certain news stories are designed to cause anxiety in readers. I suppose the idea is that you’re more likely to read it if it scares the living shit out of you. I’d like to think it’s also a tactic to get more people to take action. Probably not.

For myself, if I read or hear something that makes me feel physically and effectively helpless, I am more likely to believe that there is nothing I can actually do to change things, whether in the world or in my own life. I start to panic and hyperventilate, and by the time the tears have stopped my whole body is completely numb. I feel as though I could sink to the bottom of an ocean. So, at least for me, these kinds of stories do nothing to inspire me to “take action.” In fact, they do practically the opposite.

The last time I had an episode, a coworker of mine was telling me about how climate change was affecting our state of Colorado. I can’t remember how we got onto this subject, but I vividly recall their attitude of passive defeatism about the whole thing. They talked about how recycling wouldn’t make any real difference in the end, and at some point in the future Colorado would become more like Arizona, but they figured they’d be dead by the time things got really bad, so it really didn’t matter anyways.

Now, I can’t even begin to unpack all the things that are so fundamentally and frighteningly wrong with this mindset, not least of which the privilege of being able to throw up your hands and say, “I’ll be dead by then anyways, so I might as well just not worry about it.” When you stop to consider for more than two seconds just how many people (the vast majority of them non-white and living in impoverished communities) are affected by climate change on a daily basis, and have no choice but to worry, to fear, to fight…

The white fragility/POC vulnerability factor

With that being said, my coworker and I exist functionally on opposite ends of a spectrum that most people would recognize as White Privilege. And a really good example of just how badly any kind of social privilege can fuck up your worldview is how we, the privileged, deal with crises that, ultimately, affect all of us. Whether we want to acknowledge that or not.

Sarah Jaquette Ray, author of “Climate Anxiety Is an Overwhelmingly White Phenomenon” (Scientific American, 2021), writes,

Climate change and its effects—pandemics, pollution, natural disasters—are not universally or uniformly felt: the people and communities suffering most are disproportionately Black, Indigenous and people of color. It is no surprise then that U.S. surveys show that these are the communities most concerned about climate change.

One year ago, I published a book called A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety. Since its publication, I have been struck by the fact that those responding to the concept of climate anxiety are overwhelmingly white. Indeed, these climate anxiety circles are even whiter than the environmental circles I’ve been in for decades […] If people of color are more concerned about climate change than white people, why is the interest in climate anxiety so white? Is climate anxiety a form of white fragility or even racial anxiety? Put another way, is climate anxiety just code for white people wishing to hold onto their way of life or get “back to normal,” to the comforts of their privilege?

My own desire to cling to a way of life that has been slipping away from me since I left childhood definitely plays a role in the way I experience climate anxiety. Without sidestepping the issue here by throwing up my hands and saying “but I’m not a racist!”, I can say with certainty that maintaining the status quo has never been what scares me the most about our climate crisis. I don’t fear (at least, not consciously) losing power as a white person or having to come to terms with our role in the crisis, as much as the loss of a world I once perceived as perfect, designed to set me up for success and happiness, with everything I would need to achieve those things.

Which is precisely what Ray is talking about. You don’t have to be a loud and proud white supremacist to have your worldview warped by privilege. It’s been baked into our DNA since we were born, just as intergenerational trauma is inherited by all children of marginalized communities (non-white, queer, disabled, etc.). My idea of a “perfect world” is something that could never be a reality, even if every social issue were fixed and all people were treated equal. Even if the climate crisis were resolved and we entered a Star Trek-ian era of peace and exploration. That world was never real, and in many ways I’m okay with that. I could never be content to live in a world where “perfection” is predicated on maintaining a status quo that oppresses others and exclusively uplifts the white, the rich, and the abled. But we do live in that world.

As much as it hurts to accept, this panic reaction is not something that we can simply accept as a part of ourselves. It isn’t like having depression or bipolar disorder. Because of its global implications, I can’t just lie back and take it, refusing to listen to the news and face the grief of others. Nor do I want to, really. I would rather be aware of the threat than pretend it doesn’t exist. I would rather write about my fear stemming from privilege than act like it’s something I’ll just get over. I’d rather feel this pain and keep living through it than stare apathetically up at my bedroom ceiling. Because, as Ray asserts,

The prospect of an unlivable future has always shaped the emotional terrain for Black and brown people, whether that terrain is racism or climate change […] Exhaustion, anger, hope—the effects of oppression and resistance are not unique to this climate moment. What is unique is that people who had been insulated from oppression are now waking up to the prospect of their own unlivable future […] Oppressed and marginalized people have developed traditions of resilience out of necessity. Black, feminist and Indigenous leaders have painstakingly cultivated resilience over the long arc of the fight for justice. They know that protecting joy and hope is the ultimate resistance to domination. Persistence is nonnegotiable when your mental, physical and reproductive health are on the line.

And yet, this is not to say that climate anxiety should be ignored. I don’t think Ray wants us to assume that people in minority communities are resilient and hopeful all the time. In fact, another APA report states that “Factors linked to elevated vulnerability to climate impacts include high levels of poverty, lower education levels, and large populations of older adults, children and infants, disabled people, and recently arrived immigrants, migrants, or refugees” 2014. Ray means that these communities have developed and passed down ways to help each other cope with circumstances that disproportionately affect them. But this may not reflect the individual mindset, especially among the youth of today.

My generation

A survey published in 2021 by The Lancet Planetary Health found that “almost 60%” of children and young people “across all countries reported a large amount of worry […] More than 45% of respondents said their feelings about climate change negatively affected their daily lives […] Countries expressing more worry and a greater impact on functioning tended to be poorer, in the Global South, and more directly impacted by climate change” (Hickman et al). So, even though my own climate anxiety is affected by an internalized sense of privilege, white people are not the only ones who experience it. As a young person, I belong to a global cohort that is being impacted, physically and psychologically, by climate change on a daily basis. My future is no longer assured. Despite my privilege and insulation from most social injustices, I was raised to not ignore the suffering of others. Therefore, I am filled with equal parts guilt and grief. Guilt because of my culture’s contribution to the crisis. Grief because this is my world, too.

My fears and traumas do not, and probably will not, come anywhere close to those of children and young people growing up in the most disadvantaged communities in the world. But they do exist.

Recently, I’d begun to think that climate change wasn’t something I actually had the right to cry about. How could crying about something that is so far beyond myself do any good? Ironically, it seems more acceptable to have a breakdown about things that you actually can control. But when it comes to global crises, we’re expected to pick ourselves up and just cope with it, hopefully in the healthiest ways possible. This is why I’m writing about it, to channel my pain into something proactive. But even that can only get you so far, as my best friend was quick to remind me. Having privilege does not negate our anxiety or grief, any more than being part of a marginalized community means you just have to put a brave face on and keep muddling through. Climate change is terrifying, and while it may affect others more than myself, it nonetheless affects us all.

We still need to pick ourselves up at the end of the day, but we also need to give ourselves time to feel these things. Accepting our emotions and desires, both for the future and in the moment, will allow us to heal much quicker than setting them aside.

(Quick tangent incoming)

I’ve been watching a lot of Star Trek lately. I’m usually a pretty casual viewer, and although I finally feel comfortable referring to myself as a ‘Trekkie’, I still have yet to experience the glorious camp and plucky optimism of “The Original Series”. I was first introduced to the franchise by the 2009 cinematic redux, directed by JJ Abrams, but my full emersion into the Star Trek universe came when my mom forced me to watch The Next Generation with her. What began as a placating viewing experience quickly grew into full-on adoration (and a white-hot crush on Brent Spiner’s Lieutenant Commander Data). Years later, my mom and I have continued our romp through the Star Trek universe via Picard, Discovery, and, most recently, Strange New Worlds.

The pilot episode of Strange New Worlds has Captain Christopher Pike and the crew of the USS Enterprise (pre-Kirk) encountering a remarkably Earth-like planet populated by a pre-warp society that has, somehow, begun to develop bombs with warp technology1. By the end of the episode, Pike is able to diffuse the conflict between the planet’s two warring factions by sharing a bit of Earth’s pre-Star Fleet history. “Our conflict also started with a fight for freedoms,” he says, showing footage of protests and the January 6 riots. “We called it the Second Civil War, then the Eugenics War, and finally just World War III. This was our last day. The day the Earth we knew ceased to exist.” The footage now shows nuclear bombs igniting in several major cities. Pike continues, “What began as an eruption in one nation ended in the eradication of 600,000 species of animals and plants and 30% of Earth’s population. Global suicide. What we gave you is the means to exterminate yourselves. And from the looks of you, you’re gonna do it. You’ll use competing ideals of liberty to bomb each other to rubble, just like we did, and then your last day will look just like this.” Earth from space, fires burning across continents. “But I choose to believe that your destinies are still your own. Maybe that’s why I’m here, to remind you of the power of possibility…right up until the very end, life is to be worn gloriously. Because, until our last moment, the future’s what we make it.”

It’s important to note that, in the context of when Star Trek was first made (late ‘60s), the biggest threat to human existence, and to all life on the planet, was the very real possibility of nuclear warfare. The United States was living in the shadow of the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, which “was a direct and dangerous confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union during the Cold War and was the moment when the two superpowers came closest to nuclear conflict.”2 The Cold War would last from 1947 to 1991. So it’s safe to say that, for Gene Roddenberry’s generation, the existential fear was immediate and, for many, seemed imminent. For a tv show about humanity’s far future to say that, not only would we survive this disaster, but we would ultimately become better than we ever imagined, was radical to say the least. The ultimate act of hope is to stare doom in the face and believe that we can come back from it stronger than before.

My generation’s climate anxiety is very different from Generation X’s terror of nuclear destruction, although they both stem from the same existential dread.
For many of us, nuclear warfare is only one part of the problem, and most of us no longer fear the immediacy of a bomb wiping out all life on Earth in just a few days. Instead, we are living with a catastrophe that is gradual and creeping. We feel the fallout of this disaster a little bit every day. It’s somehow
a bomb that has already gone off, and one that has yet to ignite. This paradox of in-betweenness is the paradigm of our eco-anxiety. We are not waiting for a trigger to be pulled. Instead, we are the proverbial frog being boiled slowly, but with a deeply-ingrained knowledge of exactly what is happening to us. Is this to say that we should just give up and accept our fate, like my coworker?

Absolutely fucking not.

Returning to Lanced Planetary Health’s survey:

[C]limate distress in children and young people can be regarded as unjust and involving moral injury […] Moral injury has been described as “a sign of mental health, not disorder…a sign that one’s conscience is alive”, yet it inflicts considerable hurt and wounding because governments are transgressing fundamental moral beliefs about care, compassion, planetary health, and ecological belonging. This sense of the personal, collective, and ecological perspective is sumarised in the words of one 16-year-old: “I think it’s different for young people. For us the destruction of the planet is personal.” […] Climate anxiety indicates the care and empathy that young people have for our world. As one young person said: “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t care about children and animals.”

One of the most common factors among those afflicted with eco-anxiety is a feeling of profound helplessness, especially with children and young people. But we young people have a very special power, and that is our “care and empathy.” While I will freely admit that not every young person I’ve ever met has this power, I assure you that the vast majority of them do, and they are very strong. Our tears are powerful. Our rage is powerful. Our hope is a light that breaks through the thickest despair. This is the reminder that I need whenever I find myself staring up at my bedroom ceiling in the middle of the night, wondering what I was made for, why I would be here only to see the ending of everything I love.

I’m not sure how to end this post. To keep myself from rambling, I’ll simply end by saying that, if anyone wants to talk about feelings of anxiety or despair relating to climate change, or offer words of hope, please don’t hesitate to comment on this post, and share it with anyone you know who needs to be comforted.3

Before you go: Shoutout to a fellow Substacker!

Although , author of the popular newsletter , definitely doesn’t know who I am and has probably never even heard of me, I wanted to take this opportunity to give her stack a major shoutout, because she is without a doubt one of the reasons why I feel so empowered to write a post like this. If you’re reading this Claudia, I find your work, and your furious hope in the face of our current climate crisis, incredibly inspiring. The media needs more voices like yours to quell the tide of nihilism and hopelessness we have all had to learn to navigate over the past decade.

One of my most fervently held goals is to some day form a support group for people with eco-anxiety, where we can talk and discuss our feelings of fear and hopelessness, share mental health resources and reliable links to positive news stories regarding the environment, and just generally lift each other up. I feel that community is our strongest defense against this affliction, and I would be honored if you would consider yourself an unofficial member of this group (which will hopefully become a reality soon).

A few weeks ago1 I was rummaging through the storage boxes in my mom’s garage looking for my old Barbie dolls. Although I couldn’t find the dolls, having probably given them away years ago, I did unearth something even more precious: my old children’s books. The worlds created by these books colored my childhood with wild imagination and possibility. Flipping through the musty, crackling pages, I hear echoes of my mom’s voice reading them aloud to me while I followed along, marveling at the stunning imagery and touching narratives.

I’m taking a closer look at these treasured books and taking you, my readers, on a little field trip down memory lane. Books are my greatest passion and the whole reason why I became a writer, so getting to share a few of the ones I remember most fondly is a real treat for me. Feel free to comment below if you remember any of these from your childhood!

1. Corduroy, by Don Freeman (1968)

When I think back on all the classic children’s books I grew up with, probably the number one title that comes to mind is Corduroy, written and illustrated by Don Freeman in 1968. The book as a whole is full of timeless charm and heart, but what makes this particular story so impressive for its time is the fact that one of its main characters is a young Black girl. Lisa’s race isn’t made the focus of her character at all, though much can be said about the possible subtext of a child looking for friendship and connection in a society that has afforded people of color little more than isolation. At the time Corduroy was being read to me, I recognized Lisa as a little girl who was like me in many ways, wanting something of her own that was soft and loving. All she wanted was to love her teddy bear (something I’ll always relate to, no matter how old I get). According to Lisa Williamson Rosenberg, the original inspiration for Lisa in the book,

“[W]hen I hear people of all races talk about Corduroy the thing they say most is: That was my favorite book as a child! Or That’s my children’s favorite book! Everyone loved Corduroy and the little girl who took him home—regardless of the fact that she was not white. What Corduroy proves is that audiences connect with characters who look different from them, as long as the story is genuine and the feelings are familiar.”

Of course, Lisa’s race matters a great deal to children of color, who need to see themselves in their favorite characters in order to start believing that they can be anything. They also need to feel affirmed in who they are, as they are, regardless of their circumstances. Charnaie Gordon of Brightly writes, “The story serves as a beautiful reminder to readers of all ages that we are great just the way we are. Corduroy, the buttonless bear lets us know that we are worthy of appreciation and that true friends accept us, flaws and all.” Both Corduroy and Lisa are seemingly alone in a big world, where people who don’t conform to others’ expectations are discarded or overlooked. Without his button, Corduroy thinks he is unwanted. In search of the one thing he believes will make him complete, the stuffed bear goes on an adventure in the department store after it closes, and gets to do all the things he’s always dreamed of doing. Like everybody, Corduroy has grand dreams, like climbing a mountain, living in a palace, and sleeping in a big bed. But what he really wants is a home and a friend. A little bear and a little girl find those things in each other in this story.

Jama Rattigan (whose blog Jama’s Alphabet Soup about “food-related literature” is an absolute delight) more succinctly summarizes my thoughts about this book:

“[Corduroy’s] enduring charm for young readers exemplifies what Don Freeman defined as the essence of a good children’s story: simplicity without simple mindedness. This is a story about belonging, being loved for who you are, and friendship. What could be more important than that? And it’s told without a hint of didacticism, condescension, or sentimentality.”

The theme of simplicity without simple mindedness recurs throughout many of the books in this list, and is one that I am increasingly drawn to. When it comes to Corduroy, and children’s literature in general, the simplest message is often the most powerful: there truly is nothing more important than being loved for who you are.

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Greetings and good fortunes my dear readers! I needed to take a moment in between getting home from work and making my dinner to announce that the literary journal Sixfold has FINALLY released their Summer 2023 Poetry issue…and with it, my poetry!! You can read it online HERE or order a print copy HERE.

I honestly can’t tell you how strange it is to see my name among a list of other immensely talented writers in a book description on Amazon. I feel elated and incredibly proud of this small but significant step I’ve taken in my writing journey, and I’m so excited to be able to share it with you all. Again, I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this journey that feels like it’s only just begun