I’m thirty-two years old and I’ve never had cosmetic procedures done. No Botox, filler, or surgery.

Some years ago, gathered around a dining table, I boldly declared to some family members that I didn’t think I’d ever get any work done. One of them audibly scoffed and, rolling their eyes, told me: “Please! With how pretentious you are? Be real.”

Ok, but tell me how you really feel.

I remember playing dress-up in my mom’s closet as little as six years old. Layering on faux pearls, pulling on her leather boots and silk gowns while stuffing socks under my shirt for breasts. I loved the glamour. Va-va-voom! There was a ritual there that I really connected with. Little did I know the innocence of said ritual would be subverted with the passing of time.

I’m Aging

I’m seeing lines on my forehead. My teeth are losing enamel. You could fit a couple of pencils underneath my breasts.

I went to modeling school as a kid, my only real passion besides rollerblades and Barbies. In our first makeup class, we had to do a brown smoky eye. The whole class voted I did the best, which made me beam with pride. I knew I was good, I had it.

Self-assurance doesn’t seem like a quality a child would have, but it is. Children have an ease about them. It isn’t until they start to receive titles and filters that their innate sense of belonging becomes ideologically laden.

I had a strong brush against this phenomenon in my teens. Low self-esteem didn’t begin to cover it, because I had no concept of self and therefore there was no esteem to be had.

It was a long journey for me to befriend myself, but I’m starting to tell the world who I am instead of the other way around (as I confidently did as a kid).

So now, every time I think about getting work done, tweaking my image in some way, the alarm bells start ringing. I wonder if I’m covertly telling myself I’m not enough, a subconscious admission that after all this internal work I’ve done, I still can’t stand the reflection in the mirror. Because if I were really at peace with myself, wouldn’t I just… leave it alone?

Then another voice in my head says: Get over yourself. It’s not that deep.

It Starts Young

Indoctrination starts early for women. Shay Mitchell has recently come under fire for launching a skincare line aimed at children called Rini, and it’s not the only one of its kind. All my niece insisted on for her eighth birthday back in July were products from brands like Bubble or Evereden.

Arguments in favor of this rest on the notion that children have always loved to play pretend, and that everyone wants to “do what mommy does.” Speaking from my childhood interests, this rings true.

They go on to say that it’s teaching children to look after themselves, that it’s an act of love and self-care: a ritual.

I know for a fact there are two ways girls, and later on women, stand in front of a mirror:

One is to pretend we’re in a dress-up montage from a movie. We might dance, stick out our stomachs to imagine what we’ll look like pregnant, or make a funny face.

The other way we stand in front of a mirror is to look, to really take a look. Pick ourselves apart, grab the rolls, brutalize our acne, cry because we hate the reflection staring back at us.

One of those things is expressive and the other is oppressive. Selling skincare to children under the guise of self-care screams the latter.

Judgment of Women’s Choices vs. Critique of Beauty Standards: A False Dichotomy

A woman should be free to choose for herself: appearance, labor, reproduction. Agency is king. And where cosmetic interventions are concerned, as long as you’re making a choice that improves your life and reduces (perceived) suffering, then it’s protected by feminist rhetoric as legitimate.

Many women outright reject the arguments that aging naturally means anything, because it reinforces shame for women who do decide to get anything done and turns the issue into a moral one. Freely chosen, non-coerced decisions taken by women are feminist decisions, period. And don’t you dare say the contrary.

Or… is this lazy and evasive thinking?

“Will Isn’t Free, but Freedom Is Free”: Ancient Eastern Philosophy to the Rescue

If we accept this wisdom, we might come to the conclusion that wanting Botox isn’t a moral failure. Acting on or resisting the desire to partake isn’t empowering or virtuous either way.

But there must be a recognition: it’s not a free choice.

Our will, which is informed by our desires and fears, our upbringing, social imprinting, etc., will never be free. The freedom only exists in observing the arrival of the desires and the decisions we make to witness them without necessarily obeying them.

“I’m 65 and I have the unshakable urge to look like I’m 35.” Interesting… Why is that?

We have to acknowledge the obvious: interventions of the face and body are a form of resistance to death, an attempt to grasp at permanence, denying the very nature of our existence.

Telling ourselves we chose this is not proof of our freedom, and our desires are not a stable foundation for feminist ethics. To intervene ourselves may cause temporary relief, a sense of belonging, a mirage of respect and restoration of balance. And what does this temporary relief create? The baseline of “normal” is unnaturally altered.

How Were Cosmetic Enhancements Sold as Self-Care?

“It’s her choice, none of our business, not important, not that deep”: the most successful marketing tactic in the history of advertising (and the gateway to a modern lobotomy).

Don Draper would be toasting with bourbon to the genius proposition: selling cosmetic procedures as beauty maintenance and not intervention, so women are compelled to do it forever. Remaining unarmed against time and gravity is framed the same way as not brushing your teeth: decay.

Elevate cosmetic maintenance to the status of health so you can justify the loop, the routine, and the participation as an act of self-care. The ad headline writes itself: “Inject it! Not to look younger, but to remain yourself.”

And of course, get them while they’re young. Why start making money from them at 16 years old when you could start at 6? They had been leaving ten years of profits untapped. How silly! Get them young so you can get them forever.

Therein lies the issue with skincare for children.

Adornment, rituals, and rites of passage are important, symbolic, and necessary. True expression can come from exploring what womanhood is with your friends, mom, grandmother. Gossiping, a bit of rouge, and playing pretend are all anthropological, important forms of expression.

But this is not the same as a system that thrives on keeping us distracted, focused on whether you need veneers or one milliliter more of lip filler. Any parallel drawn by a person trying to sell your child a face mask is an insult to your intelligence.

Of course, this is all further complicated by the fact that nowadays we don’t need printed ads to convince us, we have something far more effective: walking, talking, breathing advertisements. It becomes so much harder to argue with these “choices” when they’re being advertised and promoted by a woman on Instagram Reels.

Selling products and cosmetic interventions as preserving what is already yours also soothes the moral panic and makes the whole thing sound like your idea, an idea rooted in self-love. Paired with unquestioning participants, the status quo shifts and so women who begin to ask questions can be easily dismissed as anal, overthinking, and nosy. Silence is the expectation because it normalizes things over time.

Enter the great divide of 2025: Emma Stone’s facelift at 36. Ask any woman and you’ll get only two answers.

Aging in Media

I was watching Your Friends & Neighbors with my husband and we both commented on how refreshing it was to see Amanda Peet and Jon Hamm looking their age. There’s something magnetic about people who embrace life’s inevitable passage of time, especially when they work in such unforgiving industries. It’s a quiet but powerful signal: I look good no matter what you tell me.

Otherwise, everyone seems to be getting hotter and younger. So I wonder what is that doing to our brains?

Living in the true peak of the nip and tuck, Kylie Jenner just this year shared her exact breast augmentation recipe so we can all get the same silicone cocktail.

What will this do to storytelling in media? Do we feel warmth and connection to characters if they look perpetually youthful and glossy?

If actors have to get mini facelifts in their thirties to keep working, even if it breaks the illusion of the art, what will become of art? Should films reflect our cultural zeitgeist or resist it?

I have no satisfying answers to any of these questions, but I think it’s important to ask them anyway.

The Substance gruesomely portrays the dangers of excess, the addiction to a look of imagined perfection that can end in the permanent elimination of our likeness. Is it still feminist to fiddle with ourselves to the point of disfigurement? We’re supposed to say yes, and yet for many of us we feel the answer boiling in our blood: no.

There’s a nefarious insult to the self, an erasure. It’s like we’re skipping an important lesson in the name of acceptance of choices: overcoming the demons that drive us to pick ourselves apart in the mirror in the first place.

But not being able to dissect and discuss these topics without backlash isn’t feminist either. All I know is that for myself and young girls, I only wish for more playful mirror sessions and fewer oppressive ones, which the current climate doesn’t reflect.

There’s also an interesting question that comes up: In a world where everyone looks good, can it pay to look “bad”?

A Real Face: An Ancient Artifact

This is where the questions stop lining up neatly and start multiplying instead.

Once we reach the ceiling where we all look incredible but there is no way back, no way to reclaim naturalness, can we reasonably expect to see things get better or just weirder?

Maybe real faces will become rare treasures, like vintage furniture from a flea market.

Or maybe we’re on the cusp of reclaiming the grotesque and the next big thing will be the flawed, downtrodden, and funky-looking. If I were the head of a fashion department, I’d start dressing the Quasimodos in haute couture just for kicks.

Or perhaps all of this is moot. The birth of artificial intelligence has ushered in a new era for us all. We can sell our faces and voices and remain forever young in algorithm, immortalized by machines that can give us Forever 21 through self-impersonation. The fountain of youth wasn’t water after all, but digital bytes.

At that moment, we might be free to look as crooked, crusty, and creased as we’d like IRL. Or more likely, we’ll keep looking for new ways to stand out.

I don’t think we’re far away from a future where facial prosthetics to look like aliens become a thing. With men out there leaving their wives for ChatGPT and getting off on hentai, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to expect people to want to look like or marry a Mon Calamari. A topic for another moment.

Final Reflections

I’m starving for more images of untampered aging. Not because I have judgments about how other women should age (despite my objections), but because I’d like more references so I can make up my own mind.

I don’t think our obsession with anti-aging is just about vanity. Looking at ourselves, literally and symbolically, gets harder the longer we live. The older we get, the less we can hide from who we really are and ultimately from death.

Will our wrinkles be the burden of proof of reality? Will aging become a symbol of status, reclaimed as symbolic and beautiful, not a process to be corrected but celebrated? Naturalness as proof of authority, continuity, and intelligence.

The furrow in a thinking writer’s eyebrow, the wrinkled arms of an interstate truck driver, the sunspots on a farmer’s face, the hunched back of a crouching laboratory scientist.

In the end, I’m just like anyone else: a lover of trends and a hypocrite.

If I’m anticipating that keeping my real face will be a prized commodity, I’ll cling to my wrinkles as long as I can tell a good story about how it makes me better than you.

(P.S. For the curious: procedures I myself am contemplating = breast reduction & lift, lip hydration, Botox around the eyes. Only time will tell if I’m gangster enough to resist.)

Xoxo
Virago

I’m a bit embarrassed that I believe in occult practices. It often feels like I’m two people who, if they met in real life, would immediately roll their eyes at each other.

One of us is rational, no-nonsense. She believes in practical steps and five-year plans. If her logical brain can’t explain it, it doesn’t exist.
The other spends hours in maladaptive daydreams, rehearsing her Jimmy Fallon interview. Should she come across as the casual cool girl or the glamour bombshell? (Spoiler: she’s both—an equally annoying contradiction.) She drowns the house in incense and meditates to speak to her ancestors.

They coexist, uneasily. And lately, I’ve noticed the world seems to reflect that same split. Occult practices—manifesting, astrology, tarot—have gone mainstream. What was once the domain of your kooky aunt is now your CEO’s MO.

And while I get the appeal, I’m starting to wonder: Are we just spiritualizing our avoidance?

Your Boss Has an Astrologer on Speed Dial

The astrology sector alone is projected to reach $22.8 billion by 2031. Spiritual products? Valued at $180 billion in 2024 and expected to grow to $249 billion by 2032.

But this popular embrace of what was once considered fringe has brought with it an army of spiritually self-righteous people, now armed with smartphones and ring lights. New Age evangelists and Instagram gurus love to serve us lines like:

“What is meant for you will never pass you by.”
“Rejection is redirection.”
“A closed door is the wrong door.”

Surely, that missed opportunity was the universe protecting you. It’s not that you were naïve, under-qualified, or completely in over your head and in desperate need of a wake-up call. Of course not…

Accidentally Enlightened, Deeply Unprepared

I’ve been able to attract things into my life that seemed so improbable, so out of left field, that I can’t help but believe.
Believe in what, exactly? I’m not sure. (These things will stay between me and the void, because they’d be forever spoiled if I said them out loud.)

I’ve had obsessive phases trying to find answers: devouring books on Buddhism, listening to Hinduism podcasts hosted by a guy called Nish the Fish, reading astrology from the likes of Liz Greene and Alan Leo. I’ve seen just enough to convince me that someone, or something, is listening. That there’s a force placing me in situations where I get to practice becoming the person I say I want to be.

But the shocking part? I never behave how I imagine I would. I’ve had things in the palm of my hand and still didn’t seize the moment. I cowered, doubted, got embarrassed.

I’m doing this strange dance with myself: I say I want something, it shows up, and sometimes I fall short.

Maybe That Was the Right Door. You Just Didn’t Walk Through It.

So… is rejection really redirection? Is something better waiting for me? Or was that moment the moment and it just came to show me that I wasn’t ready?

Maybe nothing better is on the horizon. Maybe that opportunity was the one, and it didn’t pan out because I wasn’t prepared for what I said I wanted. And I have to be okay with that. So do you.

I’m not trying to kill your dreams, but it’s difficult to exist in a time where grounded conversations are rare. Sometimes the moment doesn't call for talk of divine timing. Sometimes it calls for a hard look at yourself.

More and more, it seems like New Age spirituality is religion in a mask, encouraging people to throw their hands in the air and wait for the Universe to work things out for them.

But this mortal coil takes intention. Action. Effort. Screwing up. Missing chances. Regrouping.

Sure, the Universe Has a Plan. But You Still Have to Show Up to the Appointment.

Can you have a second chance? Absolutely. Third and fourth chances too.

But the lesson isn’t that what’s meant for you will never pass you by. Things can and will pass you by. And when they do, that moment becomes fertile soil.

You can take it and learn. You can creatively pivot, readjust your expectations, and have an uncomfortable moment of sincerity with yourself.

Or you can ignore what’s in front of you and post a Yung Pueblo quote to your Instagram stories.

“She let go. Overjoyed. Now she’s spiritually aligned… and unemployed?” — Joven Village???

Spiritual Evolution or Avoiding Personal Responsibility?

I love that, as Millennials and Gen Zers, we’re re-parenting ourselves, exploring new avenues for healing and dealing with life’s difficulties. We’re learning to be the gentle, encouraging hands we didn’t always receive. But within us, too, is an executing power that needs to be listened to.

Tolerance for rejection is crucial. The introspection that follows? Even more important.

Sometimes the “better thing” isn’t around the corner. The better thing is the humility it takes to sit with failure. To reroute with clarity instead of fantasy.

That door that closed? It wasn’t the wrong door. Sometimes it was the right door, and you’re just going to have to find a new key to reopen it.

Life is starting to feel like a strange balance between delusion and dedication. I know I’m not the only one who thinks so. I often feel like Florence Pugh in Midsommar, equally intrigued and horrified by the things happening around me. Some days, I’m one crystal away from becoming a Manson girl. Other days, I wonder if the finance bros of Twitter were right about Marcus Aurelius all along.

Who will prevail? I’ll let you know in ten years.

In the meantime, hold the vision, superstar. Just don’t forget to update your resume… and maybe double-check the lease agreement while you’re at it.

I’m allowing myself one cynical article a month, and this is it.

I hate the word “authenticity.” A piece of my soul dies anytime I hear someone online talk about how the formula for social-media success is to “just be authentic.”

What does authentic even mean? Let’s go high-school essay on you guys. According to Merriam-Webster and Cambridge, authentic means:

Not false or imitation: Right off the bat, we’ve run up against a problem. Most of social media is built on imitation. Trending sounds, challenges, duets, #grwm, #ootd. People will even fabricate wild stories to go viral (and it works). Not exactly authentic.

True to one’s own personality, spirit, or character: My mother argued this point—there are people who have a knack for showing up as themselves online. Even so, how much of the self can be reproduced in 3-minute videos? Can we really know someone authentically through our screens? I’d argue no. And honestly, that separation and privacy can be powerful and necessary.

Genuine—being what it claims to be: This feels closest to what people want from their content creators. Someone who walks the walk and talks the talk.

But here’s what I think: if you were actually being authentic, you wouldn’t spend a second thinking about it.

From Showcasing Perfection to Showcasing Realness

The internet has evolved. We have gone from idolizing Jay Alvarrez and Alexis Ren with their perfect bodies in blue-ass water, living seemingly perfect lives, to wanting creators to show us that they’re accessible, relatable, and vulnerable.

Father algorithm now favors the pictures of your dinner after it’s been eaten over the perfectly manicured aerial shot of your croissant and matcha latte.

So, being raw and imperfectly ourselves is now the formula for success.

So much so that corporate America has smelled the money and is now jumping on the authenticity-vulnerability bandwagon. Just picture it: the marketing team of a capitalist enterprise in a boardroom meeting, brainstorming how to seem human to the general public.

Authenticity, in reality, has become content strategy. A verb. Exercise that authenticity like a muscle and you will be thanked for your genuineness. Tell me why you hate yourself and I’ll reward you with my like!

Pressing Play

The definition of play is “to engage in activity for enjoyment and recreation rather than a serious or practical purpose.”

Seems like a fitting word to describe what we do when we record ourselves or when we view another person’s video: we press play.

The moment we press play, we’re no longer in pure reality—we’re now performing or consuming someone else’s performance. There’s a medium, a barrier that’s picking up what you’re laying down. That performance is planned, if not carefully curated: lighting, framing, scripting, editing. So if we pause to strategize on how we can “show up more ourselves” online, we’ve stopped being authentic in that very moment. You’ll be performing a version of yourself, and the audience will reward whatever version of “you” feels most comforting (and consumable) to them. That’s why people go from loving creators one day to hating them another.

Naturally, some people do this better than others. That’s the difference between an Oscar-nominated performance and a daytime-soap opera performance. How well do you know your craft, and how seamless can it come across?

I think the reason not everyone goes viral is because showing up online successfully is harder than people think—just like acting is much harder than people think. And yet, doesn’t everyone think they can become an actor? Just as everyone thinks they can produce quality content.

Performance is baked into the experience of social media. This naturally limits the way we can be authentic, because there is an inherent contradiction when we perform honesty and vulnerability.

Being Deliberate

Full disclosure: I don’t care if the creators I see online are being “real” or “authentic.” I care if they’re entertaining. Their truest selves can stay private, untouched by likes, comments, and reposts.

I don’t believe a person’s authentic self can come across the moment they hit record anyway, and I think that barrier is healthy.

Viewers need to loosen their parasocial expectations of the strangers they view online. There will always be intentionality, acting, planning, and rehearsing. Even the “unfiltered,” “unedited” aesthetics are carefully planned and curated. Embracing the irony that is social media is what makes it funny, entertaining, and fun.

My husband actually hit the nail on the head when he told me: “Authenticity is whatever the algorithm is rewarding today,” which, by definition, could never be authentic.

The Real Real

Next time someone tells you to “be authentic” online, just remember: The algorithm thanks you for your service.

I leave you with some tried-and-true ways to seem authentic:

• Film in your car. Something about being mobile—or pretending to be—is highly relatable.

• If you’re going to cry on camera, don’t put the countdown timer on. Your audience is no idiot. They know you’ve propped up your phone and are giving them your good crying angle. You gotta make it look like a spontaneous crying session. Look ugly as well.

• Ask for help you don’t need. Even if you know exactly what you’re gonna wear, ask your audience. They appreciate that you consider their input.

• Spill your guts. Embarrass yourself. People online are nothing if not morbid.

• Disclaimers. For what? Doesn’t matter. They love the disclaimers.

• Post anything and say: I hope the real ones find this. The real ones will, in fact, find it.

Or…Maybe let’s just skip the whole charade and play. Be deliberate, be creative, intentional. You don’t owe the internet your truest self. Crafting authenticity is done in the real word, not online. So, show up as a character, as a fragment, a mood. It doesn’t mean you’re fake—it actually means you understand the context in which you’re showing up: social media. And social media will never be reality, and it doesn’t have to be. Because in this theater of screens, being “authentically inauthentic” might be the purest act of all.

[Murder Me for Nickels, Arthur Bowen Davies (1960)]

The Case

What do you think about a marriage contract that renews every few years?

In law school, we discussed the possibility of couples having the option to consciously renew or exit their legal union if the original terms that led them to marry in the first place no longer held true over time. Unromantic? Maybe. (Don’t let Mike Ross and Rachel Zane fool you—there’s nothing sexy or romantic about practicing law.) But considering that for around 40% of people in the U.S, “forever” doesn’t mean much (it means even less for second and third marriages), it’s worth rethinking what we’re really promising when we say, “‘till death do us part.”

Divorce is deeply sensationalized in our society, and few portrayals have landed as hard as Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story. The film captures the emotional chaos many adults and their children experience during a separation. One Redditor wrote, “Its depiction of divorce is messy, ugly, and as real as it gets. As an only child with divorced parents, this film had scenes that were, honest to god, handpicked from my early childhood.”

Driver and Johansson’s raw performances hit a nerve. Even people who’ve never been married admitted the film made them cry and wary of the idea altogether. It’s a haunting portrayal of what happens when love runs up against unmet needs, deaf ears, and a bulldog lawyer.

I’d bet anyone reading this knows at least one couple that’s had an ugly divorce.

Media and entertainment’s portrayal of divorce as tragic, complex, and devastating only reinforces the idea: Why even try?

And yet, I’d also bet anyone reading this knows at least one person who’s had an amicable divorce. Those people are like unicorns. Are they real? Are they faking it? Fooling themselves?

We know our thoughts and beliefs shape our emotions and behaviors. So what can we expect when divorce is dramatized, weaponized, and pathologized—especially for women? Can we change the way we view divorce, not as a failure of marriage, but as a possible feature of it?

A Brief History of Marriage, From Sumerians to Raya

In the documentary series The Way of the Dream, Marie-Louise von Franz is interviewed by Fraser Boa, and they discuss the historical evolution of romantic love and its impact on marriage.

You see, marrying for love is a relatively new concept. Gold diggers get a bad reputation, but strategy, alliances, inheritance, and power were the historical foundation of marriage.

Franz traces the earliest stirrings of romantic love to the medieval French courts of love, where knights performed noble acts for the women they idolized (often not their wives). This was a radical psychological shift in human history.

I leave you the rules of courtly love, in case you need some medieval inspiration to woo your boo:

In prehistoric times, tribal pair bonds were formed for survival, reproduction, and protection. These unions were fluid and community-based, rather than exclusive or permanent.

(~2350 BCE): The first marriage contracts appeared with the Sumerians, where labor and inheritance drove people to unite.

(~800 BCE – 400 CE): The Ancient Greeks and Romans were romantics, but marriage was a civic duty that secured social status and political power and rarely involved talk of love.

(~500–1500 CE): The Church elevated marriage to a sacred sacrament in the Middle Ages, though most unions still served the purpose of family alliances. Ironically, it was around this time that the French courts popularized declarations of love and sacrifice—something the Church opposed and suppressed.

It wasn’t until the 19th century, with the rise of Romantic Idealism and Victorian sentimentality, that love began to take center stage in human relationships.

Fast forward to today, and people are trying to find their “soulmate” on Raya.

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Love Changed the Game

Marie-Louise von Franz argued it would likely take many decades of trial and error and thus, divorce, before humanity fully understands what it actually takes to live and love only one person for a lifetime. That’s because monogamous marriage initiated for and by love, proposes a special psychological container: a true mirror for the self, a space to examine all the things we project onto another.

Many people, quite obviously, can’t handle that task, because it’s not an easy one. We all have varying levels of self-awareness. Choosing someone to share your life is serious, but not for the reasons the Catholic Church might insist. It’s serious because it asks you to face your own angels and demons in close quarters. To sleep beside someone after giving them your worst and then waking up the next morning to share a coffee. That’s a wildly intimate proposition. It demands emotional endurance, humility, and a willingness to keep showing up.

And still, many take that choice too lightly, sometimes before their frontal lobe is even fully developed. People also keep marrying for reasons outside of love (even if they won’t admit it): money, status, biology, loneliness, horniness. And who are we to judge?

What happens to a relationship once the projections are gone? Franz says that in that moment, the real relationship can begin. Or maybe, you realize there’s nothing left. And is that so terrible? Conditions change. People evolve.

At my own wedding, I gave a speech that raised a few eyebrows in the family. I said I didn’t know if my husband and I were forever—but we were for now, and that was all the certainty we needed, because this moment is all we have.

That mutual awareness gave us the freedom to love each other more honestly and presently. We actually became better friends and partners, precisely because we acknowledged the delicate, possibly fleeting nature of our relationship.

Curiously, when you take the pressure of “forever” off a relationship, suddenly, you don’t really want it to end.

“Liberation of the heart would mean to become slowly capable of feeling and sensing the uniqueness of the other’s personality, and to love that uniqueness. And that doesn’t mean the Christian all-pardoning, sweetie-pie, strawberry sauce love, of loving and pardoning everything. On the contrary, it’s a great precision of feeling. Real love makes the other person whole, it makes the other person more him or herself, and that has nothing to do with sentimentality, or being sweet or polite.”
—Marie-Louise von Franz

Could Divorce Be a Rite of Passage?

And so, if we accept that marrying for love is still new for our species, is it any wonder we’re not that good at it yet?

Love changed the game. Unions are now about growth, intimacy, and healing. The stakes are higher, and the roles we play more complex.

So if we separate, does it have to mean we’ve failed?

We don’t shame people for outgrowing jobs or cities, it’s all growth just the same.
Relationships can offer that type of personal evolution too. So why the tragedy?

What would happen if we saw divorce as a necessary part of the trial-and-error evolution of romantic partnership? If we treated it as a step in human development, could we reduce stigma, remove shame, and make the process more humane?

Reframing divorce isn’t a small task. Love lost will always be sad, especially when children, homes and shared dreams are involved. But honoring that pain without pathologizing the ending could be what makes the perfect space for healing.

Could divorce be a rite of passage—or even a success story?

Not because it ended, but because it gave each person a chance to grow—even if that meant growing apart. You get the credit, because you tried, and that’s all any of us can do.

If the goal isn’t to “make it work” at all costs, but to become whole as individuals, together or apart, falling in love and getting married becomes a revolutionary act.
And in it, we can choose to let some people go with grace.

[Man and Wife, Egon Schiele (1917)]

On a crispy winter morning, my husband and I made our way to the Strand Book Store near Union Square. The city was full of tourists, and about a quarter of them seemed crammed into this bookstore. We had just moved into a sublet in the East Village after a falling out with someone we thought was a close friend. A NYC rite of passage, no? I’m glad I purged myself of said instrumentalist, manipulative friendship sooner rather than later. In hindsight, crossing paths was important because they mirrored the way I’d long treated myself: conditionally.

I was looking for a book—I don’t remember which—but I didn’t find it. I ended up on the bottom floor, which, in classic NYC fashion, was 30 degrees Celsius despite it being 2 degrees outside. One of the city’s many charms.

I wandered to the Philosophy section, which, naturally, was lumped in with self-help, religion, spirituality, and foreign languages (because of course these things can’t exist without one another…). That’s when a butter-yellow book caught my eye. Did I subconsciously anticipate 2025’s butter-yellow fashion trend? Probably. My mom and I have a sixth sense for these things.

But it wasn’t the color. It was the title: The Myth of Self-Esteem by Albert Ellis. That was enough to make me buy it. Self-esteem has always been an elusive and ever-changing concept for me. What woman would resist the opportunity of a man telling her why she has none!

Jokes aside, I took it home and read it in a day. Funnily enough, it marked a before-and-after in the way I think about self-esteem.

A Man of Big Ideas—and Even Bigger Red Flags

Albert Ellis was a man of groundbreaking ideas—and even bigger red flags. In his autobiography All Out!, he openly admits to publicly pleasuring himself by rubbing against women in crowded subways and buses when he was a teenager. Of course he went on to become a psychologist. It’s the most on-brand psychologist origin story I’ve ever heard!

You can imagine my disappointment when I found out. Still, I found the teaching of his book profound. Ironically, the book itself showed me that I could extract its wisdom while disapproving of Albert’s behavior. And I did.

Ellis was the father of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy (REBT), the philosophical backbone of the more popular Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT).

The thesis: Most people don’t actually have self-esteem. We have conditional self-esteem.

We like ourselves when we’re “good,” and loathe ourselves the moment things don’t go according to plan. If you only feel good when you’re optimized—doing yoga, eating clean, meditating, weighing a certain amount—but then feel worthless when you dare binge-drink or skip a scheduled gym session, I hate to break it to you: you don’t have self-esteem, you have a rating system.

The Scam of Conditional Self-Esteem

You have to accept yourself—even if you’re fat, ugly, lazy, broke, or loud. And not in a toxic-positivity way. You don’t need to believe you’re secretly a hot, rich genius. You just have to stop thinking those labels change your worth.

Ellis says it’s irrational to rate your entire self based on isolated behaviors. You can, and should, evaluate your actions—but the self remains worthy regardless.

Difficult? Absolutely. He says it takes years of practice and self-monitoring to silence that cruel inner narrator who insists you're only as good as your latest achievement.

Even more surprising, he also warns against over-celebrating your wins. Ellis draws a sharp distinction between saying, “That was a helpful behavior,” and “I’m a good person because I did that.” The first is rational. The second is ego-inflation—and fragile. Because once your behavior changes (and it will), the inflated self-image crashes.

In Ellis’s terms:
“That was a productive behavior” = ✔️
“I’m proud because I’m being good today” = Slippery slope
“I’m lovable because I did that” = Conditional self-esteem

He coined the term musturbation to describe our irrational, rigid beliefs: “I must do this,” “They must treat me that way,” “Life must go my way.” These thoughts create guilt, anxiety, and shame. As the ancient proverb states: “Shoulda, woulda, coulda!”

A Liberated Self, Not a Cured One

After reading this book, it struck me that I wasn’t just rating myself—I was also tolerating relationships that rated me. When you live in a constant cycle of proving your worth to yourself, you’ll naturally attract (and accept) people who expect you to keep proving it to them, too. And the worst part? You’ll expect that of them as well. We’re all mirrors, after all.

So yes, your actions should align with the life you say you want. That means judging them. But here’s the trick: you can evaluate your behavior in terms of whether it moves you closer to your goals—without attaching a moral judgment to your entire identity. Those are two very different things.

Here’s the practice: when rating your actions, ask yourself, “Does this bring me closer to the life I want?” That’s it. You can reflect with clarity, without spiraling into self-hate or delusion.

And just like that, my self-esteem wasn’t “cured”—but it was liberated.

The Line That Changed My Life

After digesting Ellis’s teachings, I picked up a piece of paper and drew an image. On the right: a drawing of Me. Perfectly flawed. Untouchable.
On the left: my actions, behaviors, habits. Fair game.

I drew a line between the two, and my dynamic with myself was forever changed.

That separation gave me something priceless: objectivity. I could say, “That was unhelpful,” without feeling angst or disgust. I could love myself and still want growth.

It also made me understand that first friendship fallout in the city. Conditional self-esteem looks like this: it flatters when it benefits, abandons when it’s inconvenient, and resents anything that challenges it. That was them—but it was also me. I had tolerated those conditions because they mirrored my own self-treatment. In the end, it was all positive: I let a friend go, and I let a form of self-punishment go too.

So…Albert Ellis, the man who touched himself in public, gave me a gift: an untouchable self. And a line that not only separated me from my actions, but from conditional love.

Last night, I was watching MADOFF: The Monster of Wall Street with my husband and thought to myself, "Investment banking is a cult." I’d also watched a couple of episodes of HBO’s hit show Industry and constantly found myself thinking, “What the fuck are they talking about?” “Half a yard, done, four cents…” I’m not going to use an emoji in my article to uphold some journalistic integrity, but just know—my left eyebrow is hiked up high in response to that jargon.

Derivatives, arbitrage, liquidity risks, alpha generation! Aren’t boys the cutest? Making up words and playing pretend with money.

I think men’s reluctance to grow up is kind of genius—because they managed to build entire industries around their pastimes, all while preserving the original desire: to stay playing.

When children play pretend, it’s serious to them, they get into the role. Men carry this attitude well into adulthood, even when confronted with reality. Like Madoff… baby, what the hell did you do? Baseball cards become derivatives and hedge funds, but the structure remains: convince enough people something is valuable, and suddenly—it is.

Investment banking? A video game where they collect and trade imaginary assets.
It’s a boys’ clubhouse with secret words and made-up rules.
Cars? Expensive Hot Wheels collections.
Sports? It’s recess forever, only now they get to bet on it and call it “strategy.” Don’t even get me started on fantasy football…
Poker? High-stakes Go Fish.
Crypto? A virtual playground where men invented fake money and convinced other men it’s real.

A bunch of guys caused a worldwide economic crisis in 2008 by making up value and trading fake things but they did it in suits and drank super old whiskey—so it’s serious business, you know? Is investment banking really a career, or is it role-playing? Make-number-go-high-now!

If it goes wrong? It’s an economic downturn, not a scam, silly goose!
They didn’t mean it. An unfortunate financial misstep. Write a book about it so other men know how not to get caught next time, and all is forgiven. Memoir that shit.

It’s interesting how most men think of themselves as too smart for groupthink or cult-like devotion. All the while, from another room, I can hear the voice of Stephen A. Smith coming from my husband’s computer, passionately screaming about the Anthony Davis and Luka Dončić trade.

I put on a little makeup at 31 and my dad says to me, “Aren’t you a little old for that?” You’re right, Dad. It’s time I put down my pretend makeup brushes and pay the piper.

I get so much shit for being into astrology, recognizing patterns, making predictions…
Can’t I just Texas hold ’em with the stars?! I’m just tryin’ to get like you, my boy!

I think I should be able to pretend that my ex is texting me because Venus is retrograde—if you can pretend “market sentiment” is the reason your fake money disappeared.

If we’re all playing pretend…

This week, I interviewed my most demanding guest to date: my 7-year-old niece, Olivia Llompart Colón.

Before agreeing to the interview, she sent me three voicemails outlining her terms—questions must be in English, she might be too nervous, and, most importantly, she wanted to know if this would make her famous.

Olivia hates rude people and recently won a kindness award, which stirred up mixed feelings in her friend group. You see, Olivia is a proud snitch. She has no issue reporting any funny business to her teachers, mostly because she has zero patience for confronting difficult people herself.

She loves @SabrinaCarpenter, but could do without the profanity. Her social life is thriving (most of her friends’ names start with M), and if you don’t like dogs, you’d be in trouble under Olivia’s rule—because she’d make owning one mandatory.

She sings, dances, draws, and answered all my questions with the kind of confidence that only a 7-year-old with a strong moral compass dressed in sequins can bring.

Please enjoy these six minutes with the future ruler of us all:

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My grandmother is Opus Dei, and each time I see her she asks: ‘Are you being a good wife?’ (As I’m writing this, an article dropped in The Guardian about 43 women suing Opus Dei for exploitation and abuse in Argentina).

She has lived a life few women know nowadays. She fell in love with my grandfather when she was just 12—he’s the only man she’s ever known and loved. She raised four children back-to-back with minimal help from my grandfather who, being a man of his times, would get home from work on a Friday, hand her his jacket through the garage fence, kiss each of his kids on the forehead, and go on weekend-long benders with his friends. They called themselves the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Historically, we’ve kept many women away from actualization by giving them titles—and roles to go along with them: daughter, wife, mother, homemaker, unlicensed therapist to your puer boyfriend.

Men are presented with gendered issues too, and yet they enjoy more freedom to choose; they’re allowed to be other things besides fathers. A man can spend a whole Saturday playing golf with the boys and wouldn’t think himself a worse father for it. On the other hand, guilt is woven into the female experience. A mom feels like she’s committing a capital offense if she dares to lock herself in the bathroom for five minutes to escape the noise of children bawling or playing.

Grandma wasn’t brought up to ask many questions—not of herself and not of the world around her. Her proudest accomplishment is that she was a mother and a wife. She often expresses how fulfilling it was, how this duty is a sacred duty. To uphold a family is a pillar belief of Opus Dei. And yet, growing up, all I can remember from my grandmother is how sad and angry she looked.

Even in Paradise, She Worked

My grandparents used to have a beach apartment in Rincón, Puerto Rico back in the early 2000s. I was very happy there. I would spend weeks on end during the summer with my grandfather. It was paradise. Sometimes, the whole family would be there, jam-packed in a two-bedroom apartment. Some of us slept on mattresses on the balcony, with the sounds of the ocean beside us, as there was no space inside for everyone. But it was fun and charming.

Her children ostracized her because she was always in a bad mood. She cooked for all of us (sometimes up to 17 people at once), she cleaned, she washed all our towels. She fumed when everyone dragged in sand into the apartment from the beach. All she asked was not to be disturbed during certain hours, when she would lock herself in a room to pray the rosary—her own form of meditation, I suppose.

Now looking back, I always think to myself: no wonder this woman projected such misery and bitterness! She took on everything, and all she got in return was that nobody wanted to be next to her. And that I can also understand, because you see—no one asked my grandmother to take on all that she did. She just felt it was her cross to bear, being the woman of the house. And I think, for most of her life, she carried that cross and pretended she loved it, when her attitude, her face, and her spirit projected: someone save me from this hell.

Inherited Resentment

My empathy for her has grown as I’ve gotten older, even though when I was younger I preferred—and adored—my grandfather over anyone else. I can only appreciate all that she did in retrospect because in reality, she and I are not so different.

I started cooking and cleaning before I knew proper spelling, a reality that was much different from my brothers’ upbringing. I made my first fried egg, unsupervised, at five years old.

I remember one of my favorite movies was Matilda—I felt much like her. Sharp and observant, and also nonconformist. If my grandmother hadn’t lived such a deprived life, I would’ve never turned out a virago. Life has a funny way of restoring balance—even biological, generational balance. Submissive, religious, devout woman in one generation; subversive, ill-tempered, disrupter in another.

And even so, I’ve had to unlearn servitude and service myself. I often find I’m carrying out certain tasks in complete resentment. I struggle letting people do things, because they do it poorly (or at least not up to my standards). But nobody asked me to do any of the things that fill me with rage and resentment. And yet… someone has to do them. So who?

We live these lives of deprivation that eventually turn us into naggers, complainers, criticizers. I see it in myself all the time. I’ve been hardwired to think about keeping the sails going, all the time—and I resent men for not having the same instincts. But it’s these very beliefs that make us into martyrs, and eventually, make us become my grandmother.

She now suffers from Alzheimer’s. And it’s my grandfather who’s charged with caretaking—as if there’s some divine justice at play. I’m going to forget this life because I never really lived it, and you’ll have to take care of me, as I did for you and your children for 70 years—the ultimate revenge.

The Bird

I’d be lying if I told you that I knew what the solution to ingrained martyrdom was. This is the only thing I can offer:

My psychologist once told me a story and said I could choose between two endings:

I’m a bird, and I took flight to cross a vast ocean. It took me many years, many obstacles were presented along the way. The journey was long, it was tiresome and hard. I finally arrived at the other end of the world and landed on a rock. I looked back and saw the immense journey I had just been on. I could either:

1. Look at that vast ocean I just crossed and curse the heavens for having to cross it all by myself in the first place—I could curse the winds, the sun, the rain, the sea.

2. Or I could look back and be amazed, in awe that I took that journey in the first place, and that I completed it and survived. I could choose to be grateful for all it showed me, and I could take flight again—maybe with more presence and a better understanding of who I am, and this time, flying in a direction that I wanted.

Maybe that’s how we escape victimhood: see the roles we’ve been conditioned to fill for what they are; make conscious choices to stop filling those roles if they feel contrary to the constitution of our souls; and take flight in a different direction—where we can feel comfortable saying no, having opinions, doing things for ourselves guilt-free. Choose nothing and no one but yourself, and see where that takes you.

If we can manage to not look at that first flight with resentment but with gratitude, we can say: thank you, but fuck that.

Now… His Duty

As for my grandmother? I recently offered to help them clean around the house. She can no longer upkeep it, and the burden has fallen on my grandfather, who’s older and tired. She might forget a lot, but she won’t forget her place. Before he could accept my help, she vehemently opposed my offer. It’s her house. It’s her duty. Now… his duty.

This week, the conversation turns inward. Our guest is none other than Virago’s founder, Alana Medina Cody.

“Combative.” “Opinionated.” These are the kinds of labels Alana’s heard more times than she can count. Is she? Maybe…

But those words only become insults when they’re directed at women. That double standard is exactly what lit the fire behind Virago: a space to celebrate the so-called “difficult” woman and reclaim the word for what it truly means—a woman of strength, courage, and voice.

In this interview, Alana reflects on the early stirrings of that spirit—from childhood modeling classes in Puerto Rico to big creative dreams and bigger opinions. And while her Virgo sun usually kept her in line, there was that one time she committed petty crime.

Watch the full interview below:

Since moving to New York City, on numerous occasions I’ve been subjected to what I like to call ‘monologuing’: people who trick you into what you’d hope is a social conversation, only to kill you off with an uninterrupted, self-promotional soliloquy.

It’s like walking into the Bates Motel expecting hospitality. Cause of death: desiccated from a one-way conversation. Sometimes, I glance behind me, half-expecting to see a camera crew, convinced that no one could talk this long without Drew Barrymore nodding sympathetically in the background.

This has me thinking about Marie-Louise von Franz, who once said in an interview that modern man would struggle because, given that Earth is overpopulated, we’re all essentially superfluous. You could eliminate any one person and, on a purely pragmatic level, the world would be no worse for it. People compensate for this feeling by either becoming depressed or overly ambitious (or, if you’re like me, both).

Thanks to the internet, all of us have, more or less, the same range of skills, talents, and things to offer. One way we can still stand out is through storytelling:

Insert: The Cover Letter Generation!

We’re all pitching, all the time. Job applications, dating apps, social media bios—our entire existence revolves around how well we can sell ourselves. Are you even important if you don’t have a personal brand?

So, what happens when the need to be special meets a lack of actual distinction? Well, we manufacture it, of course! Through social media, anyone can dramatize their experiences, curate hardships, and fall in love with their perceived struggles (I’m looking at you, LinkedIn).

We know a good story sells, and we’ve internalized this logic so deeply that people feel entitled to a gripping personal narrative before they’ve actually done anything. Give me the book deal before I even know what the book is about!

The problem is, you can’t have a good life story before you’ve had a life. Which brings me back to monologuing: word vomit from people who seem desperate to have their uniqueness mirrored back to them.

If necessity is the mother of invention, what are we inventing when our biggest need is simply to be noticed? What are we creating if we only care about having eyes (or ears) on us? What happens when fewer people are willing to tolerate being a peripheral character, and everyone demands to be center stage?

Maybe genius lives in the shadows. Becoming a person of consequence doesn’t happen just because you want it to—it happens by treading fine lines, observing from the margins, and seeing things in unusual, unique ways.

Toni Morrison, in an interview where she was challenged for not centering on white characters in her novels, said: “I stood at the border, stood at the edge and claimed it as central. I claimed it as central, and let the rest of the world move over to where I was.”

Though her words speak directly to racial dynamics and power structures, they also carry a broader wisdom: that real originality, real presence, doesn’t come from chasing the center—it comes from defining your own. It’s a reminder to stay rooted in our own narrative and let the world respond to that, not the other way around.

Maybe in a world obsessed with being seen, the real rebellion is looking outward.

So my question to you: Can you stomach being peripheral?

You might be surprised at what happens when you do.

Emma is a shy virago, but a virago nonetheless. Over the years, her protective shell has melted, and she’s become a social beacon in her Carolina, Puerto Rico neighborhood. Her house might as well be the local diner—neighbors come and go for a chat, a snack, or a beer. She throws the best parties. She tells the best stories. Everyone wants a seat at Emma’s table.

“I’ve always been someone who wants things my way. My mom made life for my sisters impossible, but not for me. I would start to scream and scream and scream.

I had a small rocking chair and when I saw she was going to hit me, I rocked the chair and she would hit the chair. And “ahhhh!” I would scream as if she had hit me [laughs].”

Watch the full interview below:

Women and men are different, and pretending otherwise is sacrilege—an insult to your “divine feminine.” At least, according to the internet, where there is a correct way to be a woman: soft, receptive, nurturing, intuitive. Men are providers, protectors, and if you’re being a woman correctly, you’ll attract the “right kind of man”—which, honestly, sounds like a misnomer to me.

I was in the sixth grade when I became a virago. I believe it was recess, and it was raining, so our teacher let us play inside. A ball was involved. One of my male classmates wasn’t letting the girls play, and for reasons I can’t explain, my face got hot, a rock formed in my chest, and my knees started shaking. “FUCKING MACHISTA!” (Which translates to “FUCKING SEXIST” in English, though it sounds spicier in Spanish.) Maybe I didn’t even fully understand those words as I said them, but the room went silent. In my school, we were all pretty well-behaved, and I was a fairly unassuming kid. I didn’t know my teacher was sitting at her desk, hiding behind a huge newspaper. My mom got called in and I got in trouble for profanity. My parents didn’t care one bit. Reprimand-free, my stinky-icky-little classmate probably went on to continue being a sexist—and rewarded for it.

Domineering, ill-tempered, shrew, violent, termagant, a loud, overbearing woman. These are some of the words that pop up when you look up the meaning of virago. Basically, a woman who exhibits "manly" attributes and virtues, which, of course, we know is very unbecoming to the general public. But the archaic and original meaning of virago was female warrior.

I grew up being called bad-mannered for standing up for myself, irritable because I couldn’t tolerate certain injustices and power imbalances I observed within my family and the world, even at a very young age. Today, it’s my greatest honor to be called ill-tempered or difficult because, in that moment, I know I am on to something important.

You see, in the process of true individuation, abandoning qualities like outspokenness and strength will not protect you. You will not be “in flow” and “in your divine feminine energy” by yielding and becoming soft, arguing that “nature demands it.”

It’s worth questioning why these movements have such mass appeal. “Tradwives.” “Divine feminine energy.” The “femosphere.” Why are hyper-traditional roles trending and being repackaged as empowerment? Why are women re-embracing full dependence—especially financial dependence—on men?

Some women, with undeniable ingenuity, have realized that hating the player and not the game is futile. Instead, they’ve started playing men’s games—leveraging economic privilege, navigating existing power structures, and, in some cases, turning those structures against themselves. Movements like “femospace” reflect this sharp awareness: if the system is rigged, why not extract what you can from it? And yet, no matter how well you play, it’s still not your game. It’s a workaround, not a remedy.

Women today yearn for relief from the pressures of modern feminism, which demands almost superhuman levels of self-sufficiency. We are tired, no doubt. It feels like an impossible balancing act, a relentless pursuit of more—more independence, more success, more proof that we are enough on our own. But retreating into an aestheticized 1950s housewife fantasy is not empowerment. Being a woman, in all it entails, is not an aesthetic. It’s not graspable. It doesn’t have steps or how-to’s.

Let’s call a spade a spade: these movements are surrender dressed up as wisdom—and worse, as spiritual enlightenment.

We suppress parts of ourselves at our own peril. In the process of true individuation, the task is not to sink further into gender essentialism but to integrate all aspects of ourselves—“masculine” and “feminine". Rejecting our inherent assertiveness, ambition, and capacity for power under the guise of being “soft” will keep us further fragmented as individuals.

Clarissa Pinkola Estés knew that there are parts of women that are untamed—that can’t and shouldn’t be domesticated. A woman is wild, raging, deeply knowing. She doesn’t wait to be chosen; she hunts. To live in softness is to betray her, to clip the cat’s claws, and silence her voice.

The irony of the divine feminine trope is that it positions femininity as something that must be proven or performed. You have to be enough of -insert some type of arbitrary quality here- to attract the right circumstances to thrive, to secure a future, a foundation, a husband.

Divine feminine rhetoric insists on difference, as if softness and passivity were virtues intrinsic to being a woman. But men can be these things too, and that is what we should aspire to—to be whole. Fire, hunger, power and creativity, sensitivity, vulnerability— for both women and men.

This isn’t about opposing or rejecting men and their institutions outright. It’s about creating spaces that allow for something beyond adaptation—where we can grow into something fuller, beyond the rigid roles we’ve been given.

A possible remedy? Community.

We don’t need to further prove that we are enough on our own, that clearly isn't feasible long term. Women have always found ways to work around established systems—sometimes subtly, sometimes by brute force, and sometimes by swearing off sex entirely and becoming the most powerful women in Rome like the Vestal Virgins. Being buried alive if they had sex was quite the damper though, I’ll give you that. Funnily enough, now a days many women are absatining from sex all together anyway so… we’re half way there.

Being a good feminist within a community isn’t about whether or not you “gatekeep” your favorite vintage store. It’s about using whatever skills, knowledge, and resources you have to build something real—something that allows others to thrive. Individuation isn’t a solo project. It requires both looking inward—deeply knowing yourself—and looking outward—seeing yourself reflected in others. The solution can’t be to retreat into an aestheticized past or to fight for a better seat at a table that was never designed for you. It’s to build something entirely new—together.

The truth of all of this is likely somewhere in between: extremes never allow for true self-actualization. Instead of choosing between hard independence and performative fragility, perhaps the real challenge is to integrate both—to be soft when it serves and unyielding when it matters, and that’s soooo virago.