Take Space.

January 20, 2009, Washington, DC — I stood shivering in two winter coats for hours, alone but not truly, as thousands gathered to watch the first inauguration of President Barack Obama. It’d been an epic journey to get to that point, for all of us. Waking at 3:00 am, almost dying on the Metro when the train sped away and my feet were neither on the platform or the car—too many people and not enough room for another body, a friend’s brother held me while yelling to make room. Hours of lines and crowds and security, frigid temperatures, some complaints but nothing in comparison to what it took Obama to get there. Centuries of sacrifice were finally paying off and I was there to witness it. Having voted in my first election and begged my representatives for tickets hours after he won, I was there to see it—a moment where the world changed for the better.

In many ways, the inauguration marked the beginning of adulthood for me. Just months before my 20th birthday, everything of import seemed to happen in 2009 as I galloped into my twenties without any idea of how little I knew. In the months to follow that glorious day, I’d have my first real break up and say good bye to my first love. I’d live alone for the first time. I’d study abroad in a country where I didn’t speak the language and manage to get around on my own (privet, Russia). I’d somehow convince my classmates I was mature enough to lead them on a service trip to South America. I’d get drunk and smoke pot (kind of) for the first time. A friend would die suddenly. New loves would come along and I’d learn just how complicated love (and lust) could be.

So many things happened and yet it was the before of so many others. Swine flu hit the world and I was quarantined in multiple countries without ever getting sick. Michael Jackson died. Amy Winehouse was still alive, I remember because it seemed appropriate to dressed up as her for Halloween. I learned about Lululemon and Angry Birds and sustainability for the first time. I did not have an iPhone, most people didn’t. I started my first blog. I still ate meat and drank vodka, both have long since fallen by the wayside. Instagram did not exist. Twitter did, but it wasn’t a thing. Blockbuster was still alive, but dying—I remember going to a fire sale, excited to buy DVDs. Now trendy neighborhoods in San Francisco were still up-and-coming, studios could be found for under a grand.

How could I imagine what was to come? How could any of us? Anyone could have told me that’d my twenties would be rough, they probably did and I ignored them. But what was to come politically? No one was thinking Donald Trump. How absurd. If someone had come on stage at the end of that cold January day in 2009 and said, “Donald Trump will be the next person to stand here and be sworn in as President,” we would have laughed in their face, or worse. A Donald Trump presidency was incomprehensible at that moment. Even now, if it weren’t real, it’d be too far-fetched to warrant a fictional story. And yet here we are.

As I think back, I’m sure someone told me my twenties would be hard and I definitely ignored them. Twenty is that forgotten birthday between 18 and 21 that means very little, only signaling further excitement to come. But thirty? A whole sub-genre of self-help literature exists around that birthday. My father says my mother cried. On days I’m feeling particularly bitter I think, “but at least she were already married!” I’m almost thirty and alone. And unemployed; another thing they don’t tell you when you’re twenty and still in college—a career in the arts (even if you have a Masters) is impossible. Actually they did say that, but I was almost twenty and ignored them.

Years passed dizzyingly fast and so too came the good and bad of Obama’s presidency: the first year or so when we worried he’d be a one-term president, the never-ending wars in the middle east, the Affordable Care Act, Bin Laden, the slow improvement of the economy. I watched as I struggled through my twenties—thankful when Obamacare was there to save my life, happily surprised when results were called early the night of the re-election, but mostly Obama was the one thing I could count on in my twenties, a reminder that no matter what happened at least we elected him into office.

During a recent “I’m almost thirty” freak out, I realized my twenties sucked; they do for most people. College does little to prepare us for the real world. Even if my thirties don’t get any easier at least I’ll be used to the uncertainty, the letdown, and the confusion. Why am I worrying? Because society and pop culture tell me too. But my thirties will be better. A lot of my firsts are finally over. I can’t be sexually assaulted again for the first time. I won’t be diagnosed with anorexia or sent to treatment for the first time derailing the plan I’d had since high school. I’ve already been put on antidepressants and taken a job I hated just to get health insurance. I’ve asked the man I thought I was going to marry to move out. I’ve stood at friends’ weddings feelingly utterly alone and I’ve lost a family member I truly loved. I’ve already realized the profession of my dreams is probably not going to work out and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life. I know other firsts will come but at least I have these shitty ones (mostly) under control.

Repost from my theatre and film blog @fromhouseleft 

It’s frustrating that any conversation about Destroyer and Nicole Kidman’s astounding performance in it begins with her physical transformation, as if the beautiful actress should be praised not for her talent but for her lack of vanity.

Yes, the over-the-top makeup is impressive—I’m pretty sure Kidman’s eyes are closer together—but it only works because Kidman is so committed to the role. Playing a worn-out, booze-filled shady LA cop who looks as if she may alternatively pass out or punch you at any given minute, Kidman disappears into the character embracing every despicable, shameful quality of an angry, regretful woman.

For Kidman, the physical change should be old news. Despite her ability to also look outstanding in almost anything—see Cold Mountain’s fugitive scenes in the snow; it may as well be a Ralph Lauren advertisement—Kidman is unafraid of looking bad for a role. In 2002, she won an Oscar for playing Virginia Woolf in The Hours, though most people will remember her donning a fake nose for the role. In Australia there are countless shots of her making the most ridiculous and embarrassing faces as a prissy English woman experiencing the Outback for the first time.

The continued focus on actresses looks only perpetuates the degradation of women in the entertainment industry. As Manohla Dargis says in her review in the New York Times, “when female stars take on physically transformative roles that are also aggressively unlikable, it’s sometimes called brave (Charlize Theron in Monster); when male stars do the same, it’s called acting (Christian Bale in Vice).” By focusing on the “ugly” roles, it’s easy to forget the other equally daring and inwardly dark roles Kidman has played over the years: Birth, Dogville, Paperboy, to name a few. Destroyer shouldn’t be a surprise, but another impressive addition to a huge and varied body of work by a great artist.

Furthermore, the media’s preoccupation with Kidman’s looks has completely eclipsed any other discussion of the movie itself. Directed beautifully by Karyn Kusama, Destroyer is at once a heist genre film as much as it is part revenge drama with a bit of a redemption story mixed in. Imagine a female version of Training Day or Donnie Brasco with a great ensemble that includes the amazingly talented Tatiana Maslany (all the clones in Orphan Black), two Halt and Catch Fire alums (Scoot McNairy and Toby Huss), and Bradley Whitford in a hilarious cameo.

The fact that the dirty cop is a woman and not a man is precisely what makes the film interesting, but had it been a vehicle for Denzel Washington or Christian Bale, the hype would be greater; Oscar bait not just for the lead but for the film itself. Though distributed by   juggernaut Annapurna Pictures, this female-driven, female-directed film is being regulated to the back of the line. Instead, the company has focused on the awards’ campaigns for their other 2018 films; Vice, Ballad of Buster Scruggs, If Beale Street Could Talk, and Sorry to Bother You have all gotten more press than Destroyer. And as everyone knows, award season is about how the film’s campaign and not about how good it is—a model we can thank Harvey Weinstein for developing and mastering.

Taking Space is about honoring and owning your personal and professional needs and desires without feeling guilty. It could mean leaning in or could mean just the opposite. A fulfilling life is not all about work after all. But it can be difficult to do when for most of modern history,  space was defined by white middle class men and what worked for them. While much of their behavior was intentionally racist, sexist, homophobic, or ableist, some of it grew out of oblivion.

Lack of awareness is not an excuse anyone wants to hear—especially when it comes from elected officials or senior leadership—and I hesitate to even discuss it here, but perhaps it can help better frame an argument when coming up against loathsome leaders. Senator Hiedi Hietkamp described it brilliantly in a recent NPR exit interview when discussing being one of few women in Congress. “They [older male colleagues] weren't thinking much about day care. They weren't thinking much about kindergarten. You know, that's not their life experience.” Hietkamp lost her North Dakota seat last month in part for voting against Brett Kavaneaugh’s nomination and yet she is still excited for the increased diversity in politics which will force another perceptive on lawmaking.

Unintentional discrimination continued to come to mind this month as I read the brilliant memoir Somebody I Used to Know by Wendy Mitchell. Mitchell was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s when she was 58-years-old and became a dementia advocate after realizing how few resources were available to someone in her position. For most of us, Alzheimer’s is an old person’s disease even if we have firsthand experience with it. With a feeble 86-year-old grandmother suffering from dementia, I assumed the population’s needs are all about end of life care, but Mitchell proves there are many people who are fully capable of living and working independently for years after a diagnosis as long as they make some adaptations.

Though early onset Alzheimer’s is a specific example, it points to the myriad of other disabilities, chronic illnesses, and life circumstances that may currently preclude people from participating fully in society. How much unearned potential exists throughout the world because individuals with slightly different backgrounds are unable to fully take space? From the mother needing childcare, to the homeless person needing a shower and a suit for a job interview, to the out-of-work factory man with twenty employable years ahead of him, the potential is endless. Not realizing the problem is no longer an excuse but a form of oppression.

Diversity in public office will certainly improve the situation as those in power start to look more  like those they represent, but it will take time and there is no blanket solution. What a blind person needs is very different from what a deaf person or a person with autism needs. As a white middle class American myself, I can’t ignore my own privilege. I try to learn as much as I can, mostly through reading. Here are five books worth exploring

The Girl Who Smiled Beads by Clemantine Wamariya with Elizabeth Wiel: The harrowing journey of a Rwandan refugee girl who travels through seven African countries before arriving to America.

When They Call You a Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir by Parisse-Khan Cullors and Asha Bandele: The memoir of one of the founders of the Black Lives Matter Movement. Cullors shares her struggles growing up in inner city Los Angeles with an incarcerated father and mentally ill brother.

The Sun Does Shine by Anthony Ray Hinton with Lara Dove Hardin: A surprisingly uplifting story of an innocent man who spent 30 years on death row.

Quiet by Susan Cain: It’s a few years old now, but Cain’s expertly researched book on introverts and how society is built for extroverts is great no matter your temperament

White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism by Robin Diangelo: A must read for all white people even if (and especially if) they don’t think they’re racist.  

It’s only been a week since the Midterms and yet they feel a world away. It’s been a tumultuous few days across the country and some races still haven’t been called (I’m writing to you from Florida where both Governor and Senator races are up for a recount).  If you were hoping for a moment of calm, it’s not coming.  The instant the polls closed, America barreled onward with the usual—a horrific shooting,  devastating wildfires—and the unexpected—Jeff Sessions is out, Ruth was hospitalized.

Will we ever get a break? Probably not. Trump is still in charge after all. Even the centennial of the ending of World War I was marred by his antics.

If you’re like me and feeling exhausted and overwhelmed, here are four memoirs by amazing women to get you recharged no matter your mood.

If you need a little humor.

The Last Black Unicorn

by Tiffany Haddish

The Girls Trip breakout star is just as funny in her nearly year old memoir as she is on screen.  Regaling her audience with stories of teaching Jada Pickett Smith about Groupon and being a better pimp than her boyfriend, Haddish is unafraid to poke fun at the ridiculous and harrowing parts of her life. It’ll definitely give you a laugh—Haddish is every bit as raunchy and filterless as her Girls Trip character—but her unlikely route to stardom is equally inspiring as it is entertaining. A foster child, domestic abuse survivor, and one-time airline employee, Haddish didn’t learn to read until she was in ninth grade and at times lived in her car when trying to make it in standup. Her ability to persevere against all odds will help you get off the couch when the world seems to be falling apart around us.

If you need a good cry but don’t want to focus on the news.

Tell Me More: Stories about the 12 Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say.

By Kelly Corrigan

Kelly Corrigan who previously wrote about her own cancer diagnosis, explores life after the death of her father and friend to more aggressive forms of the disease in this poignant new memoir. Each chapter in Tell Me More focuses on a simple phrase like “tell me more” or “I don’t know” and how saying it can help better connect with loved ones.Tackling topics like marriage, parenting, and friendship Corrigan unabashedly highlights her own shortcomings.

Though the structure may sound self-helpy, Corrigan uses each phrase as vehicle to examine her own life as she copes with loss. While obviously tear-inducing, Tell Me More is equally uplifting and at times comical.

If your industry is sexist.

Just the Funny Parts…And a Few Hard Truths About Sneaking into the Hollywood Boys’ Club by Nell Scovell

Nell Scovell may not be a household name but you know her. A prolific TV writer and producer who has been working in the industry for more than 30 years, Scovell is also Sheryl Sandberg’s co-writer on both Lean In and Option B. She’s worked on Letterman, The Simpsons, and the original Sabrina the Teenage Witch just to name a few. With such a long career, it’s needless to say she’s seen it all. If you think Hollywood is hard for non-white men now imagine how it was in the 80s.

While clearly geared towards entertainment, Just the Funny Parts is perfect to any young person entering a tough industry. Despite the fact her stories often revolve around famous people, Scovell is extremely relatable. As a naturally introverted and insecure person (aren’t we all), she approaches each experience as a lesson hopefully keeping readers from making similar mistakes. If you find yourself up against a group of old white men and feel tempted to run the other way,  it may be helpful ask yourself, what would Nell Scovell do?

If you’re ready to fight.

Make Trouble: Standing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding the Courage to Lead

by Cecile Richards

Former Planned Parenthood president Cecile Richards has been fighting for progressive causes since childhood. Her father was a civil rights attorney and her mother was Ann Richards—the last democratic governor of Texas winning not only as a woman but as a recovering alcoholic and divorcee. If anyone has activism in her blood, it’s Richards. Like Just the Funny Parts, Making Trouble is as much a guide book to fighting against the status quo as it is a memoir. Tracking her life from vegetarian child recycler (before either were cool) to union organizer as a college student to testifying on behalf of Planned Parenthood before a House oversight committee each segment is a lesson on how to make a difference.

I promise I’m not deserting my country. I love America. I believe in the values it was founded on and despite everything I still believe voting matters. I voted for the first time in the 2008 primaries. In the Democratic race, Connecticut was the few states predicted to go to Hillary Clinton that went to Barack Obama instead. Two districts made that happen—those surrounding New Haven. I voted in New Haven that year. My vote actually mattered. I rallied and phone banked and felt as if we were actually making America a better place.

Of course, not everyone felt the way I did. And things changed. That’s what happens in America and why our country is great; the voice of the people is reflected in the government. But obviously I was disappointed after the 2016 election. Especially as a woman and a survivor, there is nothing worse than knowing a majority of your country rather have a morally despicable man in charge with multiple assault and harassment claims against him than someone they disagree with politically. I didn’t move because of the election but it definitely influenced my decision.

But I promise, I’m not deserting America.  Since coming to the UK more than a year ago, I’ve become even more obsessed with American news. I’ve read more non-fiction on current politics and culture than ever before. And yet after being home for the last three weeks (a particularly vitriolic time mind you) I couldn’t wait to leave. And now that Kavanaugh has been confirmed, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to go back.

While my fellow American expats and I don’t talk about it much (our other classmates probably bring up US politics more), I know many of us feel the same. My MBA program had more American students than any other nationality. Those that wanted to be home after the program returned immediately, but the majority of us are still in London or Cambridge looking for a way to stay longer term.

Last night I saw a few girl friends for the first time since returning; the first time I’d really discussed Kavanaugh with anyone over here. While we are all Americans—and generally privileged over-educated Americans at that—our backgrounds are relatively different. We all grew up in different parts of the country with different families (I’m the only one with liberal parents), and different career paths. And while no one voted for Trump, one or two may be fiscally conservative. Yet the feeling post-Kavanaugh was one of mutual fear. The fear that started after the election and made (me at least) a little more inclined to go abroad. A fear that has only increased over the last few weeks throughout the hearings and what felt like an inevitable confirmation.

Though our lives won’t change drastically day-to-day if and when we go back to the US, the political environment in the US has created a fear that reminds me of the fear I still towards my sexual harasser—someone so vile that I eventually needed a restraining order. It’s been almost five years and I still imagine seeing him all over the world—every skinny white man with brown curly hair that passes makes me stop for a split second. Bald men and bearded men sometimes make me pause, he could have shaved his head or grown facial hair, after all. Whether I’m home in Sacramento, in London or in Croatia, I see a man, I think it’s him, and I worry for a second. What would I do? Of course it’s not him. I don’t know where he is, but he could be anywhere. I don’t know. What if he finds me again? Anything could happen.

It’s depressing that this is what I associate with the US government. With Trump and Kavanaugh, the fear isn’t as visceral but as constant and anything could happen. Unfortunately, the what ifs I ask myself about them are much more likely to occur than running into my stalker in a random city years later. My political fears are not the irrational fears of past trauma that I’ve come to associate with my stalker but the inevitable ones. Whether another story leaks of poor behavior, another woman sacrifices everything to no avail, or the rights our foremothers fought for are stripped, something will happen. it’s not if but when.

I’m heartbroken. It doesn’t help that my adult life began with Obama; America’s fall from grace is just more devastating. What’s worse is that I know I am a very privileged educated white women who have the ability (at least temporarily) to live in another country. I don’t have to worry about getting shot because of the color of my skin, deported, or evicted as so many do in America. If Roe v. Wade gets repealed I will most likely be able to pay whatever is necessary to obtain proper gynecological care. I’m lucky. The fear I feel now can’t come close to the fear felt by minorities oppressed by our country for centuries.

Me at the first annual Women's March San Francisco

In light of today’s devastating vote it’s time to bring my blog back to its roots—and honor women that Take Space in the world. Today may have been a major blow to our dignity and (most likely) our rights as women, but it doesn’t mean we can give up.

It’s easier said than done. We’ve been fighting since the election. Our mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers have been fighting their whole lives. It doesn’t seem to get easier. It’s exhausting. When I revealed my own sexual assault experiences to my mother she couldn’t believe that daughters of bra-burning feminists could put themselves in those situations—more like how could “nice” boys still put girls in that situation? And yet they do. As a Yale graduate, I can tell you the Brett Kavanaughs of the world still exist and generally don’t think they’re doing anything wrong. It’s heartbreaking to know that the majority of our country doesn’t think they’re actions are wrong either, or at least wrong enough to keep them from  ruling in the highest offices of the land.

Needless to say, my reaction to today’s vote was similar to every setback since November 8th, 2016 when my girlfriends and I dressed in white and gathered together around my TV only to see our dreams shattered. The first day felt like the worst hangover possible, but since then—only numbness.

A lot of therapy has taught me not to dwell on what I cannot change or relive the painful moments of the past, so I spent today like many days since the election by turning to strong feminist media whether it be a podcast, book or tv show. If you haven’t seen The Good Fight spin-off of The Good Wife, Jane the Virgin or The Good Place, I highly recommend any of them on a bad Trump day. Last week, while the Kavanaugh hearings raged, I found myself binge watching the latest seasons of How to Get Away With Murder and Scandal to cope. There is something about watching the juxtaposition of a fictional American government designate at a slightly more absurd rate than our own while the main characters tackle all the issues we wish our country would handle—such as gun reform, immigration, free college—that is incredibly satisfying. Knowing that both shows were created by the goddess Shonda Rhimes makes them even better. 

Hbo.com

After today’s confirmation, I found myself turning to the new Jane Fonda documentary on HBO, Jane Fonda in Five Acts; it was the perfect antidote. Not only is Fonda a supreme activist unafraid to tackle any tough issue threatening our country, but she is a unequivocal badass feminist that has always used her fame and power for the greater good. If you’re skeptical, her workout videos were created with the sole purpose to fund the Campaign for Economic Democracy which she started with her activist husband Tom Hayden to help Vietnam War veterans and end nuclear proliferation among other things. Once Sydney Pollack showed her that she has a voice and power as an artist she also began producing films about critical issues—China Syndrome to expose nuclear accident coverups, 9 to 5 to address women’s equality in the workplace, and Coming Home which earned her a second Oscar and took 6 years to produce because no one wanted to discuss the struggles veterans face returning home. At 80-years-old she still protests around the world.

What makes Fonda more amazing is her unequivocal honesty. She’s unafraid to talk about her weaknesses and struggles with motherhood, bulimia, body image, marriage, and her parents. She’s first to admit her mistakes and how they’ve shaped her livelihood; the first four acts are named after the men who influenced her life—her father Henry Fonda, and husbands Roger Vadim, Tom Hayden, and Ted Turner. With each man she attempted to perform the best version of herself in hopes of gaining their approval playing the dutiful daughter for Fonda, the bombshell actress for Vadim, the radical activist for Hayden, and the cowgirl socialite for Turner. It wasn’t until 2001 that she divorced Turner that she felt she could become the whole version of herself. Despite loving Turner she realized that to be authentic she needed to be alone.

Fonda is the first to say that she’s not perfect but that perfection is unattainable. Her struggle is that of so many women which makes her all the more inspiring. “We have to love our shadow. We have to embrace and accept our shadows. And Sometimes good enough is good enough." 

Thanks in part to the insane success of Sleep No More—a choose-your-own-adventure version of Macbeth that takes place across a multi-story hotel—immersive theatre has become all the rage. There are = Gatsby-style 1920s shows in London and San Francisco and a production of Sweeney Todd in New York that takes place in a pie shop and serves up actual pies. Just like Sleep No More, they are all long-running and are able to charge their audience top dollar (especially if food and drinks are involved). The evolved dinner theatre is not only fun, but for better or worse, probably the natural direction for the art form. These days, it’s hard for proscenium theatres to compete with Netflix and the ever growing popularity of VR and AR. During the last painful rounds of England’s latest World Cup attempts actors complained of people streaming the match during a performance, making immersive theatre more compelling to actor and audience alike; you’re less likely to look at your phone if the actor is two inches in front of your face.

While all the pieces I’ve seen have been entertaining, none have been particularly impactful just gimmicky, (though I must confess I have not seen Sleep No More). My view changed, however, after seeing two productions in London that used immersion to further the story and not simply as a ploy to keep an audience engaged—Julius Caesar at the Nicholas Hytner’s new Bridge Theatre and The Jungle a co-production between the Young Vic, the National Theatre, and the Good Chance Theatre now playing as a transfer on the West End.  

Both plays succeeded because the audience became a part of the show, not simply as guests of a shop or patrons in an interactive museum but as a complicit crowd furthering the story. Caesar, which ran to acclaim in the Spring, started more like a raucous concert than a Shakespearean tragedy. A live band played as audience members surrounded the stage as if it were a mosh pit. Staff members walked around selling Caesar “merch” including a baseball cap that looked identical to Trump’s Make America Great Again hat. While other productions of Caesar have portrayed the Roman ruler with an orange wig—most notably The Public’s much criticized production—The Bridge’s version did not dwell on the likeness to the American president. It simply was a way to set the stage and give the audience permission to yell or cheer.

The uniqueness of the immersion came with how the audience moved around the action. The stage—built out of a dozen platforms that move up and down—forced the audience and actors to move as the stage did. First we were rally members then witnesses to a death (perhaps even guilty for being there), then funeral goers, and eventually civilians stuck in war. As Shakespeare’s play is so much about the power and influence of a group, giving the audience a hand in that power only amplified the message. The cautionary relevance of this 400-year-old play is not about Trump’s likeness to Caesar but about how our own actions can lead to greater downfall.  

The Jungle, a fictional story based on first-hand accounts of  a now destroyed refugee camp in Calais, France, turned The Young Vic and now The West End Playhouse Theatre into a refugee cafe. The tables are the stage and the audience sits around them on benches and cushions as if they were real patrons eating at the restaurant. There’s a kitchen in one corner and audience members are given drinks and Afghani bread to pass around. The floor is covered in dirt and actors weave in and out of the audience making it difficult to tell who is who at times. As the story progresses and the cafe becomes a lifeline for the camp as refugees from all over the world work together to survive, the audience becomes a part of their triumphs and tribulations. As the story is based on a ongoing and ever-worsening crisis just across the water, The Jungle is particularly poignant. Perhaps it’s easy to get overwhelmed by endless photos of boats crossing the Mediterranean or news shows spouting statistics that it’s easier to simply tune it out. I’ve done it. But when the child is inches from you, when you can hear breathing next to you—even if they’re just actors and it’s just a play—it’s impossible to forget.

Budapest. Beirut. Belfast. The Balkans.

In 1989, when I was born, none of these areas were considered tourist attractions and some were downright dangerous.

To have visited all four in the last few months is a wonder that gives me some faith in the world. Cities and countries subjected to immense chaos, pain, and loss can revive and with gusto.

It’s easy to forget recent history coming from America and living in the U.K. where politics may rile a nation and make one question their country’s values but day-to-day life remains safely the same. I’m aware many in both the US and the U.K. don’t experience the safety I do walking down the street and both have been victim to horrendous terrorist attacks, but neither place has been subject to tremendous upheaval since WWII.

As I sit in London, my home for the first time since I was a newborn, I can’t help but marvel at how little has changed since my parents lived here almost 30 years ago. My basement flat is only a few miles from their basement flat. Our jobs are different—I’m not married or having my first child—and I’m sure many of the storefronts have changed, but we both enjoy the city un-encumbered as tourists come and go visiting the same monuments under the same Queen.

On the other hand, to imagine traveling to Beirut and Belfast even a few years ago, let alone 30 is unimaginable. My parents still didn’t love the idea of me going to Beirut; most westerners are wary despite its safety in recent years. Belfast too is slow to gain tourists, though my parents were happy to come with me taking part in taxi tours of the IRA headquarters driving back and forth between Protestant and Catholic sides.

In Beirut police and military, both in full army fatigues, still guard the city. Checkpoints outside mark the steps as you get closer to Syria or Hezbollah territory. Bullet-rattled buildings still stand across the country; some left as purposeful reminders of the past, others waiting to be resurrected.

The Balkans are split in recovery; some countries catapulting towards tourism hell while others inch towards economic revival. Croatia has long been a beach destination of Western Europeans and American college students have followed looking for cheaper party destinations and Game of Thrones backdrops to pepper their Instagrams. The other countries making up the Eastern Bloc are a bit slower to recover but day trips out of Dubrovnik are heading up the Bosnian coast and Slovenia has become the new Croatia for tourists in the know. Yet war raged until 1995 when Croatia gained independence from Yugoslavia. Outside the big cities, remnants of the war can be seen much like Lebanon, but the country has been quicker to rebuild, developing a highway system that puts America’s to shame.

For my generation, even more than Croatia, Budapest is simply another capital amongst many to check off on a whirlwind post-graduation Euro trip—full of drunken flings, hostel parties, and pub crawls. To anyone older Hungary still hold memories of communist rule, war, Holocaust, and decimation of an entire population. 1 in 3 Auschwitz inmates were Hungarian Jews. Budapest was called the Skelton City after WWII because every single bridge connecting Buda and Pest was destroyed, entire neighborhoods blown to bits. Recovery came slow as the country struggled under communist rule lasting until 1989.

The first post-communism bar still stands in what was once a bombed out apartment building. The story goes, a few of guys pulled together a bunch of old furniture and started selling beer.  It maintains the war-torn look but now is a tourist attraction frequented by Jennifer Lawrence. Next to it stands a trendy street food park and a NYTimes reviewed ramen joint. And yet, a tour guide let me know that he was evacuated from his apartment a few weeks ago because an unexploded bomb from WWII was found on a nearby construction site.

The balance of peace is delicate. 

The Prime Minister of Hungary, Victor Orban, is considered an authoritarian ruler by most of the world; a man unafraid to steer the country away from democratic values they fought so hard to obtain 30 years ago. While Lebanon is considered one of the safest countries in the Middle East, leadership is all too aware of their precarious position between Syria and Israel. And while Belfast is attracting tourists faster than ever and the IRA is attempting to be a normal political party, the city still closes the gate between Catholic and Protestant sides at night. It’s safer that way. Croatia seems the most stable with a thriving economy, female president, and a 2nd place World Cup team but who knows what will happen.

As I look at the countries I’ve visited in the last few months—successes however delicate—it gives me hope for Syria and other parts of the Middle East and Latin America. Perhaps blown-out cultural sites in Damascus are not gone forever. There is hope, history proves it so. But my more cynical side also reminds me of how fragile peace can be. Istanbul, another destination in my recent travels, is not the tourist hotspot it once was. The proximity to Syria and a few high profile attacks in recent years have caused tourism to drop precipitously. I felt safe but the media has painted another picture making American tourism virtually non-existent. While in Nice last weekend, the city prepared for Bastille Day celebrations two years after a truck plowed through the same event killing 86 people and injuring more than 400 others. Though the city planned a parade as usual barricades and soldiers with automatic weapons lined the streets.

And while I say I’m lucky to live in an unchanged U.S. and U.K., I’m beginning to realize safety is more a matter of perspective. For those from Lebanon and Northern Ireland, life balanced between battle and civility is normal. Our Lebanese guides sighed at our near constant questioning of their nonchalant behavior. As an American, it seems hard to relate. And yet, just the week before I’d acted as guide to a group of MBAs while we spent the month working in New York City. Their fears too were palpable. Fears of a terrorist attack, of being shot. “You’re more likely to get hit by a wayward taxi,” I joked, annoyed by their fear. I’m sure the media has portrayed America to be a scary place just as we were trained to be afraid of Istanbul. It’s mostly hype; though my Nigerian classmate—a tall black man—may have every right to be afraid walking the streets in America.

It’s been awhile since I wrote. When they said a one year MBA would be a lot of work, they weren’t lying. This term is  particularly math heavy (or maths as they say here) which is a particular challenge for a theater major like me. Currently, we’re taking economics, accounting, corporate finance, and management science which is a combination of statistics and business modeling. On top of that we have a few non-math classes and a group project where we are working with an actual client. My client is a gaming company that wants to use their tech skills in another industry so my group is tasked with finding a viable market. Last week we were given time off to work on careers which meant taking workshops on interviewing skills, defining our personal brand, and creating the perfect resume.

On top of the regular school things I jetted off to Italy to be a bridesmaid in my dear friend’s wedding and to Florida to be maid-of-honor in my aunt’s wedding. On a serious note my grandparents lost their house in the terrible Santa Rosa fire that destroyed 1500 homes and killed 21 people. We’re incredibly lucky their neighbor called them in the middle of the night and told them to evacuate. Most people who died were older couples trying to escape. While their loss is tremendous, they’re very lucky to have great insurance, family in the area, and nothing tying them to the region. Their devastated and struggling but as a retired couple with savings they can start over anywhere. Many of the residents who lost their homes were in the poorest section of town and can’t afford to leave their jobs. To make it worse, Santa Rosa is now facing an extreme housing shortage and many are still homeless.  With Giving Tuesday approaching, consider donating.

Needless to say, a lot has been on my mind but it’s time to write because as everyone knows Hollywood has also imploded over the last few weeks.

I listened to Louis CK walking to open mics. He gave me confidence to go on stage. I donated to the Kevin Spacey Foundation because I dreamed of working with artists of his caliber when I was younger. I wanted to run a theatre like his one day. I paid hundreds of dollars to see both of them perform live. They encouraged me to write, to act, to produce my own work. I am the artist I am today because of these men.

While I’m only a minor player in an overcrowded industry, I’m compelled to write because my voice—that of the non-famous working artist—has been largely ignored. Yes, I’m upset my role models are douche bags,  but I’m writing because they made my own work environment unsafe.

Don’t assume this a famous people problem. Just as there have been decades of abuse coming out of Hollywood, the same is true for every obscure artistic enclave around the US. For every Harvey Weinstein there are dozens more nameless wannabe producers and directors who saw or heard how he acted and thought it was part of the job. For every Louis CK and Kevin Spacey, there are all those minor comics and leading men of tiny theatre companies that behave just as their role models do because it’s part of “the business.” And for every Lupita Nyang’o and Anthony Rapp their are thousands of actors and assistants who do this work for no money, for no fame, for the simple love of the craft but are still subject to the same harassment and abuse.

I know because I am one of these people. My friends and colleagues are these people. A  producer once told that I would never work again if I complained about his behavior. Our interaction ended with a restraining order, but I won’t share any more details because I’m still afraid he’ll read this. Google sexual harassment in theatre and stories of widespread, systemic harassment pop up every year and in many countries. Here’s one from 2016, a small company in Chicago reporting years of abuse. Another from Rochester, MN also in 2016. And a comedy club in Chapel Hill, NC from July. Check out Ireland, Australia, and Bangladesh. We’re all nobodies but the men in “power” still think they’re allowed to act like those around them are toys. They learned from the best and they too have been doing it for a long time.  

So why don’t we speak up? Why don’t we say no? It’s not like we’d lose a major movie deal, you may think. Unlike movie stars, we have nothing to lose.  

But who is there to complain to?

There’s no studio. Most projects are non-union so we have no protection; never mind the usual reasons victims stay silent—men are often bigger and stronger, agreeing is often the safest solution. And just as in Hollywood,  bystanders turned a blind-eye because it’s easier to replace an actor or an assistant than an artistic director or producer. When I tried to warn other actresses not to work with my assailant, it quickly got back to him and the harassment got worse.  If anything this behavior is even more widespread amongst no-name projects and companies because there is no threat from the media and legal action is extremely expense (I know, first hand). For every young woman or man that complains, there are dozens more to replace them.

I am glad the industry is finally taking notice but I don’t feel solace. Change will take a long time and it’s going to take more than a few celebrities speaking up or siding with the assistants they once ignored. Society is complicit. We still elected our current president despite more than twenty sexual harassment allegations. No one is asking him to resign. Roy Moore will probably still win. I never moved to LA or New York in attempts to avoid the seedy parts of the entertainment industry; little did I know at twenty-one that it’s not just Hollywood or even entertainment, it’s society that lets men in power take advantage of the rest of us. Hollywood is an easy target because the perpetrators are in the spotlight, but we’re all to blame.

After attending Yale for undergrad, I assumed I got my Harry Potter fix. The university had old castle-like buildings, gorgeous dining halls with crystal chandeliers, and a residential college system that made us feel like we were sorted into houses. My college, Davenport, was even considered Slytherin by some because George W. Bush is a Dport alum. 

Like Hogwarts, we lived in Davenport all four years and battled other colleges in sports and academics. To this day, my Davenport pride (in spite of the Slytherin reputation) is stronger than my Yale pride. With such allegiances and ten years of maturity, I wasn’t expecting to be awed by Cambridge’s Harry Potter similarities. I had grown up, after all.

It turns out I was sorely mistaken. Cambridge is basically Hogwarts and it’s amazing.

Besides taking a train from King’s Cross to get here, Cambridge has colleges too. While like Yale at first glance, it’s key to understand that Yale took the college idea from Cambridge meaning the colleges here are on whole other level. At Yale, only the undergraduates are placed (or randomly assigned) into one of the fourteen colleges which act mostly as residential halls and built-in communities within the larger university.

 At Cambridge, on the other hand,  every student—graduate and undergraduate—must be in college to attend the university. Unlike the random assignment at Yale, one must apply to a college at Cambridge and be judged (maybe like a sorting hat...) based on skills and qualifications. For example, my college is known for taking business, education, and law students. And Trinity College—which has more Nobel prizes than the country of France—only takes a single MBA student, the one with the highest GPA and GMAT scores.

In addition, each of the 31 colleges are separate institutions that work independently of the university. At Cambridge, your college comes first and Cambridge comes second. With this mentality it means that every college handles things differently. The old ones — Trinity, Queens College, and Peterhouse — have strict rules and arcane traditions like doing everything via post and refusing to use email. The head of these colleges is usually called a Master (Yale followed this tradition until last year). No one can walk on the grass in these colleges except special fellows and tutors. No one can sit at the head table (which has a designated waitstaff) except fellows tutors and special guests, and gowns MUST be worn to all formal events. When I say gown, you’re probably imagining a floor length dress, I did. It’s actually a black cape like the dress robe that Harry Potter wore to Yule Ball in the fourth book.

Luckily, each college is its own independent institution and not all are as hierarchical and formal. My college, Hughes Hall, is more relaxed. A baby (circa 1800s) compared to the others, it is much more progressive—encouraging equality and mental health awareness above tradition. We have a President instead of a Master, no head tables or forbidden lawns, and generally up-to-date communication methods. Gowns are also optional but are required for other formal events around campus so I took the opportunity to embrace my Harry Potter fandom at our recent matriculation dinner.

And while we may not have owls to deliver mail, we do have pigeons…or at least pigeon holes….

Instead of a mailbox each student is assigned a pigeon hole for correspondence. This is not a Hughes Hall quirk, I have a pigeon hole at the business school too. Apparently it’s a Cambridge thing—JK Rolling’s imagination had to be grounded somewhere, right?

I have yet to find an old student disguised as a magical rat but there is Charlie, the Hughes Hall cat, who looks a little like Crookshanks. He’s about 20-years-old, is the size of a raccoon, and meows like he has emphysema.

With one week of classes down and a mini-manifesto on why artists should get an MBA completed, it’s time to explain why I chose to go all the way to Cambridge. Most of the famous B-schools are in the U.S. and two are in the Bay Area, so why upend my life?

When the news is particularly bad I joke that I chose Cambridge the day after the election. Life was hard enough for an artist under Obama and it’s not going to be easier with Trump. Besides threatening to cut the National Endowment for the Arts, the bi-weekly attempt to retool healthcare is terrifying for anyone without a traditional job let alone a pre-existing condition. Obamacare is not perfect and obscenely expensive if you plan on actually needing healthcare, but at least it exists. I’m terrified it won’t when I move back. While I love being in a country with nationalized healthcare, I promise I didn’t simply run away from America.

In reality, I started thinking about an MBA from Cambridge long before the election. Two years ago I spent Thanksgiving attempting to “figure out” my life and came across a person with a background almost as incongruous as my own. David Sabel was an actor who studied at Northwestern and La Coq (the preeminent clown school) before realizing he wanted to make a larger impact in the field. He ended up here at Judge Business School and went on to the National Theatre in London where he revolutionized the way audiences see plays—making it possible to watch Helen Mirren perform in London from an American movie theater. He opened my eyes to the potential an MBA could have in the arts, and the fact Cambridge had the foresight to also see that potential made me think I should look into to the program too.

On a practical level Judge, unlike most American programs, is only a year long. But more importantly, it’s smaller, more hands-on, and extremely diverse. While I love San Francisco and plan to return to the Bay, Silicon Valley tends to think of itself as the center of the universe. While amazing innovation is happening, I did not want to attend a school that thinks just like all the businesses in the surrounding area. I need to think bigger if I truly want to learn and potentially reinvigorate an aging industry. All good teachers say that you will learn more from your classmates than your classes and Cambridge is no exception.

My small class of 208—the average B-school class has almost 400 and Harvard has closer to 900—comes from 44 different countries and is 94% international. My study group of five includes an Indian with a background in oil, a Brazilian focusing on agriculture, a Jamaican chemist, and a woman from China who worked at L’Oréal and has over 200,000 Instagram followers (a small number she insists due to China’s size). With this group, I will work on a consulting project at local Cambridge business. While not initially exciting in comparison to our other projects, I recently learned that Cambridge attracts the highest invest per capita in Europe (5x that of London) and is the fastest growing city in the U.K. so it should be an invigorating way to get our feet wet. 

In the spring, I will be assigned a month long team consultancy based anywhere in the world. While visiting New Zealand, I saw these projects in action—one team worked with a non-profit rebuilding Christchurch after the 2011 earthquake. And for the summer, we are given three months to complete an independent internship of our choice. After attending an undergrad that shunned anything practical, it’s exciting to know I will graduate with more work experience.

Lastly and perhaps most importantly, Judge embraces creativity. Though I’m the only actor, my class includes a musician who runs his own record label, a sports commentator specializing in sailing, two medical students, a curator from Sotheby’s, and a film producer. We’re encouraged to interact with the rest of the university, to spend as little time as possible with people from our own industry and country, and to try new things even if it means failing. Our professors much rather see us struggle and fail in something new than succeed in subjects we consider our strength.

On the first day of class, the head of program walked in with a blow-up dinosaur. We were asked to draw it and then to draw it again with our eyes closed. Finally we were told to trade images with a partner and add to what they’d started. Though none of us considered ourselves artists, each person could draw something that looked like a dinosaur (even with our eyes closed). Additionally, everyone agreed that their partner added something valuable the image. While a simple task and simple message, it set an interesting tone for the program. We work better as a team, and we’re all more capable and creative than we think even when it comes to activities we deem our weaknesses.

So, here I am. In Cambridge ready to start week two of something miles outside my comfort zone in a field I always considered a weakness.

While a number of my college friends are also entering B-school this fall, I’m a bit of a novelty. Not only did I choose a school 5000 miles away when there are multiple world-class universities a train ride from my home, but I’m an actor.

Both artist and non-artist friends responded with confusion when I mentioned my upcoming plans. Some assumed I had given up on the theatre, some blatantly told me not to do it or that I was selling out, and still others wondered why I hadn’t chosen an arts management degree. When interviewing I spent more time defending my choice than actually discussing my work experience in Silicon Valley. And now that I’m in Cambridge and interacting with new classmates, I’ve found it best not to mention acting right away because their reactions are the same.

So before we go any further on this B-school blog let me officially explain my thinking.

First, some background.

In May 2014, I took a job at Metromile—a thirty person startup hoping to disrupt the auto industry by offering pay-per-mile car insurance. When I joined it had all the makings of stereotypical startup. There were free snacks and beer kegs in the kitchen, the office was in a converted art gallery and I sat on the floor my first day of work, and there were only five other women at the company.  While car insurance was never my passion it was an adventure that challenged me in unexpected ways. I wrote a script to sell policies to Spanish speaking customers because no one else knew Spanish. When the power went out we went to a co-working space and sold policies from a glorified coffee shop. I helped build products that previously did not exist. During my tenure the company tripled in size, I joined the leadership to team of the claims department, and I became an insurance wiz.

But let’s be honest, car insurance and auto claims were never my thing no matter how hard I tried. I initially took the job because I had less than a year until my 26th birthday— i.e. Obamacare D-Day for those luckily enough to mooch of their parents’ health insurance until they age out. Acting rarely pays the bills in the U.S. and the Bay Area is especially expensive so performing was never going to support me let alone provide insurance. I needed a survival job and after three years of working side gigs delivering groceries, I wanted one that required a little brainpower.

That being said, my two and half years at Metromile were positive and I left with an unexpected thought — if an ancient and behemoth industry like auto insurance could be disrupted, what would happen if similar principles were applied to the theatre?

So many start theatre companies out of love for the craft but without any business knowledge. Though the motivation is noble, it makes running a company in an environment already unwelcoming to artists nearly impossible. Artists know they won’t make enough so they take survival jobs and accept stipends that barely cover transportation costs for their creative work. Companies know they don’t have to pay their artists more than a few hundred dollars so their goal is simply to break even. While the Actor’s Equity Union requires a higher level of pay, companies often don’t hire those actors discouraging artists from joining the union. No one is to blame. It’s a vicious cycle and the status quo but in a city like San Francisco that is swimming in extra cash, it’s almost embarrassing.

Furthermore, it perpetuates the stereotype that an artist needs to be “starving” to be creative.  In arguing for the importance of copyright—which I’d posit provides a similar protection to work that a union provides to a performer— Matthew Barlan states in Copyright as a Platform for Artistic and Creative Freedom that “as popular as the ‘starving artist’ cliché may be, real artists need food. Meeting artists’ basic needs goes a long way towards empowering them to create their art.”

While the idea of simply having enough money for food may seem extreme, actors in the Bay Area would not be able to feed themselves on the stipends granted by most companies let alone pay the rent. And yet Silicon Valley is swimming in expendable income. It’s not as if the audiences can’t afford to attend the theatre. When Hamilton came to town, patrons were guaranteed tickets if they became season subscribers to SHN — the production company that houses all traveling Broadway shows. Membership ran from $300-$800 for six shows which was a steel considering everyone else shelled out that much for one ticket to Hamilton.

Of course, some will argue that Hamilton is not the same as an average Bay Area or regional theatre production. My answer to that requires a whole other post, but in short, Hamilton’s success proves San Francisco and the nation are interested in the theatre. It’s simply a question of getting them there.

The solution, of course, is complicated and I don’t pretend to know the answer. It isn’t simply in marketing—though if theatres approached marketing with a minuscule amount of the analytical obsession that comes at a startup we’d be getting closer. No, the answer lies in something larger and that is what why I hope to find or least begin to grasp in business school. I want to learn from other industries, from the successful theatres in England, and from my diverse classmates.  And one day I hope to bring back what I learn to the Bay Area, because I believe in the work and the artists and the community.

Today’s Take Space spotlight is on Elizabeth Gilbert and her book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. If you haven’t heard of Big Magic, you’ve probably heard of her other little book - Eat Pray Love. As a young snobby high school student, I immediately dismissed Eat Pray Love and Gilbert because nothing commercially successful can also be good. Oh to be 18 (I’m sure I’ll say the same thing in 10 years about being 28). To be honest, I still haven’t gotten around to Eat Pray Love but I listened to the Big Magic during my months of writer’s block and found it inspiring despite it’s self-help aura.

While writing this post, I knew I once read a quote about the danger of the starving artist stereotype and was convinced Gilbert said it. I picked a copy of the book and while searching for the quote remembered how many nuggets of wisdom she offers on living a healthy creative life. Whether you want/can be a full-time artist or not, I highly recommend reading Big Magic and coming back to it when you’re feeling stuck or emo about your work.

Now, it turns out she is actually very pro day jobs, but she did make a great point about the starving artist’s brother—the tortured artist—that we all need to remember when creating. 

I’ve never been attracted to the icon of the Tormented Artist...How does creativity possibly benefit from that arrangement? When Dylan Thomas dies there are no more Dylan Thomas poems; that channel is silenced forever, terribly...There’s a hole in our world from all the art those people didn’t make—there is a whole in us from the loss of their work—and I can’t imagine this was ever anyone’s divine plan.

After a seven-month hiatus, Take Space is back and reporting from Cambridge, England where I will be spending the next year "reading" for my MBA degree aka going to Business School.

Before getting into all things English, I must apologize for the prolonged radio silence. Profound writer’s block overtook me after the election and inauguration. Depression led to anger led to apathy. Circling the stages of grief should’ve been fuel for the creative fire but it wasn't. Half-written pieces lay in the cloud leaving space for those spurned into action by the election as I found more and more convenient reasons not to write and instead drank more champagne than is probably healthy.

When abroad I convinced myself actual travel writers were better equipped. A piece of humor wasn't appropriate—the world was falling apart. Political pieces were over done. And anything personal on mental health, women's rights, or sexual harassment were better explained by someone who suffered more than I. These bits of negativity plagued me until the relevant event that inspired the act of writing was over and I off the hook. I even attempted a piece on writer’s block but it sits unfinished as well.

I didn’t write and there is no real excuse. To simply blame the election is just another easy way out. The orange man does not have nor deserve that much power over me. So let’s begin again.

                                                  ****

Cambridge, England. My new home. To be honest, It smells a little like cow shit. I suppose that’s the price you pay for idyllic views like these.

Founded in 1209 (or more than 500 years before the United States became a country), Cambridge is the third oldest surviving university in the world. Alumni include Sir Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Stephen Hawking, and Jane Goodall just to name a few. And despite offering no formal theatrical training, many of the British greats attended including Eddie Redmayne, Ian McKellen, Hugh Laurie and Emma Thompson.

Though fun to name drop, that’s besides the point.  I came to Cambridge to experience something beyond my conception, to expose all my senses, and to force my brain to think in ways that I never thought possible. Moving to another country and embarking on a path so different than my own before embodies all that Take Space entails.

Over the next year, Take Space will be my place to share what I’ve learned living in another country and attending business school. An actor getting her MBA is still almost as novel to me as it is for everyone that I encounter, so I'm sure to have many stories as I take such a giant leap outside my comfort zone.

Before I close for the night and let jet lag take over, I must mention my original aim for this blog—to highlight badass women Taking Space. I got away from the intention over the last year, but it’s more important than ever to support our fellow sisters. The election exposed many weaknesses in our society, perhaps none greater than the horrible truth that we were not ready for a female president. While a systemic issue, my chosen fields of business and entertainment are especially rife with sexism, so I will do my best to put a spotlight on those Taking Space. To start, I leave you with my post-Obama reading list— 25 books by women that have inspired me, engaged me, enraged me, and got me through the new Trumpian era.

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body. Roxane Gay 

Option B: Facing Adversity, Building Resilience and Finding Joy. Sheryl Sandberg & Adam Grant

The Namesake. Jhumpa Lahiri

Birds of America. Lorrie Moore

The Price of Salt. Patricia Highsmith 

Janesville: An American Story.  Amy Goldstein

The Art of Relevance. Nina Simon

Homegoing. Yaa Gyasi

My Name is Lucy Barton. Elizabeth Stout

A Book of American Martyrs. Joyce Carol Oates

Ghettoside A True Story of Murder in America. Jill Leovy

Men Explain Things to Me. Rebecca Solnit

Girls & Sex: Navigating the Complicated New Landscape. Peggy Orenstein

Welcome to the Goddamn Ice Cube: Chasing Fear and Finding Home in the Great White North. Blair Braverman

Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman. Lindy West

The Light of the World. Elizabeth Alexander

Lab Girl. Hope Jahren 

In the Darkroom. Susan Faludi

The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone. Olivia Laing

Feminist Fight Club: An Office Survival Manual for a Sexist Workplace. Jessica Bennett

An American Sickness: How Healthcare Became Big Business and How You Can Take It Back. Elisabeth Rothenthal 

You Cant Touch My Hair. And other things I still have to explain. Phoebe Robinson

The Round House. Louise Erdrich

H is for Hawk. Helen MacDonald

See a live musical. Ideally one that has multiple dance numbers, at least one child and/or dog, great special effects, and potentially a death so you can cry out your fears but ends with an encore.  Finding Neverland is currently on tour and fits the bill perfectly. If not, try anything by Andrew Loyd Webber or based on a true story or Disney movie.

Avoid Facebook or any social media for an entire day. Ideally ignore the news all together. I know it’s still scary,  but it'll still suck when you get back.

Go to a movie in the theaters, specifically a matinee - take a long lunch or leave early. Watching an uplifting movie (ideally Hidden Figures) while eating popcorn with retired old women for under $20 is amazing. The world will feel immediately better.

Find a sunny wall and stand against it. Even if it's freezing, put on enough layers, find a bright warm spot and sun yourself. Seasonal affective disorder is real.

Find an animal and snuggle it. Go to a dog park, animal shelter, or cat cafe. Animal therapy is also real.

Buy yourself flowers. Trader Joe's has bouquets for $3.99. Pick up some mini chocolate peanut butter cups or Speculoos Cookies while you're at it.

Hang out with the friends you actually like. None of this obligatory shit. You have an obligation to you nation. Spend time with the people you like.

Watch all the Oscar-nominated documentary shorts, if you're a sadist and need a little pain to feel better. They'll remind you that your life isn't too bad. If you're not into that kinda thing, watch them tomorrow because they're all important. Four out of five are available online. 

Go on a run. I know it's cliche but exercise does help. If you need motivation, try Aaptiv. This awesome app offers indoor and outdoor running classes as well as guided yoga, spin, elliptical, meditation and strength training sessions. Added bonus: if you feel like crying or screaming in the middle people will assume you're just hardcore.

If none of that works, find or buy the softest blanket you can—one that feels almost like baby animal fur and is so soft you can't stop yourself from petting it uncontrollably in the store. Take it and curl up into a ball, wrap the blanket around your head, and sob hysterically. Snot up that blanket until it's crusty and then have a drink.

From my earlier post on Medium. 

I wanted to write something powerful about attending the inauguration 8 years ago but all I can really remember was that we had to wake up early, it was ridiculously cold, and I almost died on the DC Metro before the ceremony even started. I also can’t get over the fact that I didn’t have an iPhone in those days and have no idea how I entertained myself for 6 hours in line to get my ticked spot —on a patch of grass with a bunch of grumpy, cold, tired strangers. I do remember everyone stopped complaining once Obama started speaking. I know we all cried. But that’s it.

I have nothing profound for you. And yet the grief I feel is momentous. I have to remind myself that Obama is not dead. The world is not over. We’ve survived bad presidencies before and Obama has many more years to do great things.

But if you’re feeling the same and wondering if it’s possible to feel such pain over a transition of power, I’m here to remind you that grief in all of its stages of glory are real. I managed to pass through them all this week.

Monday, January 16th — Denial

Tuesday, January 17 - Anger

Wednesday, January 18th - Bargaining 

Thursday, January 19 — Depression

Friday, January 20 — Acceptance