The Audacity to Stay Human
Why aging, artistry, and authenticity will always outlast algorithms. (Sunday love letter, vol. 8)
If you close your eyes, you can almost hear it… the crackle of a fire somewhere deep in Patagonia, where Francis Mallmann is coaxing flame into feast, living by the old truths: that life, like cooking, demands both patience and fucking audacity.
(I became instantly enamored with this non-conformist the moment I saw him on Chef’s Table and still re-watch his episode every now and again when I find myself becoming bored of my own banality, typically because I’ve become asleep at the wheel again and drifting towards lemming-like trend following.)
You can almost see it… Iris Apfel, may that icon rest in peace, weaving through a Harlem bazaar, bright silks trailing from her arms, eyeglasses catching the sun, a woman who never once asked if she was too much or if anyone liked her crazy outfit because quite frankly, she wasn’t here to please anyone but herself.
The way I dress may be “different” or “eccentric'“ to some who feel the need to label, but that’s of no concern to me. I don’t dress to be stared at; I dress for myself. When you don’t dress like everyone else, you don’t have to think like everyone else.
- Iris Apfel
You can almost feel it… the bold brushstrokes of Tamara de Lempicka, painting women with jaws sharp enough to carve new worlds, women who were not ornaments, but forces. Seldom does a month go by that I don’t pull out a much loved book by this woman with the same first name and admire her distinctive edge.
We were meant to be this way, you know. Alive. Audacious. Uncontained. A little bit holy, a lotta bit unruly.
And yet, somewhere between our first breath and our first broken heart, they taught us to trade wonder for approval. Taught us to tuck in our edges, mute our colors, to apologize for the very things that made us luminous. To make ourselves smaller and call it being “well-adjusted.”
It is the oldest tension in the world: the longing to belong vs. the longing to be.
We are told to be original… as long as that originality is marketable. We are told to be free… as long as our freedom doesn’t rattle anyone’s cages. What a load of beautifully packaged bullshit.
But the fire still calls. And the soul still knows.
Lately, I’ve been feeling this pull in my own skin. I’m about to turn 46. The silver is beginning to thread through my hair. The lines around my eyes tell the stories of a thousand laughs, a thousand longings.
And still, there is a part of me that hesitates. Still, there is a part of me that flinches at the noise of a world that worships youth while preaching self-love. Still, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to lose the feeling of being seen, desired, chosen.
I see it in my work as well. I became a clinician because I believed healing should feel human. Messy. Tender. Specific to each unique being sharing space with me. Not a sterile, box-checking, buzzword-chasing assembly line.
And yet even now, I feel the drumbeat of pressure: Produce more. Package yourself. Be palatable. To which I say, FUCK PALATABLE.
And maybe, just maybe, part of why it feels so heavy now is because of the way the world has shifted under our feet. Technology, with all its marvels, has quietly rewritten the script of beauty and belonging.
What was once celebrated for its idiosyncrasy… the crooked smile, the imperfect hands, the weathered face… is now edited, filtered, scrubbed until it’s so flawless it almost stops feeling human (and part of me hates that I’ve fallen prey to it as much as the next woman, especially those of us who dare open ourselves up for every goddamn keyboard warrior who thinks they’re owed an opinion).
We have traded the intimacy of real craftsmanship for the fast dopamine of mass appeal. We have blurred the lines between art and algorithm. We have begun to lose the things that once made us irreplaceable. And if we are not careful, we won’t just lose our self-expression or self-esteem. We will lose our goddamn souls.
The call to live unapologetically is not just a personal rebellion anymore. It’s a quiet revolution against the erosion of depth itself.
Today, I want you to remember:
You are allowed to be a masterpiece without needing to explain your palette. You are allowed to live too vividly, too hungrily, too tenderly for those who have forgotten how. You are allowed to be unapologetic and unbothered in a world that counts on your self-doubt to keep you small.
The needle of existence only moves forward when you dare to touch the edges of your own longing.
So ask yourself:
Where am I still filing down my edges to fit into spaces that feel hollow?
Where am I still waiting for permission to wear, speak, build, be what sets my soul on fire?
Where have I mistaken belonging for blending?
Fuck being agreeable. Let’s get back to being astonished.
So my dear one, come sit with me by the fire awhile. Feel the smoke rise through your ribs. Let the scent of it tattoo itself into your memory. Remember what it feels like to belong to yourself first, and let everything else be a blessing, not a bargain.
Somewhere, the old ones are smiling.
… and somewhere, the ember inside you is just waiting for you to fucking breathe.
Still wild. Still burning. Still unbeholden.
- Tamara