Society & CultureRelationshipsArtsExplicit

The Nuance Diaries

Alexa Juanita Jordan

What sensitive, deeply feeling people are thinking but don’t say. AKA the stuff you usually save for the group chat. Consider my vulnerability a permission slip for yours.

thenuancediaries.substack.com

Play

Open in

20 episodes
Avg 10 min
English

Episodes 20

Newest Oldest Longest

All20 Unplayed20 In progress0 Played0

Wednesday · 6 min
Hard Won Happiness
Welcome to The Nuance Diaries! Unfiltered alchemy from your most unhinged group chat. Consider my vulnerability a permission slip for yours. If you’re new here, maybe check this out? If you’re an old timer, maybe this is the week you upgrade your subscription? Okay, let’s dive in! I’ve been pretty happy this summer. How the hell did that happen? I recently reminisced with my therapist about a magazine cover I must have seen a decade ago or more, talking about an actress and her ‘hard won happiness.’ I loved this phrase so much that I included it in the introduction of my book. That phrase always stuck with me. At the time, I probably didn’t have the self-awareness to admit I was far from truly happy. I did know that I liked the idea of describing happiness as “hard-won.” Those two words made me feel instantly seen and validated, as someone who used to secretly roll her eyes when people talked about waking up happy in the morning, with an easy-breezy cover girl feeling that I was convinced only exists in fairy tales. Ah, if only I had discovered my friends Lexapro and Wellbutrin sooner. Even with my cocktail of antidepressants, I’d still describe my happiness as hard-won. I don’t think I’ll ever see happiness as a default state or a choice you can authentically make. I also don’t think it’s the only emotion worth striving for. It’s just one of many emotions. I think happiness and joy are related yet entirely different. I’ve had moments of joy in dark seasons, and held deep pain during what should have been some of the happiest moments of my life. I’ve been miserable in some beautiful places. I’ve been happy under circumstances that a lot of people wouldn’t be. Some of the most painful seasons of my life have been followed by joy I never thought I’d find. I know I was only able to feel that wild joy because I allowed myself to surrender to the pain. Because if we numb the pain, we numb the joy too. Sometimes numbing the pain actually feels disrespectful to the joy. During the penultimate episode of This Is Us, the beloved character, William (played by the late Ron Cephas Jones), remarks, The way I see it, if something makes you sad when it ends, it must have been pretty wonderful when it was happening. That quote reminds me of the idea that grief is love with nowhere to go. By that logic, the absence of grief equates to the absence of love. I’ve come to feel grateful for my grief — because it reminds me of the enormity of my love. To be clear, I’m not grateful for all of my sadness in the same way. I’m not grateful that my mind sometimes tries to convince me that I shouldn’t be alive. I’m not grateful that I have CPTSD. I am certainly not grateful to have been abused in ways I’m not ready to talk about pubicly yet. My outright rage about the things that have happened to me and how they have rewired my brain chemistry is completely justifiable. But I’m certainly grateful that I now allow myself to feel that rage, instead of papering over it with toxic positivity. I’m grateful that I’ve started to admire my own resilience, instead of resenting how strong I’ve had to be. The other day in therapy, I called myself an emotional superhero. I am grateful to call my happiness hard-won, because I fought tooth and nail for it. And when I lose it, or get very, very far away from it, I’m grateful to have the tools to eventually orient myself back in its direction. As I write this, the sky is blue. There is food in my refrigerator. I’m going to get a facial later. And then I get to see my cousin, who I would do just about anything in this world for (except watch horror movies.) There is a huge amount of uncertainty in my life. Injustice that I’ll never be able to wrap my head around. A million things I want to do. People I’ve yet to meet. People I’d give anything to see one more time. But right now, the sky is blue. There’s a breeze in the air. I’m hopeful for what the next moment will bring. And praying that the hard-won happiness will stay a while longer. I’d also be absolutely remiss if I didn’t express my deep condolences to Dolly Parton’s family. While I wrote this a few weeks ago, I am publishing it the day after Dolly’s passing was announced. I am gutted that she is gone, and deeply grateful for all of the gifts she left us. Hope she’s kicked her heels off and is resting easy in Heaven. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
July 29 · 29 min
How to Make Your Own Luck on the 'Luckiest Day of The Year'
Welcome to The Nuance Diaries! Unfiltered alchemy from your most unhinged group chat. Consider my vulnerability a permission slip for yours. For those who don’t know me yet — hi! I’m so glad you’re here. I’m a storyteller and alchemist. My magic is making something out of nothing as a coach, writer, actor, and multimedia creator. I am a native New Yorker, born and raised, a Gilmore Girls enthusiast, and a lover of all things pink. More here. Today, July 29th, is thought to be the luckiest day of 2026 because of the Jupiter Cazimi in Leo. (If you’re not into astrology, don’t run! I’m not going super in-depth on this — just giving a little context.) The gist of it is that the cazimi is the exact alignment of the Sun and Jupiter in Leo. This alignment is also coinciding with a full moon in Aquarius. You can learn more about why cazimis are such a big deal here. And also check out Chani’s podcast this week for more on the astrology of this current moment! All that matters for our purpose is that July 29th is a lucky day. I don’t believe in people just waking up and getting what they want because they’re luckier than the rest of us. I think it’s something that we all can do, even if we’re not Lindsay Lohan in that 2000s movie, Just My Luck. I was really inspired by what the Knicks’ Coach Mike Brown said to the team during that fateful halftime in Game 4 when they were down 29 points. He told them to go make their own luck. It’s what you have to do when the cards are down. If you want it bad enough, you have to go make your own luck. And so, here are 6 things I’m doing to make my own luck today— and all year round, as much as I can help it! I hope you’ll join me, reflect on your own life, and take what you can from this framework. * Step Being So Realistic * Act Like The Main Character Of Your Story * Expect Good Things To Happen * Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Reframe * Talk to Yourself Like a Toddler Who Is Doing Something For the First Time * Look How Far You’ve Come + a bonus! WAYS TO STAY CONNECTED Book a free center stage session where I’ll walk you through a game of make-believe, adult make-believe, that will reveal your vision for your life and what’s standing in your way. Subscribe! Consider becoming a paid subscriber for just $7/month. That’s less than a quarter a day! I’m calling in more paid subscribers on this lucky day, and for the entire Lion Gate’s portal. (Another astrology thing!) Buy my book, Start of It All. Alexa Jordan is a storyteller and alchemist. She’s a coach, writer, actor, and multimedia creator (and she’s also going to stop talking about herself in the third person!) My magic is making something out of nothing, wildly compelling stories out of thin air. I love helping people who don’t feel like the main character of their lives, the center stage, and the stories they actually want to tell. I coach one-on-one clients and facilitate custom workshops (if you’re in OGC — check out the calendar for the one coming up 8/27!) I’m the author of The Start of It All, a 20-something’s guide, and a contributor to the Best Women’s Monologues of 2022. And I write weekly here on Substack in The Nuance Diaries, where I am a 5 rising bestseller. I’m the author of The Start of It All: A 20-Something’s Guide, a contributor to The Best Women’s Stage Monologues of 2022, and I write weekly on Substack inside my blog The Nuance Diaries (5x Rising Bestseller). I have a B.A. in Drama from Vassar College and a Classical Acting Diploma from The London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts. I received a New York Times feature for my performance in “There’s Blood at the Wedding” at the globally acclaimed La Mama Experimental Theater Club. I now sit on the board of CultureHub (a global art and tech community founded by La Mama and Seoul Arts), where I was the associate producer of ‘Turning Your Body Into a Compass.’ I first fell in love with storytelling inside of theaters. Stories are how I make sense of the world around me and help people reclaim their narratives. Whether I’m on Zoom, with people across time zones, or on a campus with 75 sophomores at Vassar College, or in a black box theater with like 20 people. I know firsthand that a powerful story can change your life. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
July 3 · 3 min
How to Rewrite Your Story in Q3
Hi! I’m Alexa. Storyteller and Alchemist. I’m a coach, writer, and multimedia creator. My magic is making something out of nothing — wildly compelling stories out of thin air. I love helping people figure out who they truly are and what they actually want, so that they can take center stage in their own lives. I coach 1:1 clients and facilitate custom workshops. I’m the author of The Start of It All: A 20-Something’s Guide, a contributor to The Best Women’s Stage Monologues of 2022, and writes weekly here on Substack inside The Nuance Diaries. Here you will find unfiltered alchemy from your most unhinged group chat. My hope is to turn my vulnerability into a permission slip for yours. Usually, I share a personal essay or song. But today, I have an invitation ✨ I like to think of Q3 and Q4 as the second half of your 2026 story. Whether you’re aware of it or not, your brain has subconsciously written a rough draft of how the rest of the year will go. Our brains love patterns; it’s easy to slip into the mindset that the first half of your story will predict the second. But what if that’s not true? Spoiler Alert: it’s not What if you have the power to rewrite your story, take center stage, and reclaim the rest of your year? Spoiler Alert - you do What if one hour is all it takes to rewrite your story? It is. And we’re going to do just that. On July 9th from 12:00 - 1:00 PM , we’ll... ⏳ REFLECT on the first half of the year 🧘‍♀️ RESET your mindset and energy ✏️ REWRITE your story You’ll leave with the tools you need to take on the rest of the year with renewed confidence, conviction, calm, and clarity. What happened before this does not define what happens next. You are the one holding the pen. By the end of this hour together, you’ll have taken it back. July 9th. 12:00 - 1:00 PM EST. Zoom. Free. See you soon! If you can’t make it live, you’ll be sent the recording if you’re registered by the time of the event :) RSVP HERE PS Have you watched my guest appearance on my friend Liz Batsche - Your Host with 💗’s show Well Hosted with Liz? Get into it! We had so much fun making it, and it is genuinely so good. (Not just saying that because I’m a guest!) So proud of you, Liz. Thanks again for having me, not just as a guest but as a friend :) WATCH WELL HOSTED HERE This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
June 28 · 18 min
How to Come Out After Your Therapist Decides That You're Not Gay
READ/LISTEN ON SUBSTACK (and subscribe while you're there!) "I bet your feelings for her will go away as soon as the play ends. You’re probably not actually gay." The first time I wondered if I might like women, I was playing Hermia opposite a girl playing Lysander (traditionally played by a man) in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For the first time in my 21 years, I was questioning my heterosexuality. The circumstances are both poetic yet unremarkable, having my first crush on a girl playing my love interest in the theater department at a liberal arts school. Up until then, I had always been a fierce LGBTQ+ ally, but had never once considered that I might be a part of the community myself. I grew up at the intersection of conservatism and liberalism; a Native New Yorker raised in a religious household on 20th and 1st. I started attending Sunday School as a toddler, and was teaching it myself before I entered middle school. And yet, my family thankfully does not share the same conservative beliefs that so many churches do. I first learned about same-sex couples as a toddler while driving around downtown with my mom. While waiting in traffic, we intercepted the Pride parade. I asked my mom why two men were kissing. She said something along the lines of “people kiss when they’re in love.” Until then, it hadn’t registered to me that Barbie could love Barbie, and Ken could love Ken. It immediately made sense. It wasn’t a big event. Just a fact. And it still is. Love is love. Ironically, I don’t remember much about my first impression of the girl playing Lysander. I do remember thinking that she was funny in an irreverent way. A little elusive. Definitely disarming. There was something unique about her. I wanted her to like me, and it went beyond wanting to work well together. I also didn’t want her to think I was trying too hard, because I wanted to seem cool. I don’t remember the exact moment that I fell for her, but it truly felt like it happened overnight. At first, I told myself that my fascination was purely about taking my acting role seriously. I had never played opposite a woman and wanted to ensure that we developed a believable connection. The more we got along offstage, the better. Yet even now, years and years later, I can remember the electric, thrilling feeling of running into her on campus, or walking into the room and meeting her gaze at a rehearsal. I was so bewildered by my feelings, even though I couldn’t have been in a more supportive environment. I had no idea what her sexual orientation was, or if she would ever be interested in me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. I once ran on the treadmill for miles without stopping to release some of my pent-up emotions. I couldn’t just show up to rehearsal and blurt out, “Hey, I’ve never had a crush on a girl before, but I have these feelings toward you that I can’t describe, and I have no idea if I want to pursue them, and no idea what your sexual orientation is, but just thought you should know!” So, I ran. From her and my feelings. Even when she appeared next to me on the adjacent treadmill by total coincidence (true story), I kept on running. (Very unlikely for me. I only run when I’m late. Back in freshman year, it took me until December to realize I hadn’t packed sneakers. That’s how much I don’t care about the gym. Eventually, I told one of my best friends and housemates about the crush. She was supportive, but not shocked. It was an anticlimactic conversation. You have to understand that we went to Vassar. Coming out was a non-event. The percentage of people who come to Vassar thinking they’re straight and leave queer is astronomical. And so, that’s the attitude I went into my therapy session with when I told my (former) therapist the news. “By the way, I think I might be gay. How’s the weather?” Alexa, I bet your feelings for her will go away as soon as the play ends. You’re probably not actually gay. And just like that, I wasn’t queer. Because my therapist said so. If my therapist of 5+ years didn’t think I was gay, I couldn’t be gay, right? Part of me was shocked. But I didn’t question her at all. I immediately agreed with her, and I thanked her for helping me “come to my senses.” Imagine thanking someone for telling you you’re not gay. I let myself continue to indulge in my feelings for the girl playing Lysander until the show ended, and then we went our separate ways. My feelings “faded” just as my therapist said they would. Until five years later. I’m 26. I am still convinced of my straightness. I’ve stopped seeing my old therapist for an entirely different reason. I am quite literally on my knees after a devastating breakup. I am anything but well. For the first time in a long time, I find myself craving a church community. I’m in desperate need of faith. And the idea of new friends doesn’t hurt either. After a few weeks of attending virtual church services on YouTube, I decided to bravely look for a church community once more, and found one rather quickly that happened to be right in my neighborhood. It almost felt too good to be true. (Which usually means it’s too good to be true.) There was a vibrant, diverse community of young people. The sermons were accessible yet driven by the text of the bible. And the music was gorgeous. It was so easy to feel at home. I was quickly persuaded to volunteer in all kinds of ways, from Sunday School to joining the welcome committee to inviting people to my home for weekly bible study and other fellowship events. I was finally beginning to develop a personal relationship with God, after years of simply reciting scriptures and playing the part of a ‘good church girl.’ I felt so connected to my faith, those around me, and myself. My faith and this community were both such a grounding force in my life, exactly when I needed it. I thought that nothing could go wrong. So naturally, everything went wrong. Seemingly out of nowhere, a close friend from that church reveals in casual conversation that being gay is a sin. I was completely appalled. Did other people know she felt this way? Did our pastor know? I wanted to be compassionate and take a sincere, thoughtful approach. I wanted to help her tackle and unravel this clear, obvious homophobia. My first and only thought was to help her see the light. I texted my pastor to get coffee. Everyone is welcome in our church, but I would never perform a marriage ceremony for a same sex couple. My pastor agreed with my friend. All of my friends agreed with her. I walked around numb for days. Until the following Sunday, when I found out that our community was part of the Evangelical Covenant Church. I was standing outside with the welcome committee petting a passerby’s dog when I heard another volunteer tell an inquiring stranger that we were an evangelical church. I truly thought he was mixing up the words episcopal and evangelical. I told a friend later, hoping we could laugh it off together. There was no mix-up. I had somehow been part of an Evangelical church for half a year without knowing it. A group that famously promotes “faithfulness in heterosexual marriage.” I felt like the ground was being ripped from beneath me. I felt like I couldn’t trust myself anymore. How had I not seen this? How had I not instinctively known? Why didn’t I ask? How the hell did I convince myself that this Evangelical church was inclusive and non-denominational? I am 26. I am healed from my romantic heartbreak, but facing another of an entirely different kind. I still think that I’m straight. But I’m as fierce an ally as ever. I sent the following to my pastor: a paraphrased quote from an episode of Glennon Doyle’s podcast We Can Do Hard Things. I am firmly of the opinion that it is not possible to celebrate and love anyone by simply tolerating them. You can only love or reject them. We’ve decided that as a society, we can disagree with people’s identities. What we call disagreement is in fact rejection. Many would make the counterargument that you can privately disagree with someone’s “lifestyle choices” and publicly support them and love them, as Christ called us to do. Yet to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, we have to want every good thing that we want for ourselves, for others. (Ex: freedom, marriage equality, protection by law, safety.) I don’t even remember his reply. I think he said we could agree to disagree. To which I say, no we fucking cannot. * The episode, ‘QUEER FREEDOM’, is linked. I’m 27. It’s been a few months since I left that church, and almost exactly five years after my A Midsummer Night’s Dream crush. And the truth of who I am is finally ready to bubble out of me, quite rapidly, as truths so often do. I now realize that I was absolutely subconsciously protecting myself and making space for my full self to emerge when I left that church. On a cozy March Monday, a guy I had briefly dated called to tell me that he was no longer romantically interested in me. I was less upset about the rejection and more upset about how he handled it all. I made my usual short-lived vow that I was going to swear off men for a while and mused about how much easier life would be if I could just be attracted to women and never have to deal with men again. That evening, I was scrolling through Facebook and saw a status update from a classmate who had recently transitioned. They shared some photos, along with their new name and pronouns. I hadn’t seen this classmate in years, so I decided to scroll down memory lane to our younger days before doing a little deep dive into what they had been up to since we graduated. Sitting at my kitchen table, looking at these pictures, and watching my old friend’s journey unfold, I meditated on the idea of transformation. I thought about my younger self. I thought about the courage that it takes to step into the truest, most authentic version of yourself, and tell the whole world about it. I thought about the girl who played Lysander. I must have left my best friend 30 audio messages that night, as I parsed out all of my thoughts and emotions. In all these years of ranting about wishing that I could just be attracted to women, was I really just voicing a suppressed desire? What if I did like the girl who played Lysander? What if my therapist was wrong? What if there was a deeper reason that things never worked out with guys in the past, beyond the obvious explanation that a lot of men suck? The next night, right after the same friend I’d left all the voice memos finished teaching a virtual yoga class, I stayed in the Zoom room until everyone else had left, like always. I think I’m still attracted to men. But also, I think my therapist was wrong. I think I also like women. My friend was completely supportive and over the moon excited for me. They told me to take my time, and with this new realization. I changed my settings on dating apps that very night, started setting up dates with women, and never turned back. My attraction to women feels like complete freedom. I’ve never once questioned my decision to come out as bi, even amidst the seemingly never-ending ongoing bias and cruel acts of violence that members of the LGBTQIA+ community have been subject to throughout history, and of course, in the present day. While I’ve sometimes wondered if things would be “easier” if I went back to living my life as a straight woman, I have never doubted my attraction to women. It’s an undeniable and important part of who I am. I do still find myself dating more men than women. For every 10 men, I like 7. For every ten women, I’m probably attracted to one. Go figure. There’s a good chance I probably end up with a man long term — I’m genuinely attracted to both genders. Whether I end up with a man or a woman, I will always be bisexual. These days, I’m more spiritual than religious. I do believe in a higher power. My relationship with God is…complicated. I’m still learning to grapple with the nuance of it all - and deciding which beliefs to keep and which to discard. I do know that religious institutions don’t get to tell me who God is, or who I am. And neither can a therapist. Shoutout to my current therapist who would never ever tell me I’m not gay. She is an icon, and I can’t wait to dissect Casa Amor because I know she’ll find a way to connect it to my CPTSD. Thank you so much for reading. Hope you’ll consider subscribing to The Nuance Diaries for more. PS, I did a SUPER COOL THING! Thank you SO much to my friend Liz Batsche - Your Host with 💗 for having me as the first guest on Well Hosted. Check it out below - 3 minutes of deliciousness, and a really great conversation with questions you’ll be thinking about for a long time (I know I will!)WATCH HERE This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
June 21 · 6 min
I know I’m working hard and sometimes I can see it
SUBSCRIBE Read The Start Of It All Read '5 Life Lessons From The Devil Wears Prada 2' Book a Coaching Session with Me! Welcome back to The Nuance Diaries! I’ve been playing around with how I describe what I write about here, and recently landed on this: “Unfiltered alchemy from your most unhinged group chat. Consider my vulnerability a permission slip for yours.” I kind of love it. Thoughts? I wrote this song around 3 years ago now. It was inspired by a conversation with one of my best friends last weekend. A specific sentence that she said inspired the whole thing, and that specific sentence is in the song - verbatim. I’ll let you guess what it is (or you can just listen to the voiceover where I’ll tell you!) Highly recommend listening to this one if you’re usually a reader. Highly recommend listening to The Nuance Diaries in general, honestly. It’s not a robot voice - I read them! Can’t see where my life is headin’ But I can see the bottom of my sink And that might not mean much to you But Lord it means everything to me And I cannot remember The last day that I went without a drink But today I did my dishes And that’s gonna have to be enough for me I think myself in circles As I sit here sprawled on the couch I have all these great ambitions Sometimes I even write a few down And I cannot remember The last time that I believed in me But today I did my dishes And that’s gonna have to be enough for me I know I’m working hard And sometimes I can see it They say I’m doing fine Maybe one day I’ll believe it This is a great big world And I am just one girl I wanna do everything And nothing at all I’m gonna try to work on Not feeling so small I’m gonna try to work on Thinking I can have it at all But for now I’ll clean my closet Do my dishes Sing this song Can’t see where my life is headin’ But I can see the bottom of my sink That might not mean much to you But Lord it means everything to me This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
June 14 · 6 min
The Knicks, The Fans, and a $100K Lesson in Audacity
Read This on Substack (and subscribe!) Me all of last week, “The amount of think pieces we are about to see on LinkedIn about the Knicks… Fast forward to me, last night, writing this between Q2 and Halftime to avoid freaking out. As a Broadway Baby, I have often likened sports arenas to theater performances in order to understand the appeal. When the Chiefs were in the Super Bowl a few years ago, for Taylor Swift’s first appearance in Travis Kelce’s box, a creator on TikTok made an analogy between a football stadium and a theater in the round. There were many first-time viewers that year, many of us Swifties. We wanted to understand what was going on. We wanted to root for Taylor’s boyfriend’s team. But we simply had no idea what was going on. After all, the last time we were at Arrowhead, it looked a lot different. I remember a creator on TikTok saying that a football game is like theater in the round, and the football itself is the thing that the players/ “actors” want more than anything in the world. Therefore, they will do anything they have to do to get that ball. It is the thing that matters most to them. Is this a simplification? Sure. But it was also my access point into a pretty gate-kept and gendered world. Fast forward to the Knicks’ championships. See how I’m calling it the Knicks championships, even as I write this during the second quarter of the game? The Spurs are technically also there, too. Their biggest adversary. And the refs — the Knicks’ other biggest adversary. Thousands of spectators inside MSG and Frost Bank Center wholeheartedly believe in the Knicks more than they have ever believed in themselves. People who spent large sums of money to be in the room where it happens, and watch the Knicks soar to victory (edited: WHICH WE DID!!) Audience members at plays and musicals also pay similar sums of money to watch actors play characters that they’ll root for far more than they do themselves. Both audiences and fans are there to be entertained and moved, as they ruthlessly root for the people on court and on stage. The difference? In a sports arena, there is no way of knowing how the night will end. No script. The stakes are honestly much higher than they are in a theater, in a lot of ways. People pay hundreds to thousands of dollars, with no idea how the night will unfold, and deep trust that the outcome will be in their favor. Sure, the teams have performed well before. There have been great sports games before. Many would say it’s an objectively worthwhile risk, and money well spent. How much would you have paid to be at one of the championship finals games? How much is that rush of adrenaline worth to you? That piece of history? Would you, too, spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to attend an event with an unknown, unpredictable outcome? If you were offered the chance to have a life-changing experience with an unknown outcome, would you take it? An unforgettable night. A singular experience. One that could truly change your life. Would you go? What about an unforgettable conversation? A singular conversation. That could change your life in the same way. If I offered you that experience, would you take it? Without knowing the outcome, purely hoping and believing in the best? That’s the bold, brave risk that people make when they sign up for a session with me. A conversation with me is an unforgettable experience, with an unpredictable outcome, that will likely change your life. Want to change the end of your story, when you’re down 29 points in the second half? And find a way to get the thing you care about most, when all the odds (refs) seem stacked against you? Just like our Knicks, you’re capable of all that and more. But you can’t do it alone. No one does it alone. I’ve honed a rare and powerful set of skills that perfectly position me to help people figure out who they are, what they want, and how to get it. I help people get connected to themselves so that they can get the most out of life and achieve all that they want to. I’m the coach you want in your corner for your personal championship. Reach out to learn more about how we can work together. OR head straight to the free throw line to take a shot at a 1:1 session (I had to get one more basketball reference, come on!)BOOK A SESSION Buy My Book Buy Me a Coffee This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
May 30 · 13 min
I Don't Talk About My Book Enough
Less than 0.1% of the global population will ever write a book. Not publish — write. Someone told me that statistic recently, at an event where I talked about my book. Around 0.0086% are published authors. Over 50% of U.S. writers are women, which is major, major progress. And when we filter by Black women? We make up 4% to 7% of published authors in America. Regardless of the exact stats, which are changing all the time and differ based on where you collect them — I’m in very rare company as a published author. And a self-published author at that. You know what’s wild, though? As I went to type ‘self-published’, what I first wrote was ‘selfish.’ And I can’t blame that on autocorrect. That was 100% my subconscious at work. Selfish. It’s a word that’s been viewed as ‘dirty’ and very much weaponized as an insult. It makes my skin crawl a little, as a recovering people pleaser. We’re all selfish to some extent, though, aren’t we? Or shouldn’t we be? I deserve to be proud of my book. I deserve to talk about my book without making excuses about what I would’ve done differently. It’s not about the number of copies I’ve sold or the money I’ve made. There is a book with my name on it, sitting on people’s bookshelves. A book I rarely talk about. People have said such beautiful, kind things about my book, The Start Of It All. Many people read it in a day. Someone in their seventies even loved it. Imagine that, a 70-something loving a book that I wrote for 20-somethings. And yet — I don’t really talk about it. Ever. I wrote it, published it, posted about it a few times, sold a hundred or so copies, and then…just stopped. It’s not intentional. I’m not trying to hide my book. Or maybe I am, subconsciously? The Start of It All is a book full of questions designed to help you get to know yourself better, paired with stories about my 20s. And that’s mostly true. But if we’re being specific… Those stories about my 20s? They’re about my messiest moments. When I hand my book to someone, it feels like I’m handing a part of myself over to them — because I am. I truly poured my entire being into this book. I always say that I want my vulnerability to be a permission slip for yours, and I mean that. I love handing out those permission slips left and right, here inside The Nuance Diaries each week. I talk about this Substack all the time. But not the book. Why don’t I talk about my book? I’ve already had more success as a writer than I ever could have dreamed of. I have an amazing playwriting agent. My work is featured in The Best Women’s Monologues of 2022; the same kind of anthology I used to look for monologues in high school. My plays have been performed across the country — most recently, at Notre Dame this Spring. The college senior directing it emailed me that they were rehearsing on the beach in Mexico on Spring Break. I’ve never been to Mexico. Or Notre Dame. But my words have. A play that I wrote on my couch in pajamas has literally been to a country that I myself have not. I’m pretty proud of that. So why not the book that I wrote in pajamas at my kitchen table? In the project proposal for my senior thesis, I told the committee that if just one person had a “me too” moment during my play, I’d be unimaginably happy and proud. I still feel that way about all of my work. If any contribution I’ve made to the world can help someone feel less alone, I’ve done my job. I know for a fact that The Start Of It All has helped many people feel not only less alone, but truly seen. The very thing I craved during my 20s — and still do now. In my 20s, I needed to know that I hadn’t screwed up my life entirely. I still need daily reminders of that. In my 20s, I needed to know that I still had time. I still feel like I’m running out of time, a la Hamilton. In my 20s, I needed to know that it was okay to have a lot of questions and no answers. These days, I’m smart enough to know that no one has the answers. In my 20s, I needed to know that ‘crushing my 20s’ wasn’t a prerequisite for a good life. I now know that anyone who says they crushed their 20s is lying to either you or themselves. Perhaps what I needed most of all in my 20s was for someone to tell me that no one knows more about me than I do. Because it’s true. No one knows more about me than me. Just like no one knows more about you than you. Having that kind of personal autonomy would have drastically changed my life at any point in my 20s. I have no idea how different my life might have been if I had started listening to my intuition over everyone else’s advice sooner. No regrets, though. I sincerely mean that. Some of the biggest, messiest moments from my 20s that I swore in the moment I would never tell anyone? They’re in the book. My messiest moments are now my best stories. I fully own my entire story, not only because I have compassion for myself, but because I want to extend as much compassion as I can to as many people as I can. I’m realizing that I can’t really extend the compassion without talking about my book. And also, that owning my story means celebrating my story. If in their lowest moment, someone thinks to themselves, “Alexa would never be as hard on me as I’m being on myself right now”, then I got one thing right. I want The Start Of It All to be a companion to you in those moments — just like Glennon Doyle was to me on the night I lost my mind, and found myself. (Well, her book was that companion to me, not actual living, breathing Glennon Doyle, although I really do think we’d make such great friends.) Glennon Doyle is truly my proof that you can embrace your mess, feel it all, pivot more than a few times, and still wind up with a beautiful, beautiful life. My life is proof of that, too. I actually think imperfect, messy women lead the best lives. Imperfect, messy women who aren’t entirely sure why they’re uncomfortable talking about their books, but are doing it anyway. An older version of me would have waited until I self-analyzed to death and figured out the precise reason why promoting my book feels so icky. I hate that it feels icky. I don’t want it to feel icky. But instead of trying and trying to figure out why that is, I’m going to just start running in the opposite direction of my discomfort, feel the fear, and talk about the book anyway. At that same event I mentioned in the beginning, an incredible woman said something I’ll never forget. While telling me about her new affirmation cards, Chantha Thach said, “They’re magic.” She kept talking about the deck with the group we were chatting with. I interrupted a few moments later. “Did you just call your cards magic?” She confirmed. She did. I told her how much I loved hearing a woman confidently describe her own creation that way. I told her that I wished I could be that confident about my book. I’m working on it. I’ll get there. For now, I’ll repeat that statistic to myself. For a Pisces, I actually really like data. Less than 0.1% of the global population will ever write a book. Not publish — write. I am part of that 0.1% I’m a published author. I wrote a goddamn book. And it’s high time I celebrate. PS It’s 22% until Sunday! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
May 20 · 10 min
To The Class of 2026
This is less of a speech, more of a pep talk, and really — just some reflections from someone coming up on their 10-year college reunion who feels like graduation was just yesterday. Instead of picturing me on a podium in regalia, let’s pretend I’m sitting next to you on the floor of your dorm as you pack up your things, or sitting across from you at brunch after graduation, or in the backseat of the car on your drive back home, or wherever life is taking you next post-college. To the Class of 2026, The day after I graduated from college, I didn’t get out of bed until 5 PM. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t watching TV. I barely texted anyone. I was just scrolling through my Instagram feed and well…lying there completely exhausted. The only reason I got up was to get dinner at a pizza place that no longer exists with a friend I stopped talking to a few years later. It would probably shock my 22-year-old self to read these words, about losing touch with that friend, not the pizza place closing. As a native New Yorker, I’m all too familiar with favorite restaurants, coffee shops, and bookstores closing down. My favorite Barnes and Noble on 86th and Lex is now a Target. The benches by the magazine section where I spent countless hours pouring through glossy pages, have now been replaced with a homeware section. I once leafed through a magazine in that very Barnes and Noble, with a cover highlighting a Hollywood actress and her “hard-won happiness.” That phrase always stuck with me. At the time, I probably didn’t have the self-awareness to admit I was far from truly happy. I did know that I liked the idea of describing happiness as “hard-won.” Those two words made me feel instantly seen and validated, as someone who used to secretly roll her eyes when people talked about waking up happy in the morning, with an easy-breezy feeling that I was convinced only exists in fairy tales. The summer after graduation, I moved to Portland for an acting program, hated it, and came back to New York with no idea what I was going to do next. I eventually landed a role in an incredible new play at La MaMa, after originally inquiring about being the stage manager’s assistant. It was an amazing experience. I was featured in the New York Times. Everything was going according to plan. But it turns out, I didn’t love the life of a working actor as much as I thought I would. I started working as a temp receptionist at many Manhattan offices and ended up writing a play while at my desk. I wouldn’t realize that I wanted to be a playwright for a few more years, though. I spent too much money doing things I didn’t enjoy, with people I didn’t have a lot in common with, trying to keep up with the “New York scene.” I look back, and I really don’t like what those “friends” brought out in me, but if you’d asked me at the time, I would have told you that I had a great community. I constantly hustled for my self-worth, and was so busy trying to prove myself to everyone that I could barely enjoy success when it came. I co-directed the same play that I starred in as a fourth grader at my elementary school (Charlotte’s Web) and found more joy working with kids than I’d had in years - even though if I knew I wasn’t meant to be a teacher long-term. Those kids are now in high school, close to entering college themselves (which feels impossible, because they were 9 and learning how to spell just yesterday).(I’m 31, and I still feel like I’m learning how to spell.) We used to dance across the floor to this song called Shine during warm-ups, in a dance class I took in college. I’ve loved it ever since. It goes, Here's where you lose your mind The water here's divine You're doing just fine So, come on, darling Oh, don’t you want to shine? I’m not always sure of what it means to shine. These days, I’m less interested in sparkly, shiny perfection. I do love the heat of the lights in a theater. And the brilliance of the sun, when I’m on a walk listening to a podcast. The verb “shine” is defined in the Oxford American Dictionary as “give out a bright light” or “direct (a flashlight or other light) somewhere to see something in the dark.” When I was in your position, I just wanted all the answers to everything. I was longing for someone farther along than me to pull me out of the darkness and guide me through the murkiness of adulthood, straight into the light. I wanted to shine, and I wanted someone to tell me exactly how to do so. I was adamantly convinced that someone could give me “all the answers.” It took me an entire decade of searching, but I now finally know that no one has those answers I once craved. No one knows everything. And most importantly — No one knows more about you than you. So while I certainly can’t give you any answers, what I will tell you is this — I still fall into the trap of thinking everyone is doing better than me. I literally sometimes walk down the street and make up stories about how complete strangers are happier than I am. I often wonder what strangers might think about me, as they pass me by or catch my gaze. Do they make up stories about why I’m happier than they are? Do they assume that I’m sad, because they’re sad? I wonder what version of me exists in their heads. I think about the version of me that exists in my head; how I somehow know myself best and still often assume the worst. I often contemplate how we can tell truer stories about ourselves, or at least re-examine the ones that we’re telling. Who do you say you are? Who do you think you are? Who are you really? I’m the lady waving at kids on the bus and petting dogs in the elevator. I’m the girl curled up in bed watching a bad TV show I can’t get enough of. It’s somehow the only thing that turns my brain off these days. I’m the girl who watched almost ten seasons of Grey’s Anatomy in one week in college when I skipped all of my classes because I was too depressed to get out of bed. I’m the girl who has a hard time relaxing and has convinced herself that all of her worth in this world is tied to what she can do for other people. I’m the girl who’s trying to unlearn that. I am convinced that tacos can solve anything and that you can’t be upset while watching Legally Blonde. I am convinced that I can do anything with enough coffee. I am convinced there are greater things ahead of me than behind me. I am convinced there are greater things ahead of you than behind you. I hope you know I’m rooting for you, even when you’re feeling lost or you think you’ve ruined everything. I’m especially on your side when it seems like everyone has it figured out except you. Whether you’re sad, anxious, excited, hopeful, or something in between as you enter “the real world” post-graduation, I have a feeling it’s all going to turn out quite differently than you can plan or expect. You never know what’s coming in the next chapter. Even when you’re convinced that you do. As Taylor Jenkins Reid wrote in Daisy Jones and The Six, “Don't count yourself out this early, Daisy. You're all sorts of things you don't even know yet.” You are all sorts of things you don’t even know yet. This is just the start. Congratulations. Go rest and celebrate. You deserve it! The above was adapted from the introduction to my book, The Start of It All. BUY MY BOOK SUBSCRIBE BOOK A SESSION LEAVE A TIP This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
April 28 · 3 min
You do not have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyoncé
Subscribe to The Nuance Diaries on Substack Buy my book Book a session + Check out client testimonials I’m going to list out some different kinds of people. I’ll tell you what they all have in common in a second— but you can guess first for fun if you want. * People with chronic illness * People with PTSD * People with Complex PTSD * Trauma Survivors of any kind * Disabled people (physical and/or mental) * Parents * Caregivers * People who are grieving * People who don’t have housekeepers * People who don’t have laundry in their building * Eating Disorder survivors who love or hate meal prep * People who commute * People who work from home * Astronauts * Oil pastel artists * Toddlers who are teething Did you guess? Ready to hear the answer? Time moves differently in each and every one of their lives. Someone doing a Broadway show has a different 24 hours in a day than someone working on a cruise. ER doctors have a different 24 hours than podiatrists. Our lives are all different. It may sound redundant, but it’s true. This simple fact bears repeating, every time a stranger tries to tell me I have the same 24 hours as Beyoncé. I do not have the same 24 hours as Beyoncé, and shedoes not have the same 24 hours as me! At no point during her 24 hours can she run to the corner and buy a banana on a crowded New York City block. At no point during my 24 hours can I outsource all the household tasks and life admin that take time away from my career. We have different privileges. Our lives are designed differently. I consider it a privilege to go wherever I want without paparazzi. Beyoncé gets the privilege of being Queen B and performing all of our favorite songs, running an empire, using her wealth for good, and being a goddess, diva, and cowgirl all in one. God, I love Beyoncé I digress. I do not have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyoncé Neither do you. And that’s okay. Stop shaming yourself into accomplishing more or using your time more constructively, or whatever it is you’re doing to yourself when you tell the lie that you have the same 24 hours a day as everyone else. You’re not lazy. You’re not deficient. You’re doing your best with the resources available to you and the energy in your body. Maybe use a few minutes inside your 24 hours to remind yourself of that today. I myself am going to use a few minutes of my 24 hours to listen to some Beyoncé. Further Reading/Listening: My ancestor's wildest dream is me doing dishes listening to Beyoncé This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
March 30 · 11 min
How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 4 of 4
Have you read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3? If not, I recommend doing so! So, what does a girl do after the worst panic attack of her life leads to a broken mug, a surprising amount of clarity, and a new song? She stays up all night so that she won’t miss her early morning flight, and then takes her first flight in forever to Missouri, for her middle school bestie’s wedding. It was absolutely beautiful. I cried a lot. While I was on the trip, I got a lead on an even better opportunity than the new temporary job I was originally excited about back in Part 1. That fall, between the new gig(s) and some unexpected money, I was able to start paying off my credit card debt. Suddenly, I could afford to go to happy hour with my friends again. We came in second place at Broadway trivia. I had energy again. I started having fun again. I came super close to falling in love, but got my heart broken instead. I saw Dylan Mulvaney’s epic solo show three times. I told her about the guy who broke my heart. She said he sounded like a coward. I can’t help but agree. She also inspired the name, The Nuance Diaries, and I got to tell her about that, too. I went viral on Substack again, with another essay referencing - but not about - Taylor Swift. I developed a multi-step skin care routine, which I have now fallen off of (but I don’t feel too bad about it because the girls at Sephora are always gagged when I tell them I’m 31.) All the while, I kept the broken mug. To this day, I am still fascinated by it. It feels like a relic from the dark age I’d survived. And yet, when Lunar New Year came around, and I read that broken glass was bad luck, I knew that it was time to part with the broken mug for good. I took a few last pictures - and even traced the handle to make an abstract drawing. I also broke it even more before throwing it out — for catharsis. I couldn’t find my hammer, so I used the handle of a screwdriver 😂 Ironically, as I was finishing this piece, I came across even more broken glass; a container of leftovers slipped out of the refrigerator and onto the floor. The glass shards looked so much like ice, scattered among spaghetti noodles and marinara sauce. I was once again fascinated. I thought about taking a picture of the icy shards in the dustpan. I wondered what symbolism this moment might hold — another sign about the beauty of broken things? Maybe. Probably. Who am I to fight the alchemy? And then I thought, Is there such a thing as too much alchemy? I swept the glass away and threw it out. I used to listen to a song called Broken Glass all the time when I was living in Portland, Oregon. Another wild chapter. A story for another time. The first week or so I was there, I took this very dramatic walk over a highway every day, to get my coffee from a Starbucks inside a huge grocery store. Was there a closer coffee shop? Probably. Could I have found something similar to (or better than) my cinnamon dolce latte? Definitely. But that’s not the choice I made at 22 years old. I was living across the country by myself for the very first time. It somehow felt scarier than being in London by myself. I needed my familiar comforts — like cinnamon dolce lattes. (My therapist also totally validated this for me years later. I had a panic attack after Trader Joe’s was out of my favorite creamer for 3 days. She said it was because one of the few constants in my life was ripped away. Yes, I was going through it.) I feel like the universe sent me all kinds of signs through my favorite songs, inside that grocery store with the Starbucks. Whoever made those weekday morning playlists had excellent taste. But on the way to the grocery store, I was the DJ. And every morning, like clockwork, I played Broken Glass by Rachel Platten. There was something so 90s music video about crossing a highway while blasting the lyrics “I’m on a highway full of red lights.” But I feel it changing. I can taste it, I’m on the wave, I won’t waste it I have been patient, but I’m not waiting anymore I’m gonna dance on broken glass I’m gonna make that ceiling crack So what? still got knives in my back. So what? So I’m tied to the tracks I’m gonna dance on broken glass. Here I go, here I go You know what’s crazy? I have probably listened to that song over 100 times in the last decade, and it has only just now occurred to me that the broken glass is from the glass ceiling she’s going to crash. What other glass would she be referring to, Alexa?? I don’t know!!! I guess I was too stuck on the symbolism of dancing on broken glass to connect it to a literally cracked glass ceiling mentioned one line later. I was an A+ English nerd, but I was also 22. I think the broken mug marked the beginning of my dancing on broken glass era. After the hardest year of my life, I was remarkably broken and yet still intact. Both/and. I have come a damn long way, and I am unbelievably proud of how I carried myself through the last year — the last few years, honestly. And for the first time in maybe 17 months, I have enough white space in my brain and ground beneath my feet to think about what comes next. What do I want? What do I want to happen? Who do I want to be? What I’ve been through is part of my story, but not all of it. I’m ready to add some more notches to my belt, beyond damn tough survivor and broken glass dancer. There’s this invisible step at the end of the list, outside the traditional trajectory of healing. You get through the hard thing. You realize you’re a survivor. You get to breathe again. And then… You let yourself want things again. You do things for fun again. You dream big dreams again. You take risks again. You learn to trust yourself again. I’m doing all of that now. It feels like a reunion with myself. An unapologetic, wilder yet calmer version of myself. I’m not that 22-year-old girl walking across a highway in Northeast Portland. Nor am I the 29-year-old who spent one weekend in San Diego before uprooting her whole life to live by the beach. I’m not the 30-year-old woman who fought tooth and nail for her sanity (and often lost the battle) while making financial sacrifices she never thought she’d have to make. To the shock of the girls at Sephora who tell me I look much younger — I’m 31. And while my past selves will always be with me… It’s time to thank them and sweep up the broken glass they broke through to get me here. Cheers to beginning anew, entering the next chapter of my life, and finding out just how good it can get. Thank you so much for checking out this series! I hope you’ll hit subscribe, stick around, and stay tuned for what’s next. And if you yourself could use some support in figuring out what’s next, I’m always here to chat. SUBSCRIBE | BOOK A SESSION | BUY MY BOOK Here's a testimonial from one of my past clients: Prior to beginning life coaching with Alexa, I had a full-time job in healthcare IT where I experienced a lack of meaning in my interactions with clients. At that point, had been teaching yoga after work for several years, and found myself wanting to pursue it more seriously. This was right as I was beginning to experience a stronger desire to travel, something I had not done much of previously. By the time I completed my coaching with Alexa, we created a clear plan for leaving my IT job, combining yoga teaching and travel for the span of one year through work exchange programs at various resorts, and all the steps in between. As that year of travel has now come to a close, I realize I could not have done it without Alexa’s coaching. The year that we planned together was the best year of my life, and I am so grateful to have had the space to dream and plan it out. -Marc This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
March 23 · 9 min
The horrors persist, and so do the emails.
A week or so ago, a new subscriber told me that the following piece really resonated with them. The sentiment behind that piece has never felt truer, and these reflections came from the same chamber of my heart as that piece did. I saw the Wild Party on Sunday night. It was indeed a wild, wild party. It was so good and so intense. Earlier that day, I watched another intense performance — Hippolytus (in the arms of Aphrodite), an immersive augmented reality theatre experience. I’ve seen countless exceptional performances at CultureHub, where I’m on the board, and this one was no different. On the way home, when my Sunday of theater was over, I speed walked to my subway station in the rain, so I wouldn’t have to wait 15 more minutes for the next one. It was then that I realized how sore my ankles were after 2+ miles of walking all day + jump roping that morning. I got home, had some leftover macaroni and cheese, and fell asleep after watching 3 hours of Golden Girls. But not before reading about the plane that collided with a fire truck at LaGuardia upon landing. You think you’re about to be safe and sound, and then just like that, the ground is ripped out from beneath you. I woke up and stretched a little. I check the news and can’t stop myself from watching the video of a woman being detained by ICE at SFO. I learn that they’re apparently coming to New York, too. I start puttering around my house, washing my face, brushing my teeth, and making coffee. I feel off. I’m judging myself for that feeling of offness. Why do I feel so down, so lethargic? I have got to get it together. I’m reminded of how I kept on working when I heard about the January 6th insurrection. I was in a consultation when it happened. My phone was buzzing uncontrollably when I turned it back on. I turned on the news and watched in horror as I continued to send emails. Here I am, five years later, watching more horrors and sending more emails. I am not hopeless — but I also won’t pretend to have all the answers. What I do know is that I feel better when I feel less alone. Sitting with all of my feelings, and all of these atrocities, I was reminded of something that Andrea Gibson said on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast. “I have spent my entire career encouraging people to have their feelings. Don’t push down your feelings. Open up to them all. That is where, in my experience, like I would have, if I would get depressed, I could, and I know this, and I don’t want to negate the fact of clinical depression and meds, all of that, I’m pro-meds. But I would get more depressed if there was something I wasn’t allowing myself to feel. And I thought, I am allowing myself to have all my feelings. Why aren’t I fucking happy? And I realized that the feeling I was pushing down was joy. That I was afraid of that feeling. And there were a certain number of things that led to that. And some of it was how I was relating to our culture, how I was relating to activism, growing up in activist communities, and thinking that if you weren’t devastated, if you weren’t despairing, if you weren’t enraged, then there was something about you that was heartless. And some people respond to the world in really vibrant ways because they’re furious or because they’re grieving. For me, I am much better, and I have far more to offer the world when I am joyful.” Andrea Gibson I, too, hope to look back at my life and say I spent my entire career encouraging people to have their feelings. I am furious and heartbroken beyond measure for every single individual being affected by this monstrosity of an “administration.” Families crying both inside and outside these detention centers have been senselessly ripped apart. I finally started reading Kamala Harris’ memoir, 107 Days, yesterday at one of my favorite Italian restaurants, between plays. I want to be at an Italian restaurant in Italy. I want Kamala Harris to be the President. I want Donald Trump to go back to being a punchline in sitcoms. Lorelai: It’s the title search for the Rachel property. And guess who owns it! Sookie: Tell me it’s not that bastard Donald Trump. Gilmore Girls, Season 2, Episode 8, 2001. There’s no grand moral here. There never is. Tell someone how you’re feeling today. Share this piece. Leave a ‘like’ or comment for a stranger. Text a friend that you love them, and you’re thinking of them. Do as the incomparable Corinne Bailey Rae says, and ‘put your records on.’ Call your senators, and then order your favorite takeout. And maybe check out this song. It’s quickly become my anthem for these times. It truly feels like Elton and Brandi are singing directly to me every time. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
March 22 · 6 min
How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 3 of 4
Have you listened to Part 1 and Part 2 yet? If not, start there! Broken things have long been romanticized in humanity’s search for renewal and redemption. The Japanese art of kintsugi is probably my favorite example. ""KINSUGI" literary means gold (金 KIN) stitching (つぎ TSUGI) in Japanese. It is a Japanese art form of mending broken porcelain with lacquer (URUSHI), dusted with gold, or silver. The broken object gets revived with gold patches. The broken part is truly accepted and cherished as a history of the object, a form of art, rather than getting disguised with immaculate repairing. With Kintsugi, the broken object gets transformed into a unique piece of art. It becomes more beautiful and more attractive than ever." - Azumi Uchitani Yet broken glass is also sharp. There are big shards that are easier to avoid getting scraped by. And there are also tiny little pieces that remain long after you’ve swept up a broken measuring cup or wine glass. You won’t realize the tiny little shards are there until you step on one a few days later, just when you thought the floor beneath you was clean and clear. Broken things can be beautiful. Perhaps the sharpness and messiness are part of that beauty. But first, there’s shock and blood. The pressing of a towel or paper towel or whatever is nearest, against your gaping new wound. The band-aid is tasked with keeping your flesh together as it heals. I’ve only had stitches once, and the scar is gone. I think the actual experience of riding to the hospital with a wad of paper towels against my hand was scarier than the ordeal of getting the stitches themselves. At least when I got the stitches, I knew that I was being mended. I was literally on my way to healing. And that’s where I found myself at the end of my panic attack, broken mug ordeal. After staring at the broken mug for quite a while, I got a latte from my neighborhood coffee shop and sat on a rock in Central Park. I hadn’t planned to — but I felt compelled to finish that song I started a day ago on the train home from Brooklyn (see pt. 1 if you forgot about that detail!) I do not think I have ever written a song that quickly in my life. It’s called The Waves Are Calling. And it is my *broken hallelujah. *For those unfamiliar with the phrase, it originates from the Leonard Cohen song “Hallelujah.” We sang it in my high school chorus, back when I was a far cry from a broken hallelujah myself. Many, many artists have covered it, using a different selection of verses from the original in their renditions. You might have first heard it in Shrek. I’ve always longed for someone to see me; to examine the mismatched pieces of my soul, hold them up in the light, and sing a broken hallelujah. I now realize that that day I became that person myself. I saw that broken mug, I saw its beauty. And I saw myself in the broken pieces, and realized that my brokenness might be beautiful too. Subscribe so that you don't miss the fourth and final part, where you'll find out what life has been like since the broken glass/ broken hallelujah era began. SUBSCRIBE HERE It’s not a cry that you hear at night It’s not somebody who’s seen the light It’s a cold, and it’s a broken hallelujah -Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
March 18 · 8 min
How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 2 of 4
If you haven’t listened Part 1 yet, go ahead and do that first, HERE. ______________________________ While my memories from the night of the panic attack are sparse, the ones from the following morning are vividly clear. I woke up thinking I had Covid. I felt like I had been hit by a truck ten times over in my sleep. I tried to shake it off and get ready for work, but my body made it very clear that that wasn’t going to happen. Calling in sick felt humiliating and unprofessional (although it is neither of those things, and I would never make anyone else feel that way). But I did it. I relayed detailed notes for an important delivery that afternoon. I profusely apologized. I hung up the phone. Before going back to sleep, I stumbled to the kitchen to grab some water. Why I didn’t go to the bathroom like I often do, I don’t know. That day, my feet carried me to the kitchen. I thought about making coffee and then decided against it. I saw the dishes in my sink and decided to wash some. For what reason, I don’t know. While sorting through the sink to discern which dishes would go in the dishwasher and which would be hand-washed, I came across one of my favorite mugs. And I broke it. I somehow broke my mug while pulling it out of the sink. My perfect, “pretty girl avenue”, gorgeous glass mug with a bronze/gold Barbie dream house on the front, and a pink handle. The mug I drank out of nearly every day from my waterfront patio when I lived in San Diego. Broken. Gone. I love my mugs. They’re the first thing I unpacked in both my New York and San Diego apartments. I dream of displaying them on a big, elaborate shelf one day. I should have been devastated that this mug was broken. But I wasn’t, I was too tired to be devastated. I haphazardly placed the broken pieces of the mug on my counter and went back to bed. I woke up at noon feeling much better, even better than I felt the day before, pre - panic attack. In fact, I felt better than I’d felt in a long time. I felt so good that I now understood just how far down in the trenches I’d been. When I tried my first dose of Lexapro years prior, I remember saying to my psychiatrist, “Wow, I had no idea that everyone wasn’t miserable all the time! I thought everyone woke up feeling horrible and trying to get through the day, and just wanting to die inside all the time, and that no one talked about it. I thought that was normal. This is so great!” 10mg of Lexapro was all it took to realize just how depressed I was. (The psychiatrist upped my dose after that session, and then later added in my best buddy welbutrin. The golden trio was complete. Thank God for medicine.) When we think about feeling ‘better’, we often imagine a certain stillness; waves, sunsets, and the gentle breeze of it all. But sometimes when really good things happen, people get anxious – people like me. I’ll never know exactly what triggered that panic attack, but my working theory is that a lot of good things happened in a relatively short amount of time after a truly shitty year, and my brain couldn’t compute it all. It’s like my whole being literally short-circuited from the radical shift from A Series of Unfortunate Events to “girl who is going to be okay.” So there I am, feeling better, feeling rested. I get out of bed and decide to go for a walk. I walk out of my bedroom and immediately spot the broken mug. And now that I’m feeling better, I have the energy to be sad that it’s broken. I’m about to do what I usually do with broken glass, and put it in a plastic bag with a piece of paper taped on top that says “broken broken broken broken” so that no one gets hurt in my recycling room. But as I go to do that, I’m drawn in by how the mug has broken, and also not broken. It’s far easier to explain through the videos and photos I took that day. CLICK HERE to see! So it was just one layer. I thought it was just a thick piece of glass. But now that it broke, there’s this inner part that’s whole outside of the glass. And now it exists on its own, because it broke away from the outer shell part. How does something break so perfectly? That’s insane to me. It’s all still pretty insane to me. You have to remember that at the time that this is all happening, I don’t have the fifty-foot view. I don’t have the gifts of hindsight and a really wide lens. I’m just a girl marveling at her broken yet beautiful mug. In that moment, I was immediately reminded of the Japanese art of kintsugi, which involves repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer to highlight the cracks instead of hiding them. A week later, when I told my therapist about this whole ordeal, she asked if I had seen K-POP Demon Hunters, the widely acclaimed, academy award winning (!!!!!) animated feature film. I immediately responded, “We broke into a million pieces, and we can’t go back/ But now we’re seeing all the beauty in the broken glass?” She smiled and nodded. Here I was, literally seeing beauty in the broken glass. This precious thing I was trying to hold onto broke in an inexplicably beautiful way. It’s not what I planned. It’s not what I wanted. But here I was with my own tangible proof of the beauty in broken things, right when I needed it most. Right after the most painful chapters of my life so far. Here I was, on my way to my broken hallelujah. Wondering how we’re only halfway through? We’re on the way to the broken hallelujah, but not there just yet. Subscribe so that you don’t miss Part III! How To Connect With Me Book a Coaching Session Read my book The Start of It All Download my workbook, Authentic by Alexa License one of my plays How to Support My Work Become a Paid Subscriber | Leave A Tip This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
March 15 · 9 min
How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 1 of 4
On the eve of the lunar new year, three days before my birthday, I finally threw out the jagged glass pieces of a mug that I had broken six months ago. I never thought it would take me six months to throw out a reminder of one of the worst nights of my life, but here I was. I held it in my hands one last time. I took a few pictures (even though I already had plenty.) I outlined the pink handle and some of the remaining pieces that were still intact with a charcoal pencil on my tracing pad, in case I wanted to create an art project later. (I’ve been super into Oil Pastels lately.) I carefully put the broken pieces in a plastic bag. I broke the mug even further — deliberately this time, for catharsis. And then I let every last piece go. I can tell you why that broken mug was one of my favorites in one sentence — Because it’s perfect. It’s the definition of “pretty girl avenue”: a gorgeous glass mug with a bronze/gold Barbie dream house on the front, and a perfect pink handle. I drank out of it nearly every day from my waterfront patio in San Diego. It also came in a set of two. I still have the other, identical, unbroken mug. So why keep the broken one for six months? Because of how it broke. Here are a few things that happened in the 24 - 48 hours before the broken mug incident. Taylor Swift got engaged, and my corner of the internet exploded. I somehow managed to not to scream at the reception desk I was temping at, when my best friend’s sister texted me the news. It was the biggest explosion of girlhood. My fifteen-year-old self was bursting at the seams. I wrote a spontaneous Substack piece about Taylor’s engagement, which went kind of viral thanks to threads. It was easily my most successful post in over a year. (You can read it here.) I landed on the Substack rising bestseller list. I welcomed many new followers on Threads and Substack. My phone was buzzing nonstop with comments from people resonating with what I wrote + general excitement. I was offered a new temp job that had serious potential to lead to something long-term. It ended up not working out, which is fine because I didn’t really want the actual job— I wanted the consistent income. But the possibility of it at the time was very exciting. (Want to hear something even more exciting? I ended up getting multiple gigs that I liked more, that paid even MORE than the temp gig.) My middle school bestie’s wedding was days away. I was excited, and perhaps a little anxious. I was staying with an incredibly generous friend of hers, whom I had never met before. I knew that I likely wouldn’t know a lot of people there. I also hadn’t been out of New York since last December, after a year of whirlwind travel to and from California. I had a bit of breathing room, financially, after being strapped for almost a year. Most of that money came from selling Hollywood Bowl tickets to see Jesus Christ Superstar. I was absolutely heartbroken, and I knew it was the right call. The tickets sold at the last minute, at a profit. I made my money back and then some. It was the biggest win I’d had in a pretty long time. So, that’s what was happening on the surface. Under the surface, though? The hardest summer of my life was finally coming to an end. The summer I accepted money from a friend to afford my antidepressant medications. The summer I paid for my groceries with $6 worth of quarters, from the AMC Elphaba Popcorn bucket where I stored tips from a toxic service job that I quit in the Spring. The summer I had some of the worst depression I hope I’ll ever have to endure. And after all that, here I was jumping up and down over Taylor Swift’s engagement, with money in my bank account, and tangible success to point to in my writing career when people asked the inevitable “so what do you do?” at the wedding. With all of these good things circling me, I think my nervous system got the memo that I could finally breathe. Enter: Panic Attack. Center Stage. Like always — everything was fine until it wasn’t. I spent the day manning the receptionist desk of a very cool, creative ad agency in Brooklyn, where I had been working for the last two-ish weeks. It was the kind of place where I might have an insanely busy hour or two, but most of the day was pretty chill. It was August in New York City, after all; the entire office was empty half the week. I do remember being pretty overstimulated the afternoon before this panic attack. It was one of those days where everyone seemed to be congregating in the kitchen and its surrounding areas (my ‘deskspace’) nonstop. Think three conversations happening at once, lots of footsteps from the hardwood floor above, the sporadic ding-dong chime of the intercom to alert me of deliveries, and of course — someone telling me that the music in the bathroom was a spidge too loud. Side note — I’ve learned from temping a lot that every office has its thing; that unexplainable thing that no one questions because it’s just part of the culture, even though that ‘thing’ makes no sense to an outsider. Sometimes it’s a very specific ratio of snacks, or the volume of music in the bathroom, or the kind of music in the bathroom, or the way they greet visitors. Other times, it’s the extra set of copies that one particular gift officer needs for the donations she’s processing, even though no one else wants their own personal set of copies. True story. I’m sure this lovely woman had her reasons for having her personal set of copies. She was actually a staff member in an office I worked in for a whole month. I wrote her a thank-you note when I left, because she and her team were so nice to me. I can’t pinpoint overstimulation as the reason for my panic attack, though — as a New Yorker, I’m likely to be overstimulated once a day, even from my own apartment. I remember being tired on the way home from the office. I remember pulling out my phone as the train crossed the water from Brooklyn to Manhattan. I wrote the following lyrics. They kind of came out of thin air. Who I had to be to be with you Is who I am no longer We had some good times, but now it’s time I start running further You and I were standing still The water’s fine and even still The waves are calling, so I won’t be calling you anymore By the time I got home, I was still tired but now also deeply uneasy. All I wanted to do was shower, get horizontal, and watch The Summer I Turned Pretty. I didn’t feel better after my shower, or even after lying down in the dark and listening to ASMR. I somehow felt worse. I didn’t immediately realize I was having a panic attack. As is the case with all of my panic attacks, my first thought was “I’m gonna die.” Not a single thing I did helped. It felt like my apartment had turned into an endlessly rocking ship that I couldn’t steer to shore. I couldn’t get steady no matter what I tried. My legs felt so shaky — my feet in particular. I would’ve sworn that they were vibrating. I sat, paced, and at times even shook. I lay on the floor with my legs against the wall. I took another shower, I think, and drank a lot of water. I couldn’t get myself to eat a full meal. Eventually, I curled up in my weighted blanket and finally, finally fell asleep. I don’t fully remember every detail of that harrowing night, but my memories from the following morning are vividly clear. That’s when the mug broke. Subscribe so that you don’t miss Part II! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
February 18 · 5 min
What in God's (Wild "Wicked" Wanting) Name
Happy Pisces Season. Happy New Year. Happy Ramadan. Happy Lent. Happy Lunar Eclipse. And happy “my birthday is in two days!” I wrote this song (which can also be read as a poem) almost exactly a year ago 2/26/25, around 2 AM. I had just turned 30. Here I am, about to be 31. I could ramble on quite a bit about how much I like this song, and how surprised I was to revisit it after a full year of, quite honestly, forgetting about it. I could talk about how, even though it’s Pisces season, I think my Scorpio moon had her hands in this one quite a bit. But I think right now I just want to share it and leave everything up to interpretation, and go back to what I was originally writing when I unexpectedly came across this forgotten gem. Transcript available here! https://wildcozyfree.substack.com This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
February 13 · 13 min
Life is rarely one thing and neither am I
“Cause not everything means something honey/ so say the unsayable/ say the most human of things.” Transcript at https://thenuancediaries.substack.com This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
February 7 · 6 min
How Light Emerges Even from the Darkest of the Darkness
**Part 2 available at https://thenuancediaries.substack.com - embedded in this post. Hi. I did something I’ve only done twice before. I hit record and start talking. And then I hit publish. You can listen to Part 1 above, and Part 2 below (embedded.) And then you can go listen to this song from a few months back. It’s such a cheesy saying — love and light. But I am genuinely sending you as much love and light as I can humanely muster. Talk soon, Alexa PS If you believe in any kind of higher power, please send out some prayers for my aunt’s health. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
January 30 · 23 min
If ICE takes me
I want to tell you a story. It is 2018, and I am a recent college graduate. I’m 23 years old. My high school best friend and I decide to take a little trip to Montreal. We’ve never been. It seems like a really fun idea. She knows French. It felt like a cool thing to do. And we’re in New York City, so it’s a short flight. We get on the plane early in the morning. It’s a very full flight. Boarding was hectic. I remember it being really hard to get our overhead storage and throw things in. Whatever, it was a short flight. We arrive in Montreal, and it’s still very early. Maybe 8 AM. We get to customs, and we’re about to show our passports to the gate person. And I can’t find mine. I can’t find my passport. And I know I have it, because I wouldn’t have been allowed on the plane without it. They checked our passports coming into the airport in New York, and then again at the gate. I know I have it. I got on the plane with this passport. I know that. But I don’t have it now. I don’t have my passport. I’ll remind you again that it is 2018 and I am an African American woman. Trump had just been elected during the fall semester of my senior year at Vassar, which I wrote about here. It’s 2018, and we are two years into Trump’s first administration and I am an African American woman in a different country than I was born in without my passport. I am losing my shit. I am having what I now know is a panic attack. My friend, thankfully, was able to keep it together and made sure that I had WhatsApp installed on my phone so that we could communicate after she went through customs and I went back to the plane to look for my passport. I don’t even really remember the gate number where we got deplaned, but I’m just sprinting through the airport with my carry-on, and I’m probably crying at this point, too. When I finally find the gate, I’m told that they’ve searched and cleaned the plane. I can’t go look myself. And now I’m really freaking out. I’m walking back when an airport worker comes by with one of those big carts—the ones for luggage or people with disabilities. He offers me a ride back to customs. I’m a sweaty, bawling mess. I keep chanting, “They’re going to deport me. They’re going to deport me. I don’t have a passport—they’re going to deport me.” This very kind Canadian airport worker asks, “Where are you from?” “New York.”“So, why would we deport you? Where would we deport you?” “Africa, obviously.“Huh??” He tells me his daughter lives in New York. He’s trying to distract me because I’m hysterical, and he’s doing his best to just be this gentle, lovely Canadian man. It works, but only a little bit. When I get back to customs, my friend is waiting for me. I’m given a slip of paper and sent to the customs office to sort things out. At the office, they ask me questions. Everything is above board, all in public—I’m not taken into any backrooms, thankfully. I’m sent to the help desk to see if my passport has turned up. We haven’t even gotten our luggage yet—we’re just running around looking for my passport. And do you know what the guy at the desk says, when I give him my name? “Oh, there you are! Yeah, we found it. We tried to call you. You didn’t answer. Here it is.” They’d found it while cleaning the plane and had been calling me ever since. But I hadn’t answered because I was running around convinced I was about to be deported. It was the best moment of my life. In the same breath, the guy says, “The baggage is still coming out. They might have lost some of the bags.” I couldn’t have cared less about my bags. They could’ve thrown my bags in the ocean for all I care. The trip was lovely. It was also freezing. But lovely. And on the flight back to New York a couple of days later, I practically caressed my passport the entire time. I used to joke that the moral of this story is: if you’re going to lose your passport, do it in Canada because they’re very nice. And yet now on January 98th, 2026, I’m just as afraid of being kidnapped and sent away to God knows where when I’m taking the subway, in the city where I was born. I woke up to a text from a friend that essentially said “If you don’t want to see the shit storm going on, don’t check social media.” And I was like, yeah, no shit. So I checked. Don Lemon has been arrested, along with Trahern Jeen Crews, Georgia Fort, and Jamael Lydell Lundy. That hit really hard. I’m afraid for all of them. I’m afraid for Don, as a Black gay man. I’m scared for all of the journalists, out there. I’m scared for Liam Ramos. I’m scared for the families who have watched their loved ones be killed. And. I’m finally afraid for myself. I feel relatively safe in the confines of my neighborhood. I lull myself to sleep with the false promise of safety that a double-locked door, a doorman, and an elite zip code provide. I try not to think about what would happen if I got kidnapped while babysitting. But I do. I think about whether or not the child in my care would understand the gravity of the situation. I wonder if I’d convince him to run, or just pick him up. I mostly fear what would happen if ICE took me, and left him alone on the streets of New York, or even in the subway. A child with no wallet, no phone, who has just watched his babysitter get kidnapped, would be tasked with finding his own way home. As chilling as this scenario is, it’s far better than the one where they keep us together, and take us both. I have hope that a kind stranger would help him find his way home. I trust strangers far more than the monsters pretending that they’re protecting us, aka ICE. I think about what kind of facility I’d be taken to. I wonder how long I could survive without food and water, instead of forcing myself to eat food with worms and all other kinds of debris in it. I wonder if I would be able to interact with the children separated from their parents, and cuddle them close. I wonder if my kidnapping would cause public outcry. I wonder how long it would take for people to know that I was gone. I wonder if I’d be released before my 31st birthday. I wonder if they have calendars in those detention centers. I wonder if I’d be physically and sexually abused, or if the guards would just stick to verbal, emotional, and racial abuse. I wonder how many times I’d be called the n word before lunch. Maybe I’d die of frostbite, laying on a cold, damp floor somewhere. Maybe I’d stain myself with my menstrual blood, and be told to take a Tylenol. Maybe I’d dissociate and drift off somewhere far away to ease the pain. Maybe I’d replay Heated Rivalry on loop in my head. And hum ‘No Place Like Home’ and the soundtrack of Ragtime. Would my ancestors be with me? Would they come to me in some way, to help me through? If I’m kidnapped wearing the beaded bracelet made to remember my Aunt Eileen by, would they let me keep it? Or take it, like they took Liam Ramos’ bunny hat? Would they rip the beads off my wrist, just for fun? And laugh as I cried? I wear one that says “worthy.” I think about getting that word tattooed on my risk one day, to remind myself of my worth. Will I forget my worth, in the company of people who think of me as 3/5 of a human being? The same “men” who parade around kidnapping people, were probably inspired by the texts sent to black women in the days after the 2024 election, stating that we’d been selected for cotton picking shifts. I watched The Handmaid’s Tale for a week after the 2024 election. I told myself I was preparing myself for what was to come. Wasn’t I? I recently saw a quote that said something like “the worst kind of slavery is…” and the answer was something like the prison of your mind or something. And I thought to myself, well isn’t the worst kind of slavery, slavery? Plantations. Concentration Camps. Detention Centers. ICE officers are rounding up anyone and everyone, like slave catchers in Africa. I never watched the movie “12 years a slave” but I saw many clips. I did read all of the Addy books, during my American girl doll obsession as a child. In the first few chapters, Addy is beside herself when her mother tells her that they’ll be leaving her little sister Esther behind because it wouldn’t be possible to escape with a baby. They weren’t reunited with her until six books later. Addy’s brother and father also found the family — a “happy” ending, and somewhat of a fairytale. I’m watching my friends, people, and really the world—move around. We’re in this state of collective shock and terror. And I’m thinking, aren’t you so scared? I think we are. I know I am. I couldn’t find the energy to wash my hair today, so I decided to do my laundry and wash my dishes instead. I’m excited to see my hair braider next week. But if she called me and said she wasn’t feeling safe coming in or being in public, I would understand that too. I want to go to yoga class and be scared and still have joy. I want to not be afraid to take the subway. I want to go to a theater and support my friends. I want to call my reps and then go get groceries for chili. I want to not open the news. I want to have five seconds of peace before I wake up and before I go to bed—scrolling and watching videos of ICE brutality. I want to take care of my mental health without feeling like I’m betraying other people. Because if I were in custody, I would want people doing everything they could to get me out. But I would also want them to have their sanity. And I also want to have my sanity. I know I can’t be of use to anyone if I’m not taking care of myself too. And if I sit here and don’t eat, or do my laundry, or wash my hair, then I can’t keep fighting and calling my reps and showing up. It’s really scary to admit all of this. But I have to. For me, and for you. I always say—and I will say it until my dying day, chilling as it is to say that right now—if anything I put into the world gives one person a moment of “wow, me too,” (which I know my work has) then I’m good. I’ve done that. I’m deeply grateful for that. So for anyone reading this who is scared, who hasn’t been able to name that fear, who is waking up every day thinking, What are we doing? How am I doing this? How am I just living through this? This is for you. I’m right here with you. Every second of every day, I’m right here with you. Friends of Don Lemon were on his Instagram, talking about what’s going on and keeping people informed, and someone said something like: the road to freedom can be slow, but it continues. That’s horribly paraphrased. But I do believe this will not be what life is like for the rest of our lives. I believe my children and my grandchildren will one day look at me and say, wow, you lived through that—the same way I look at people older than me now. I wish it stopped there, and that I wouldn’t be one of the people telling those stories to my grandchildren, but alas. I think it’s helpful to imagine a time when it won’t be like this. And also to do everything we can. And also to keep breathing, taking care of ourselves, drinking the coffee, washing the laundry, laughing, and holding onto our sanity as part of that work. We are all doing the best we can. I was really terrified late the other night, and I went into Sephora to get a hair mask. (I use Tracee Ellis Ross, Patten products—they’re amazing.) There was a Black women working, and we were looking at serums, and at some point I mentioned my age. She goes, “I thought you were like 21,” and I was like, oh my God, I love you, thank you.” We had this moment of exchanging eye creams and talking, and it was really beautiful and really sweet. I just hope we can keep showing up for each other in the fullness of who we are. Call your reps. Cry it out. Tell your friends you’re scared. Tell me if you want—email me. I’m here for you. My inbox is open. Support people you love. Support small businesses. And fuck ICE. And I love you all so much. Thank you for holding space for all of this today. I really hope that the mission of this rings true—that my vulnerability has been a permission slip for yours. There is no blueprint. There is no map. There is no guide for surviving fascism in 2026. We are still in the first month of this godforsaken year. And if you’re listening to this, you are here. And you are doing your best. I hope we all keep doing that all the way home. I’m going to take my coffee, get my clothes from the dryer, maybe call my reps, check in on what’s going on—and also take a screen break, because God, I’m rambling. Before I go: shoutout to Brittany Packnett Cunningham, who I love. She did an episode with Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach on We Can Do Hard Things—about what’s going on in Minnesota and with ICE more broadly. I haven’t listened yet, but I know it’s an amazing conversation. Brittany is someone I always look to for the pulse of what’s happening and for actionable things I can do. And thank you to Glennon for using her platform to uplift the helpers and fighters. That’s it. I’m signing off. I love you all so much. Please take care of yourselves. Protect your people. And protecting your people includes yourself, right? We can’t want peace and safety for everyone if it doesn’t include us. I want it for you.I want it for me For all of us. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
January 22 · 5 min
I have something completely new to share
I’m so ‘scited*. I’m ‘scited to share this new thing I made. *Scared and excited, as Glennon Doyle would say. More excited than scared, though. When I thought about posting on Instagram, threads, and even TikTok, I felt more scared than excited. And so, I’ve decided to share this with you, and only you, first. What is this? What’s she sharing? Cards. Custom, handcrafted cards. Created by me, with new oil pastels, and an old Emily Brontë quote (Head to substack to see them!) At first, I thought that this new/old passion would be just for me. It was both fun and necessary to rediscover my love of creating visual art, alone at my kitchen table (which is now smudged with new vibrant colors daily). As my new pieces quickly accumulated (and the space on my refrigerator dwindled), I started to think about what kind of art I could make and easily share with my friends. And then I thought — what if I tried designing cards that I could send people? I love shopping for unique, thoughtful cards. What if I looked up some quotes to integrate into these cards? A little context behind this design choice. While many people enjoy sketching with a pencil first and then filling in their drawings with the colorful oil pastels, I’m mostly intrigued by how to blend the colors and create rich, complex, layered, textured backgrounds. It’s never just blue, but blueish green purple. Not just purple, but purplish turquoise, midnight blue. I love the endless ways the colors dance together. I love finding out what happens when you add just a touch of pink or a hint of light blue. Or what it looks (and feels) like to blend diagonally, then horizontally. I like experimenting with how hard or light to press into the page. I love holding something in my hands that I’ve created from scratch. It’s a different kind of feeling than that of finishing a piece of writing I’m proud of. It’s tactile, visual, and visceral. There’s much to discover here. And much to share. I’m making 17 of these cards, and I’d love to send you some. Share them with a loved one — platonic, romantic, or familial. Keep it for yourself. Send it to the English teacher who introduced you to Wuthering Heights (shoutout to Ms. Fischer!) If you’re interested - email me at alexajordancoaching@gmail.com with the subject “[Your Name] Card Order” and please include… * The pronoun you would like used - his, hers, or theirs (see video for reference!) * Your mailing address * A screenshot of your Venmo/Zelle payment ($17.77) AlexaJJ on Venmo + 917-626-1331 for Zelle. From there, I’ll confirm that your card is reserved and follow up with the shipping cost once I’ve mailed your package! *You can also DM me at @ alexajuanitajordan on Instagram, threads or tiktok but that’s more for people who follow me on those platforms, who will eventually see this announcement there! Once these 17 cards are gone, they’re gone. I might create a waitlist if there’s enough interest, or I might move onto a new quote - we’ll see! There’s truly no big master plan here. Just a girl and her oil pastels. Love you guys. More soon, Alexa This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe
January 15 · 3 min
what if the wind was a knife?
What if the wind was a knife? Swooshing around Slicing invisible cuts Inside you, right through you Everyday What appears to be a breeze to everyone else is lethal for you Thousands of invisible cuts Countless invisible cuts No one can understand They ask, “What’s the matter?” Because they can’t see you bleeding That same wind that circles you like a hitman Transforms into a calming breeze in others’ presence It’s like waking up to the barrel of a gun With heavy invisible bullets that never leave a mark Not even a scratch of proof of their crimes Sometimes the wind is strong And sometimes it’s barely there When it’s gone for a while It hits you with even more brute force when it returns It knocks you off your feet You’re always bracing yourself For the next gust It feels inevitable And unstoppable Like you’re incapable Like even the strongest walls can’t keep you from this wind This is emotional abuse The wind and me This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe

Showing 1–20 of 20 episodes