Category Opinion

Nobody remains unaffected by mental health struggles. Yet, when you or a loved one experiences it, it might frequently seem like you’re isolated in obscurity, seeking a glimmer of hope. To honor World Mental Health Day, we are curating a collection of narratives, starting now and continuing through the weekend, that delve into this subject from a personal viewpoint. We aspire for these essays to provide an understanding into the various manners people contend with such issues, and how they can emerge with poise and dignity.

During my six-week pregnancy, I went on a hike with an acquaintance. Midway up the hill, I halted to catch my breath. I knew what I wanted to communicate but felt difficulty articulating it. A heavy knot of apprehension formed in my stomach.

“I have some news,” I mentioned to her. “I’m pregnant.”

My friend was overjoyed. She began leaping and yelling in glee. I forced a smile but as she hugged me, my expression faltered. My lips felt as heavy as if they were 50 pounds. I forgot the proper way to smile. I prolonged the embrace longer so she wouldn’t notice my face and inquire about my distress.

But, what was the issue? I was wed, had a satisfying profession, was in good health, and now would become a mother. I ought to have been exhilarated about being pregnant; I had long desired a child. Why did I feel dreadful?

Prenatal depression overcame me swiftly. One night I retired feeling eager for a baby. The following morning, I awoke no longer wanting a child. A gloomy cloud of anxiety overshadowed me. It seemed like I had just received distressing news.

In that initial week, I rescinded plans and spent afternoons curled on the sofa. Then, I ceased responding to emails and checking my phone. I persuaded myself that I was just fatigued or feeling nauseous. While driving home one day on the highway, my eyes lingered on the concrete barrier. Would it truly be terrible, I pondered, if I just drove into it? At least then, I wouldn’t have to endure these feelings anymore. In that instant, the notion of never awakening again seemed like relief.

In terms of captivating sagas, Greek mythology pales in comparison to the legendary narrative of Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck, who eventually proceeded with divorce in August following a cancelled engagement, numerous years of friendship, a resurgence, a second proposal, a Vegas ceremony, and subsequently a grander celebration in Georgia. (If you were curious: indeed, I could recount all of that from memory.) Presently, Lopez has spoken for the first time about the implications of her second breakup with Affleck, sharing with comedian Nikki Glaser in Interview magazine: “Being in a partnership doesn’t define me. I can’t seek happiness through others. I must find contentment within myself. I used to claim I’m a happy individual but was still searching for something for someone else to complete, and it’s just like, ‘No, I’m actually fine.’” Later, when Glaser inquired if Lopez had established a “new benchmark for the next person that comes along,” Lopez responded, “Here’s the thing: There isn’t a new standard because I am not seeking anyone.”

Lopez also alluded to her remarkable, white-pants-and-bicycle-ride-rich Nancy Meyers girl summer in the Hamptons during the discussion, stating: “This summer, I had to assert, ‘I need time to be on my own. I wish to demonstrate to myself that I can achieve that.’” Although valuable, Lopez conceded that the experience was also “fucking hard.” (Truly relatable, Jen; even if you’re genuinely and sincerely savoring solitude, it’s entirely usual to sometimes succumb to tears when the smoke detector is beeping, and you have no clue how to silence it.)

While Affleck has been occupied altering his beard color and trying out faux hawks (no judgment: post-breakup transformations—breakovers?—are quite genuine, irrespective of gender), it’s reassuring to learn that the newly separated celebs remain amicable enough to spend time with each other’s children and former partners on occasion. Not to show partiality (I cherish all my parasocial celebrity interactions equally!), but I absolutely appreciate hearing that Lopez is on the path to healing and embracing her solitude to some extent. After all, how will Ben and Jen ever arrive at Engagement #3 if they don’t dedicate some time apart to rediscover themselves?

Wicked craze has undeniably taken over, and evading incessant pop-culture nods to the Land of Oz, Elphaba, Galinda, and the outstanding Bowen Yang in what might be the campiest side character ever is getting increasingly tough. (To be clear: This is meant as high praise.) Although the cinematic experience itself stands as the apex of the Wicked phenomenon, there’s also ample amusement engaging with the online discussions; below, explore a collection of our top Wicked memes.

Embracing ‘Defying Gravity’

This specific meme derives from a discussion featuring Wicked stars Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo with Out journalist Tracy E. Gilchrist, who remarked to Erivo: “Recently, people seem to be engaging with the lyrics of ‘Defying Gravity’ and capturing strength from it.” Is this a bizarre way to explain…people tuning into a song? Absolutely. Will I be parrotinng “capturing strength from it” all through the festive season? Naturally. I am part of queer media, after all!

Gaylinda

I would gladly view a two-hour collection of Nicole Kidman disposing of waste, so perhaps I’m not the ideal judge of whether her forthcoming movie Babygirl—an A24 creation also featuring Harris Dickinson and Antonio Banderas—truly appears promising or merely has enough allure to entice the Carol-enamored audience flocking to cinemas on Christmas Day. (For what it’s worth, its critiques from Venice were fairly positive!) One element is certain, though: Babygirl is already generating conversation.

Watch the initial full Babygirl preview for yourself, then explore (literally) all my reflections about it below.

1. At last, a wig worthy of Nicole Kidman!
2. Hold on, is that actually a wig? Is that her authentic hair? Will wonders never cease?
3. I’m opting to think the dog being referred to as a good girl is indeed Amy Adams in Nightbitch.
4. Ooh, a Christmas-themed A24 emblem!
5. Do they manufacture ornaments?
6. All right, I was teasing, but it seems they do.
7. It seems botox needles are the trendiest accessory in cinema right now.
8. This entire busy, successful working-mom scenario is a frequent Kidman motif, yet that doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled to observe her embrace it once more.
9. This time with a spicy-intern mystery, evidently!
10. “I think you like to be told what to do.” Wow!
11. Is this yet another May-December narrative?
12. This tracking shot of what I presume is a luxurious New York residence is reminiscent of one of my all-time favorite film sequences: the segment where they burglarize Audrina’s home in The Bling Ring.
13. Is this not also somewhat just…Fair Play, merely less corporate?
14. Milk!
15. Okay, I don’t dislike Harris Dickinson in a Connell–from–Normal People chain.
16. Pool games? All right, that’s the type of steamy affair I can support.
17. Hey, Antonio Banderas!
18. I’ve long maintained we require more sensual Christmas films, so I’m going to be beyond eager for this one.

On Wednesday morning, as soon as I awoke, the foremost thought that invaded my mind was: “Today, I ought to try on wedding gowns, yet I am unsure about my legal ability to marry next year.” A sense of constriction gripped my chest, and tears threatened as I wrestled with the reality of my existence as a gay, engaged woman in Trump’s America.

I have consistently been a practical optimist—grounded enough to put in the effort, yet always maintaining faith that it might create an impact. The weekend before the elections, I dedicated my time to canvassing in Pennsylvania and dialing calls to Wisconsin, where interactions with voters in battleground states, supportive of Harris, left me inspired. It seemed women were turning out in great numbers, asserting their votes for her, with some lifelong Republicans opting to break party lines. Despite encountering a few fervent, flag-brandishing MAGA enthusiasts cruising around our canvassing base in pickup trucks, they merely seemed eager to exaggerate their presence beyond reality.

As of today, my greatest fear is the inability to clearly visualize my future. Might a composed Supreme Court dismantle my right to wed? Would I ever have the opportunity to raise children with my fiancée via IUI or IVF? Is the prospect of adopting a child out of reach? If we indeed have a child, could both of us claim legal parenthood? If we travel across state borders, would our marriage go unrecognized? Would I face restrictions visiting my future wife in the hospital during illness or injury? Will my homeland see my family as legitimate?

My betrothed, Liv, and I had our nuptials slated in our Brooklyn community for November 2025. As someone with years of expertise as a weddings writer and editor for events, it has been remarkably exhilarating to finally devise plans for my own festivity. However, when Wednesday dawned, my initial action was to turn to Liv and propose we legally wed at City Hall soon. I had anticipated her opposition or to be told it was a knee-jerk reaction, but she concurred it might not be a poor decision. Our parents also supported this in our group chat. Although the future remained uncertain, we believed that formalizing our marriage now would make it tougher to annul later. Moreover, if relocating to another nation became necessary, navigating immigration together might be smoother. I wasn’t isolated in this thinking. After briefly checking in with another queer, engaged colleague in the wedding sector, Jove Meyer, he revealed he had mirrored the exact dialogue with his fiancé that morning. Clearly, the urgency was audibly resonant for everyone.

It was the most memorable critical reversal I have encountered recently. Mike Hale, a television critic at The New York Times (whose preferences I greatly respect), initially criticized Special Ops: Lioness upon its premiere in July 2023. He wasn’t the only one. Critics were harsh on this counterterrorism action program on Paramount+. The series features Zoe Saldaña as a CIA agent named Joe, who mentors female assassins—including a formidable marine named Cruz, portrayed impressively by the relatively lesser-known Laysla De Oliveira.

Lioness was an apparent target. Its originator and author, Taylor Sheridan, is the mastermind behind Yellowstone, a dominating Western on television, along with several other shows that serve as nostalgic military-focused entertainments (such as Mayor of Kingstown, 1883, 1923, and Lawmen: Bass Reeves). Lioness echoed typical Sheridan elements. Robust armed men, intense firefights, and serious debriefings. The number of women in Lioness might have been noteworthy—but so too was the danger they encountered and the violent fatalities they were subjected to. Critics like Hale were provided with only one episode beforehand—and it happened to be a harsh one. The evaluations, including Hale’s, carried a hint of disdain. Sheridan’s inaugural female-focused series appeared somewhat… exploitative?

La primera vez que podría haber votado, no lo hice. Tenía 18 años en 2004. Era un novato. No miraba las noticias. Probablemente estaba en una fiesta o viendo un pretencioso VHS o besando a alguien con zapatillas Vans. Era difícil percibir la elección—entre un hombre blanco de traje que había iniciado una guerra interminable y otro hombre blanco de traje cuyas políticas parecían solo un poco menos problemáticas—como algo personal. No podría haber estado más equivocado.

Todos poseemos el tema que nos lleva a actuar, ese que nos afecta lo suficiente como para inspirarnos a participar políticamente. Para algunos, es el cambio climático destruyendo sus hogares; para otros, su experiencia con los préstamos estudiantiles. Para mí, fue cuando mi cuerpo empezó a fallarme, un desarrollo que finalmente me permitió entender cuán interconectada está cada crisis que enfrenta nuestra nación. Nuestro sistema de salud es el lugar donde se encuentran todos los tipos de injusticia. Pero, como muchas cosas en la vida, tuve que verlo para creerlo, para comprender lo que las feministas de la segunda ola querían decir al gritar: “Lo personal es político”.

No es un secreto que he sido un viajero cansado a través del complicado mundo médico-industrial. He escrito extensamente para esta revista sobre mi historia con la endometriosis y el dolor crónico, las vueltas sin fin que di solo para obtener respuestas, las visitas a la sala de emergencias por todo el país cuando los síntomas estaban fuera de control (a menudo he bromeado que podría escribir un libro titulado Un Médico en Cada Puerto), y la histerectomía radical que finalmente fue necesaria. Lo que he escrito menos es sobre los hombres—tantos hombres—que conocí en ese recorrido. (Aunque aproximadamente el 85% de los ginecólogos en ejercicio son mujeres, el 62% de los médicos en ejercicio son hombres, y representan alrededor de dos tercios del campo médico de emergencia.) Algunos eran doctores establecidos, otros eran internos, algunos anestesiólogos. Había quienes me enviaron a casa sangrando demasiado, explicándome mi periodo como si estuviera en una clase de salud de quinto grado. Había quienes me miraban con escepticismo cuando calificaba mis calambres como un 10 en la escala del dolor. Había quienes con descuido metían la mano dentro de mí como si yo fuera un coche con un motor averiado y no una mujer humana sufriendo ante la intrusión descuidada.

Después de mi primera cirugía para la endometriosis, me ubicaron en el departamento de urología de un prestigiado hospital de Nueva York. Las habitaciones eran mucho más agradables, explicó mi doctor (fuera de la red, cabe mencionar, y encontrado después de buscar por todos lados y por fin consultar con la Endometriosis Foundation of America). Un hombre adinerado con cáncer de próstata hizo una generosa donación que permitía la presencia de paneles de madera y televisores de pantalla plana en lugar de las paredes amarillentas y descascaradas y los televisores diminutos con tres canales en obstetricia y ginecología. Me dijeron que debía caminar todos los días después de la cirugía, ocho veces por el pasillo. Llevaba mi bolsa de IV al lado de hombres llamados Frank y Bob, quienes hablaban tranquilamente sobre deportes mientras las enfermeras los guiaban. Pensé en las mujeres de arriba, esperando a que les cambiasen la cuña, preguntándose quién se había olvidado de ellas. Pensé en las mujeres en hospitales estatales y prisiones que verían la descuidada ala de obstetricia como un increíble ascenso. Pensé en las mujeres esperando fuera de las salas de emergencia de todo el país, demasiado asustadas para ingresar y enfrentar el costo. Pensé en las mujeres que ni siquiera considerarían aparcar fuera.

In spite of the ruthless elimination of a father of two in Manhattan, it has been an unexpectedly and intensely sensual few days on the feeds. To recap: The previous week, UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson was shot outside the Hilton hotel in Midtown. Bullet shells left behind inscribed with deny, defend, and depose allude to the strategies insurers employ to avoid paying claims. Following a five-day hunt around the tristate region (alongside at least one misguided lookalike contest), the accused shooter, young Luigi Mangione at age 26, was found dining at an Altoona McDonald’s, with the online community immediately diving into backstory investigation, eyebrow analysis, and unabashed excitement.

I’m quite certain none of us support assassination. Let me clarify in writing, for while perusing the proclamations of mug-shot attraction, one might be misled into thinking public murder pales in comparison to a prominent jawline. Yet numerous elements intersect in this narrative—a deadly shooting, the flawed health care system, the radical awakening of a privileged young individual, the internet in investigation mode, and sheer physical allure—making it challenging to completely untangle the threads.

An Ivy League alumnus, Mangione’s manifesto, discovered on him at the fast-food eatery, empathetically criticizes the oversized and avaricious nature of the American health care apparatus. (It is reported he lost family members to illness in recent times, with speculation on the ongoing impacts of previous lower-back surgery.) His (self-imposed) mission seemingly was to seek justice for the countless disillusioned Americans suffering under soaring medical costs. Well before Mangione’s identity was revealed, the news of Thompson’s demise spread online with a flood of mocking laughter emojis. (I ponder if these individuals perceive the demise of a leader as a sign of the system’s eventual collapse?) Yet broadly, people related to Mangione’s viewpoint…coinciding with the moment they realized his attractiveness.

Thus arose the well-known hot-felon storyline—Mangione as a desirable vigilante, an ultimate ideologue—alongside tweets so explicitly lustful they’re unrepeatable. The timeline dramatically shifted from Wicked to Luigi. His Italian heritage. His charisma. Is he straight? Is he bisexual? Does he qualify as an incel? Has Ryan Murphy acquired the story rights? Are tables turning for Dave Franco? Mangione’s visuals dominated. Without a shirt and appearing blue. Clad in a tank top and enjoying a Happy Meal. Dressed in an orange prison uniform and appearing contemplative. I’ve witnessed his profile view as police escorted him to court. I’ve seen his valedictorian speech. For some inexplicable reason, I’m aware he awarded The Lorax five stars on Goodreads.