Looking Forward, Looking Back
Welcome Back to the Comfort Zone
This week we revisit the Comfort Zone along with a lightning round-up of the inevitable speculation of celebrity triviality that we can’t get away from— or enough of, seemingly. Get into it below.
In her song First Love/Late Spring, Mitski laments, “And I was so young when I behaved twenty-five. Yet now, I find I’ve grown into a tall child.” I may no longer be twenty-five, but I often feel more kid-like than an adult. The potent mixture of nostalgia with perspective can be a combination that no one asked for, especially since I quit drinking a few years back— and often, I found that it can lead us to either regress, stand still, or push forward. Sometimes it can be all three at once; that’s when I’ve annoyingly found it can also be a healthy ass-kick to steer back in a slightly better direction by knowing more than before. This is why this potent nostalgia-laced cocktail with perspective is a healthy nuisance that keeps popping in and out of my life.
Like many others, 2022 was an ongoing and endless emotional uphill battle with plenty of tears, heartache, and loss. Conversely, joy, laughter, and moments of escapism felt like slivers of tangible bliss during some of those hard times. Lately, I’ve been doing much reflecting on past love and family, as one does during the holidays— not to mention the first anniversary of my brother-in-law’s suicide—and I haven’t been able to concentrate, much less make cohesive sentences, even thoughts.
Despite knowing that wallowing and commiserating is a waste of time that drains energy, everything else becomes hazy when we’re in the thick of it. It’s almost embarrassing how I used to spiral in such dramatic waves of sorrow before experiencing such heavy grief like two 12-year friendship breakups and multiple family deaths. Those little spiraling moments that once felt like crashing waves seemed entirely tidal-like until being caught up in real emotions that I felt like drowning, now I can assess and truly get to the root of my emotions. Deciphering did not come easy; therapy and grief counseling helped clear the cognitive aftermath of my inner chaos since I grew up in a strict conservative religious household where emotions weren’t regulated, and emotional immaturity reigned supreme. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a fucked up human and proudly my mother’s hija, so dramatics are ingrained in me but on a vastly different scale now. I’m also a Cancerian whose emotions tend to oscillate with the moon cycles— thus, reminiscing and time-traveling are essential to Youthquake.
Writing and transparency help alleviate my nebulous mind from overthinking and overanalyzing by sinking into itself like a collapsing star as obsessive and single-minded as I can be— as featured in The Vulnerable Hours. Reminding myself that all natural processes are spontaneous and irreversible— yet reversible with the help of external forces. Things are always moving forward, whether emotionally or perpetually stuck in motion. Incorporating meditation helped in remembering this and that the pain is rightly felt; it’s also temporary despite healing being expected to be swift, linear, or a rising graph— it’s more like scribbles and endless loops. I’ve found that being a kid at heart and keeping that curiosity and child-like wonder helps cushion the blows of our calloused adult selves into life’s deserving softness and joy— which, if I’m being honest, is still a strange and new concept for me.
Embracing softness after an endless cycle of fight or flight has been quite interesting as it’s been the only thing I’d known, even a year in. Learning and incorporating this had almost unlocked possibilities that I hadn’t considered. Releasing my generational anger and childhood trauma wasn’t easy; I still have my regressive days, but just like when my grief hits me out of nowhere— I remind myself of my progress and of the better times vs. festering in the toxicity and rising anxiety which added to my spiraling depression that enslaved me. After dealing with so much emotional turmoil and continuing in auto-pilot survival mode, remembering who we are and what we’ve overcome needs to be repeated, and often. Liberate the idea that pain is a discomfort to be avoided. Our pain holds all the answers we’ve been seeking— it’s our greatest ally. We’re sometimes stronger than we give ourselves credit for, and that’s been the “secret” that’s helped me propel toward a better— dare I say, more hopeful optimist than the cynic I was becoming. Also, classical music.
Time can be fickle, and some things don’t last as expected. Yet it doesn’t mean there weren’t palpable moments of magic or even sweetness in the events of closure or endings. I now hold these times as treasured gold— or even at sacred levels for the time spent together. Forever isn’t guaranteed, so it shouldn’t diminish the beauty of what was or even is. As I let go of one of the worst years of my life, reflecting on memories, even photos, helped me realize that alongside such grief and mental acrobatics and anguish— there was also plenty of love and moments of joy with some incredible people on and offline. Those special people who listened without judgment, helped without conditions, understood with caring, and supported me no matter what helped me come back to life. Without Youthquake, I don’t know if I would still be writing. Thankfully, the past’s trials and tribulations should remain behind, taking only the things we rightfully deserve toward silkier times.
✨ Welcome Back to the Comfort Zone
Personally, classic films are like comfort food when I need it most. Even though it wasn’t easy to pick only two Audrey Hepburn films, I managed somehow. Despite the divinity of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Charade has my heart as Givenchy had Audrey’s, so as we previously stated, comfort is key with our at-home film fest. Although I’m a big believer in attending the cinema for the magic, this fest is for the days when you prefer to hibernate a bit before making a fashionable re-entrance into society. Below are some favorites.
All About Eve (1950)
Roman Holiday (1953)
The Apartment (1960)
Moonstruck (1987)
Cooley High (1975)
Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989)
Dazed and Confused (1993)
The Birdcage (1996)
Cruel Intentions (1999)
Something’s Gotta Give (2003)
Before Sunset (2004)
When Harry Met Sally (1989)
It Happened One Night (1934)
Charade (1963)
Psycho (1960)
Laura (1944)
🧊 Pop Culture Round-Up
Here’s a pop culture round-up with a side of candid takes during these sociopolitical times and why we can’t get enough— only without celebrity worship.
I’ll give you Allison Williams over Hailey Bieber’s t-shirt attempt to own it— I admire her hustle to make a name for herself, but why does she always fall short of captivating? She has more personality than her fellow nepo baby bestie,
KendullKendall Jenner. Still, I’m sure everyone was dying to know the least memorable Baldwin— Stephen Baldwin’s daughter’s thoughts were on the conversation.
Speaking of nepo babies and falling short, you’d think Brooklyn Beckham would have it made with Victoria and David as parents. Whether it’s design, modeling, acting, or photography— complete with a book by Rizzoli— he’s truly finding his niche as a modern renaissance man. Except those were Brooklyn’s hobbies, his true calling is being a McLaren P1-driving chef.
Besties, shield your eyes from this Sunday Roast from the pop culture royalty offspring— no disrespect to Victoria ‘Posh’ Beckham, as she’s my cold, distant but eternally fabulous English White mother. However, are we to believe he knows what he’s doing? Julia Child or Thomas Keller, he is not. Maybe he should stick to his side gig as Wife Guy to his newly married (and fellow nepo baby) bride, actress, and billionaire heiress Nicola Peltz— who you may recall in Transformers (not the Shia LaBeouf ones), and Bates Motel. Doing the PR most as tensions seem detectable between old school, Queen Mother Victoria and her footy legend husband David vs. the next-gen Beckhams reimaging themselves as ‘Mr. & Mrs. Peltz Beckham’. All parties insist nothing is wrong— the British way, which brings us back and mirrors the dish Brooklyn concocts. The obscene amount of butter would make even the disgraced Paula Deen think twice. Victoria defends her son and says her son’s roast is rare, but all I see is oil and beige. The Yorkshire puddings seem the safest bet.
Outraged Celine Dion fans stormed the Rolling Stone offices in New York on January 6th, oh the coincidence, to protest the lack of featuring the legend on their
click-baitlist.
Beloveds and besties,
I’ve been happily minimizing my film list recently by watching M3gan, Guillermo del Toro’s Pinnochio, White Noise, Aftersun, Glass Onion, Babylon, Nanny, Emma, and The Banshees of Inisherin (recommended by devoted reader Levi). I’ve also been recommended to hate-watch Emily in Paris, which I haven’t seen since season one— it seems like a lifetime ago. Grief-wise, Fleishman Is in Trouble has been a turbulent watch, but I couldn’t turn away. The series has been a real hidden gem that deals with aging adults struggling with deeply rooted human emotions from their fucked up choices— casting former teen stars Claire Danes, Lizzy Caplan, Jesse Eisenberg, and Adam Brody is even more brilliant with captivating performances of the Millennials going through it.
Now that my self-assumed year of selfish living is over, this era may be my bitch era— which I choose to redefine as I step back into my self-agency and autonomy after briefly losing myself. Continuing to implement strong boundaries by reimagining the word to a standard that works for me, I assert and draw where my much-needed lines in the sand need to continue, as I’m only responsible for myself. I’m taking the learned lessons and leaving the dead ends to be more supple with life’s delights. Fuck rise ‘n’ grind hustle culture; we’re focusing on thriving in different ways— working smarter, not harder, and caring less about what people think while manifesting what we deserve. Resolutions? I don’t know her, but that’s probably for the best as I’ve been forcibly had to adapt to so much newness for some time— except for the growing number of recent readers— which has been a nice holiday surprise.
I welcome all of my new readers to Youthquake; thank you for being here, and welcome to the disarray— we’re all fuck-ups here.
Con Amor,
Naomi x