Hannah Gadsby and the Power of Story
I finished Hannah Gadsby’s book Nanette last Saturday morning and I’ve been savoring each of its pages as I tried to figure out how to put into words for the past month and a half how much her work has meant to me. (If you’re unfamiliar with Hannah, which I was until earlier this year, she’s a comedian from Australia with a couple Netflix specials and years of experience in producing live comedy shows). I was gifted tickets to her show when she was touring in Minneapolis in July. The afternoon before the show, I watched her first Netflix show Nanette for the first time… just to make sure I was a little familiar with some of her body of work before seeing her newest show, Body Of Work.
I loved it. I laughed, I cried, I felt in awe at the weaver of story that she is and the powerful mark she was making while being a woman in art/comedy/the world.
Then, seeing her show live was one of the most transforming experiences I’ve had in a long while. I actually have tears in my eyes at how impactful and special it was just writing this now. The two hour show had me laughing more than I have in years. And laughing out loud with complete strangers felt so damn good! Being able to poke fun and laugh (while also inwardly groaning) at the jokes by an Australian that were made about the health care in this country, the messed up bans on peoples bodies, and the other dumpster fire mess we find ourselves in these days released a small layer of stress, despair, rage, and heaviness I’d been carrying and it felt like a healing sense of solidarity to be in a room of people who also felt similarly. A solidarity that’s different than just the sharing of posts and outrage on the socials (which is helpful too) and I didn’t realize I needed.
And the storytelling! The crafting of the thoughtful and intentional journey of taking the audience on a ride through a feel-good, love story between two women bucking the patriarchal heterosexual norms by choosing to love out loud (but in a quiet introverted way) was perfection. I was enchanted throughout and delighted at the ending. It reminded me of the power and magic of storytelling. It reawakened a part of myself that I had been missing: the part that craves being in the room with other people sharing in the range of emotions of humanity, the part that lights up my cells by being in a theatre with a gorgeous stage, and the part of my soul that has stories and art and expression to share with you.
I lived on the high of that experience for weeks and cherished the continued connection to Hannah and her bravery, brilliance, and backstory as I read slowly through her book every morning while sipping my coffee.
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Shortly after seeing her show, in one of the breathwork sessions I had for myself with my friend Amy, I realized I’ve been hiding a bit recently. With the volatile, divisive energy around those who have differing opinions, with all the changes to the social platforms/algorithms/reels, and with my own excavating of beliefs/biases/privileges/purpose/voice/heart, I’ve been quiet in my creating. Quiet in my art. Quiet in my writing.
(Not that this is a bad thing - not every part of the process and our cycle needs to be on display, especially if the best thing to do is to listen and learn from others - so just sharing my observation.)
I’ve written many a post or piece to you in my head or in my drafts, but they never got posted or published… for a couple of reasons I think. One: out of fear of making a mistake, of causing more harm. Two: the nature of how social media has changed in that it’s no longer just about pictures and words, but videos and short snippets while also favoring frequent posting and less emphasis on the creative process (another conversation for another time). Three: this year is about “homecoming” for me (again another conversation for another time) and I’ve been finding my way back home to myself.
But the other thing I realized in my cells during that breathwork session is, despite all of those reasons contributing to the fear of being seen, I have trained for this. I’ve put time and energy into practicing this art. In fact, in one of the actor trainings I did years ago, we would call ourselves “actor warriors”. Telling story is my craft and my love, whether through stage or page or photo. I want to continue to show up for it and for the process, whether quietly or out loud (maybe even in an introverted way!). Because stories matter. Stories are healing. Stories are nourishment and soul food for times like these.
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And so, this long missive is to thank Hannah Gadsby for her humor and heart. To my brother Eric for connecting me to her. And to the power of Storytelling for its ability to change lives, including mine.
My full moon wish for us:
May we all find the healing in our own stories and have someone who will listen to it with their whole hearts as we share.
Happy to be back writing to you. xo!