International Women Of Badassery
DoD Ep. 16: And Their Inner Children, Too
It’s International Women’s Day and I’m so glad that just three days ago, I took my 14-year-old daughter to her first concert and it was Madonna. I have to write a whole ‘nother essay on what Madonna meant to me when I was 14 and 20 and 28 and 35 and…
Madonna and I have some weird parallels: We both worked at Dunkin’ Donuts; I rehearsed in the same dank Midtown studios with no showers where she rehearsed and squatted (she makes memorable mention of this during the concert); the first show she played was at CBGB’s (same); I once dated her Baby Daddy #1, Carlos Leon, who was bemused when he found out I was a singer and musician, “You know who I have a kid with, right?” Um, yeah. It was kind of the main reason I went on a date with Mr. Leon, even though I was SUPER COOL and didn’t bring up Lourdes’s mom once during dinner. Madonna was also an expat for 10 years who had a custody battle with her ex Guy Ritchie over their son, Rocco.
What struck me as I watched four decades of Madonna iconography flash on giant screens was not just the nostalgia for who she was—juxtaposed with the 65-year-old woman gyrating in front of me—but that we women are all the same. We struggle and suffer and fight and love the same, especially as mothers, wives, divorcées.
The most moving part of Madonna’s Celebration tour was hearing her talk about the joys and challenges of motherhood, right before she did an acoustic, sing-a-long rendition of “Express Yourself.”
I loved seeing four of her gorgeous children perform with her. My daughter’s and my favorite was 11-year-old Stella, who joyously danced during “Don’t Tell Me” and smiled and waved right at us. Her twin, Estere, ate the runway in black patent stiletto boots during “Vogue,” while older sister Mercy played piano beautifully during “Bad Girl,” and older brother David killed on guitar, especially during the Prince tribute.
When the show started, Madonna had her “younger version” onstage with her: a mannequin-like dancer dressed in the “cheap clothes” she had to buy in thrift stores on St. Marks Place when she’d come to New York with just $35 in her pocket. I knew this story because I was a huge Madonna fan in high school, but watching Madonna strut down memory lane, as she’s doing every night of her tour, moved me. Remembering and loving who you are and where you came from—hardships and all—is perhaps paradoxically how you become a wise and happy adult.
J.Lo(ve) Yourself
This self-love was pre-iterated1 (because I watched the documentary last week) by another international woman of badassery, Jennifer Lopez. By now, any synchronicity in my life is attributed to The Artist’s Way so even though I unintentionally wound up watching The Greatest Love Story Never Told, I know I was supposed to.
My feelings around J.Lo are profoundly benign. I don’t love her; I don’t hate her; I take whatever stories about her diva bitchiness with a grain of salt (she’s an uber-successful woman in show biz; of course she’s a bitch). I admire her beauty, her body and indefatigable work ethic.2 Who doesn’t?
While I recognize I fell for her Jenny-from-the-Block/love-addict-just-like-us narrative—again—I had to marvel at the pop-spiritual psychology of J.Lo having to fall in love with and take care of her inner child.
Because that’s real love.
The Greatest Love Story Never Told isn’t Bennifer 2.0 (though Ben Affleck has some charming appeal here).3 It’s Jennifer Lopez calling her father a deadbeat, her mother a narcissist, and recognizing that what’s behind her often anxious, nail-biting drive is the lack of love from her parents—and that she has to give love to herself. J.Lo and the rest of us now know that Husbands 1, 2, 3, (and possibly) 4 aren’t the answer to the gaping hole in her (and our) hearts.
Historically, I hate inner child work. It’s always made me feel uncomfortable and unsure. How exactly am I to hug myself and hold my own hand? What is this safe garden I need to keep myself in and visit often? There’s an element of cheese that’s turned me off of working with my inner child, but as the inner children of pop icons start appearing onscreen and onstage4, I’m likewise discovering how necessary this self-love and self-care is.
I did an inner child meditation last weekend at another serendipitous event called Stillness LA. I was finally able to get over my ick around the work and really care for my small, almost-baby self. I was finally able to tell myself that I can love and protect her/me so she can be free to have fun and play. I am a warrior woman, after all, so if I can protect my babies, I can certainly protect my younger, defenseless self.
I encourage all of you to try this. Especially during divorce, our inner children get battered. Unless we’ve done this work, a divorce brings up all the universal fears: abandonment, poverty, worthlessness, danger, death. You need to remember and reassure yourself, all the parts of yourself, that it’s going to be okay, no matter what.
You can do inner child work with a therapist or a group, which I recommend because you’ll have a guide, but if money or social anxiety is an issue, search for “inner child” in the Insight Timer app.5 It will bring up some lovely guided meditations.
Love yourself. That’s where it all begins. Just ask Madonna and J.Lo (and me).
Happy International Women’s Day!
Surprise! Divorce
I envy Natalie Portman not really, even though she’s a gorgeous, Ivy League-educated, Oscar-winning movie star and mother. This is because Natalie seems to try really hard to be a normal human woman and mother, albeit one on the Hollywood A-list. Also, our kids used to go to the same preschool in Paris and she was warm and friendly to me, even when I had loud pink hair before it was trendy.
However, I DO envy Natalie today because it was announced (on International Women’s Day—well-played) that she had a silent divorce that took all of 7 months… in France. What in the Padmé Amidala is this Gallic speed?
(My French divorce is taking 7 years.)
Of course her French husband cheated. Of course they tried to make it work for the kids. Of course Natalie Portman does not need to make it work for any man and certainly not a cheating one.
I applaud Natalie’s ability to get her divorce done so swiftly and in France. While divorcing there has been a hellscape for me, Natalie was smart to file in a country that considers an 11-year marriage “short” (and not one of lifetime alimony like in California). France’s legal filings are not public record like they are in the US so her divorce stays private. It also has fault divorce, e.g. for cheating, which possibly motivated her ex to quickly settle their divorce. The French also love beautiful expat celebrities like Natalie Portman who actually choose to live in their country instead of try to escape it.
The lesson here: Carefully consider where you file for divorce.
More newsletters to come on that topic.
Felicitations, Natalie! You’re an inspiration. Becoming friends with you would be a reason to spend more time in Paris, but alas, I hate that place.
Does this word exist? Have I invented it just now or nah?
I always love J.Lo’s style. I loved ALL her sweats in the doc. There are many because she’s often shown at dance rehearsal. I want all of them because I live in SoCal and I don’t go out and I just want to live in PJs or sweats so who designs hers? Dolce??
Trust I’m as shocked as anyone because I’ve always thought Ben Affleck was a douche non-pareil.
The final frontier of narcissistic nepotism?
Hands down my favorite meditation app.
❤️🥰 I love when you say “Paris: I hate that place.”