“How they felt visible, validated, and understood. That is what art does, reworks trauma into colors and stories.”

I looked out the window of the Sidewalk Shuttle, fresh off a win, tingling with every emotion and the shear exhaustion of a week of events. Paris may be the city of lights, and New York, the city that never sleeps, but Birmingham is the city that never stops pulling me back in. 

The shuttle pulled past my old apartment on 31st street to Rojo. I could still see my bright blue Chevy Volt tugging up the hill, walking around the parks masked up, and grabbing a coffee at O’Henry’s. The once shut down Highland Park was brimming with life that night, full of hugs, tears, and all that wouldn’t have been possible living there in 2020. 

Two days prior I sat at O’Henry’s Coffee in Homewood, working remotely and prepping for our weekend of Lady Parts Sidewalk events. I was in the same chair I was in October of 2019, when I moved to Birmingham. The moving company was going to be a week late, Spectrum couldn’t come for 2 days, and I decided it was better to watch my shows and read in a coffee shop than a blank apartment with a lopsided twin air mattress. 

I had made a major life move, leaving Los Angeles, living alone for the first time, starting a new job, and navigating a new city where I barely knew a soul. At that moment, I felt lost and needed a challenge to force myself to feel more at home. I started #52thingstodoinbham, which you can read in that blog post, and I was ready to reinvent myself again. About 5 months later, the world shut down and I was alone in my apartment, furloughed, fresh off a break-up, and doing the scariest thing of all – being alone with my thoughts. Those events only made room for better. I started therapy, made some new friends, and most importantly rediscovered my Lady Parts script and decided it was finally time to do the damn thing.

The girl that moved to Birmingham no longer existed. I wasn’t afraid to say the word vagina. I wasn’t afraid to speak my opinion. I had a mission to tell my story and I would kill myself trying to complete it. Each quarantined social distance walk around the hollowed out parks only fueled my fire. And as they told me I was unrelatable and kicked me off the comedy team, I instead gathered the husks to start the fire that would prove them all wrong. I packed my corkboard of index cards, and like a phoenix reappeared in New York, blocking out all the people who said it would be impossible. Because it was never my grave, it was my garden and I was ready to blossom and overtake the whole damn lawn. It was my baby and I would do anything to protect it.

And then came 3 years of working full time, while simultaneously self-financing, self-producing, and doing everything necessary to make Lady Parts a reality. Even at Sidewalk, I was still working remotely at my NY job, while setting up menstruation stations and bagging more friendship bracelets and condoms at 2am on my best friend’s couch. Through a strike, pay cuts, multiple jobs, breakups, and funerals, the show must go on and there is no crying in baseball or indie filmmaking, especially when the project depends upon you showing up each day to keep it moving. When you are in a surgical props center having a PTSD induced anxiety attack covered in crusting hot almond milk, there is no time to break down. There is only time to push forward because you know the message of the film is more important. 

Wake up early. Drive an hour. Work full time, but remember to put out all the menstruation stations. Gather more tampons. Print out and cut 500 card stock. Order more condoms. Be ready to talk about your deep trauma. Sip red wine and chat about budget. See another film. Do anything necessary. Tell your life story. I even crafted each of the 300 unique Lady Parts friendship bracelets (with the help of my awesome mom and generous friends). And I would do it all again if it meant even one more person would be able to connect with the film and feel seen and heard for the first time.

As Taylor Swift puts it, “lights, camera, bitch smile.”

I walked around Birmingham this week, restocking menstruation stations, and finding a last minute dress for our encore screening, remembering the scared 26 year old girl, who thought her healing journey was done. She couldn’t even get through my Pap Smear at the gyno and barely told her new friends about her vaginal health problems. Birmingham used to be a lonely place, filled with fears and insecurities. Now it called to me and for once I took a deep breath as I felt at home once again in Alabama. The sidewalk continued on and a new story was coming full circle. 

This place held so many memories and I could see them flash as I drifted around town. No longer was I shying away but instead wearing hot pink glitter. I was indulging in learning the stories of others, and for once feeling completely comfortable in my skin. I’m more myself than I ever was before. I am wholly me. 100% real and unashamed to be me and I love it here. 

Although I loved 2 sold out shows, a standing ovation, and an audience award, there is nothing that compares to the full circle moment of someone saying how they finally felt seen by my film. How they felt visible, validated, and understood. That is what art does, reworks trauma into colors and stories. And in that Black Box Theater, I saw it come alive. 30 years of pain, wrapped into a bow. The healing of laughing at yourself. The way people came up to talk about their own stories. The film had done its job. 

We may not know where the Sidewalk ends or if it even ends at all. All I know is that I will keep on walking down until I can’t walk anymore. 

Thanks to the entire Lady Parts team! Filmmaking takes a village and WE DID THE DAMN THING!