moxie

dear future divorcee

Hannah Stella — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 23:55:17 GMT

Four years ago, in June, July, and August of 2022, my ex-husband and I divorced. I was thirty-one years old. In my social circle marrying at thirty-one is on the younger side of normal; divorcing at thirty-one is almost precocious. The mess surrounding our split was minimal and we kept almost all of the drama private. Still, I was a niche internet micro celebrity and the divorce was public– public enough that I still assume people who meet me through the internet or mutual friends know that I am divorced even if they know nothing else about me. Public enough that I feel a deep protectiveness over the story of my marriage and over my ex-husband and of my feelings about both of those things. Public enough that anyone I know even tangentially who considers divorce thinks or is told, “you should talk to Hannah.” I feel honored that people trust me for advice about such a heavy, emotional, scary, and human experience. The below piece of writing is some mix of my experience and my advice about the emotions of divorce. My ex and I are two people who loved each other very much and who could not spend our lives together. I am not smug enough to believe that what I have to say will apply to everyone but if you are in the middle of or considering divorce or a big breakup, I hope you find some solace in my words. To me, one of the most frustrating and comforting parts of adulthood is learning that none of my emotions are unique. This is a letter to me, four years ago. It is also a letter to anyone who needs to read it.

I love you, I really do. And I am always on your side.

Hannah Stella

…

me, the week my marriage ended

To My Dear Friend Who is Getting Divorced,

I wish there was something I could say that would settle you now. Unfortunately, the only way out is through. I believe in you, I know you can make it to the other side.

This will be– I am so certain I am willing to bet on it– the worst thing you have ever been through. But when it is over– and it will not be over until long after the papers are signed– you will be a person who you like being, a person you are proud to be. And it will feel worth all of the growing pains, because if not for this experience you never could have become this person and she is the very best version of you so far. Divorce is a very expensive way to attaint a sense of self-assuredness and contentment. Some things are expensive because they are worth it.

The Box is a Bore

Hannah Stella — Thu, 21 May 2026 01:35:14 GMT

On a recent and very New York Friday night, I attended a gallery opening on the Lower East Side. The work was interesting, complex, feminine, immaculate, and is on view through June 6. (In the interest of disclosure– the artist is a friend of mine. However, I do not pick my friends based on how good they are at their jobs! If you find yourself in the neighborhood, it’s worth seeing the craftsmanship up close.) We admired the art and drank boxed wine and congratulated Caro, beautiful, blushing, overly modest given the scale of the work. It was a bit too chilly to stand in the street and talk but we stood in the street and talked because art world types smoke Virginia Slims and Marlboro Golds and there wasn’t room for all of us in the gallery.

After the gallery closed for the evening eight or nine of us went across the street and had martinis with snap peas in them (also a lot of lime) and french fries and no other food at all. The conversation was alternately light and emotional in the pleasant way conversations can be when everyone is buzzy and comfortable. Afterward, most of the group decided to go dancing in Bushwick but I had to be up early and so a friend and I decided to sit and talk and have a glass of wine somewhere quiet nearby. A pleasant, low-key New York night!

And then we walked by The Box. Here is something you may not know about me: I love the club. I love dressing up and scene-y crowds and strict doors and overpriced two-ingredient mixed drinks and low lighting and loud music. If you are unfamiliar with The Box, it is an expensive nightclub covered in velvet whose reputation trades on an infamous nightly burlesque show which is extremely graphic. (A decade ago, there used to be a very short man with a very large penis who would pee on the crowd almost every night. Now, the show is less… interactive, but involves a lot of fake menstrual blood and fecal matter. Often, there is fire! I am an absolute sucker for pyrotechnics.) Nearly always very graphic but very rarely sexy. It is a show that aims for edge and shock over an awakening of carnality. But The Box is sexy- the show creates an atmosphere that is social and dangerous and the upstairs tables have curtains that close all the way around each velvet banquette allowing patrons what is probably too much privacy. The Box radiates with the energy of loaded eye contact with a stranger across the bar. The Box is unique and outrageous and so, even though my friend and I were not exactly in nightclub attire, as we walked by I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I dunno, should we try?”

“Why not?” They let us in and my friend bought us a pair of vodka sodas and we wandered to the dance floor, where no one was dancing.

if you saw someone wearing this at The Box it was (almost certainly!) me

The Box is sexy. Or, at least, The Box was sexy the other two dozen or so times I’ve visited over the last decade and a half. It is certainly possible that I have changed– I am, for the first time in my life, truly at peace– but I am certain I haven’t changed enough, that I cannot change enough, to be immune to energy in a room. I looked around and then turned to my friend,

“This is weird, right?”

“Very.” Everyone looked, very technically, perfect. The men at tables were largely in the banker off-duty uniform of a custom-fitted white or blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up at least enough to show off their tanks and royal oaks. The other men wore jeans and tee shirts, sometimes with a third open shirt over the top (this is in style in New York right now, I also don’t really understand it.) The women were in mini dresses and mini skirts, slicked hair, clear skin and smoky eyes. Glossed lips and breasts pressed up. Everyone looked beautiful, smooth and glossy and attractive and largely unsmiling. There was a stiffness in the room, even after a woman pushed what appeared to be a dozen chicken eggs out of her vagina on stage. Social media or the number of times we see ourselves in the mirror every day or the expectations of others or the impending doom in the world has created an environment where the safest thing to be is Not Wrong. Which is different from being right and often diametrically opposed to being yourself.

“They’re beautiful but they’re sexless.”

“A club full of boomers.” I know, I know. Two thirty-five-year-olds in the club critiquing the people who belong there! But we were far from the oldest and far from the only people who noticed, a room full of people is the energy of those people. I was also twenty-three and self-conscious at The Box. I understand the desire to fit in, get on line, do as everyone is doing. I am not critiquing any person in particular! We are in a cultural moment where trend cycles are fast, retribution is swift, and people feel extremely comfortable keeping others in line. And to a degree, that has its merits. Cohesion has a real societal function! But too much costs us something, we have lost a lot of the fun, joy, and learning that comes with wearing the wrong thing and kissing the wrong boy. The coolest person you know is not particularly aware of what anyone else is doing. That freedom is at the core of what makes them cool. This doesn’t feel generational to me, it feels like a part of American culture at this moment. We have all starched our shirts and tied our hair back tastefully. We all look beautiful and exactly like each other.

…

The next morning, I was telling my sister (another girl from Waco, charmed by The Box!) about the evening.

“I’ve noticed it too, we’re all so aware of ourselves and each other.” I picked up the December 1995 issue of Playboy from a stack of vintage editions of the rag, purchased as kitschy decor rather than reading material.

“Seduction Made Easy: Is Our Apartment Sexy?” I read from the cover, “let’s find out.” Instead, I turned to the advice column. I had never read a Playboy before. I am not, generally, interested in anything called “entertainment for men” though I was aware of the magazine’s historic reputation for publishing important fiction, opinion pieces, and interviews. I assumed the advice column would offend my modern sensibilities but that it would also have a sort of vintage charm. Not so! On either count. The opening questions were about how to perform oral sex, on both men and women, and the answers were raunchy but generally advised enthusiasm and attentiveness. I cannot argue! And then…

From page 42, The Playboy Advisor (condensed, emphasis my own):

“My fiancee is considering breast augmentation as a wedding gift to me. But all the negative publicity makes me wonder if implants are safe.- H.A., Washington, D.C.

The most recent study on the subject, like others before it, found little to indicate that implants are unsafe. The controversy you’ve heard about centers on silicone gel implants, which were taken off the market three years ago after the FDA raised concerns that the devices might be associated with connective tissue diseases … That said, we would discourage any woman from getting cosmetic implants unless they’re something she desires for herself. If your fiancee wants larger breasts solely to please you, tell her she already does.”

said Playboy

I was stunned. It is the advice I would hope my boyfriend or brother or sister’s husband would receive. In 1995, a man who intended to look at Farrah Fawcett’s nipples and found himself reading would stumble upon advice that nudged him toward empathy and respect, some off color but largely inoffensive (and, honestly quite funny) jokes, and a stunningly good editorial lambasting the religious right for their criticisms of the children’s broadcasting on PBS. I read the whole issue. And then I opened my phone and found pages of impassioned debate about whether a mini-dress Olivia Rodrigo wore was punk or courting pedophiles. (For the record, I think it was a pretty and appropriate dress, though not exactly punk. A bit too literal and self-aware for that.)

We are living in a world where other people’s opinions, ideas, and criticism are so available they are nearly impossible to avoid. I have been wrong in public more than once. Even when criticism is fair, we often see it delivered in a rude and overwhelming pile-on. I understand the desire to avoid judgement. It is an impulse I often have! But sometimes safety keeps us from self-discovery (it should go without saying that my point is about things like clothes and dating and haircuts, not hateful thoughts and actions). Being Not Wrong keeps us from having fun. This is my only advice: when I learned to look at others with curiosity and sincere interest rather than defensive judgement, I assumed people were looking at me the same way. Perhaps a year from now I’ll look back on the daytime metallics phase I am in with horror and the knowledge it was fun while I was in it.

Let your eye makeup smudge and wink at a person who is completely wrong for you.

I love you,

Hannah Stella

goodbye to some of that

Hannah Stella — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 22:23:17 GMT

When I moved into my apartment on the border of Greenwich Village and the West Village, in May of 2023, I knew that I would live there for exactly one year. It was impossible that I would not immediately meet a man and move in with him. My return to Manhattan happened after I had learned that a man would not fix all of my problems but whilst I still believed that a man would replace my big problems that I could not solve with slightly more manageable ones. I was sure I would find someone who had none of the flaws of my exes, an emotionally available, warm, attractive, age appropriate suitor who wanted nothing more than for me to be happy. I felt like the universe owed me a storybook ending. I was signing a lease on the intro segment of the romantic comedy that would become my life! I had done many brave things and I had been in many very bad circumstances and I deserved to be happy. I would enjoy a year to myself, I would rise early and cook often and go on long walks and deepen my friendships. I would love living alone and look back on the year with nostalgia but one year would be more than enough, thank you very much. I did not need a year of lessons! I was open to anything that did not involve personal growth, I felt overwhelmed by all of the lessons I had learned. Nevermind that I had integrated approximately zero of what my life had taught me into my day-to-day functioning. I needed-I had earned- a year filled with a self-indulgent kind of solitude. The universe owed me a jubilant ending. This move happened when I still believed in endings, when I was desperate for an ending. I was emotionally and physically unhealthy and exhausted. I was covered in hives almost daily. I had been through a public divorce, I wanted to scream you were not there you don’t know how it felt and I was also afraid of speaking or writing publicly about what had happened. I was overwhelmed by the way I was perceived, I had a sense that I was misunderstood but I was unsure what I needed to correct or how to correct it. I was doing everything I knew to do– except the real emotional and physical and job related work that leads to stability–to fix my circumstances. It was time for the roses in the garden of my life to bloom! We endure winter because the reward is spring! So it goes, right? I knew that my personal spring was here. To the victor go the spoils, I said to myself for the first six or eight weeks I lived alone. I arranged throw pillows and went to dinner at eight and out dancing until three or four, to two Barry’s Bootcamp classes a day– content that this was only a few weeks, a few months, and then a perfect life would happen to me.

Reader, a perfect life did not happen to me. Life is imperfect and I was carrying too many things that made anything near a perfect life impossible.

Shame is a destructive emotion. Carrying shame is repeating patterns, self-sabotage, occasional erratic behavior, inability to behave productively. I know this because I was (have been?) holding onto a tremendous amount of shame. I was ashamed that my marriage had failed, ashamed of my behavior around the end of my marriage and in the year and a half that followed. I was ashamed of my career or lack of career, ashamed of my work ethic. I felt judged and I also felt a tremendous pressure to keep being an approximation of the person I had been. Or– more accurately– an approximation of the person I knew people thought I was. I have an audience for my writing largely because I used to be a rich lady with too much time on her hands who spent several months of every year on various vacations and who collected Hermes bags. I felt shame that my life was not that any more, even though I did not want that to be my life any longer. I wanted people to understand that things were different because I wanted them to be and not because of some external force but I also did not want to explain myself. And so I felt a very real and probably almost wholly internal pressure to keep behaving, at least in some ways, like a caricature of myself- a woman created for social media consumption rather than to live a life. I do not mean to overstate this, I did not make social media the center of my life. I have taken very long breaks from Instagram and TikTok. I only very occasionally took on paid promotional work. I have neglected my writing to my career and emotional detriment. The pressure I felt was more about keeping up with appearances, even when the appearances I was consumed with keeping up were not ones that felt authentic to who I wanted to be. I was worried that people were finding joy in my perceived fall from grace and I did not want them to think that I was handling things in any way other than perfectly. I was terrified to write because writing requires honesty and honesty requires examining ourselves and our internal world and I was not in a place to examine myself or any of my own behavior. I have always cared about the way that I look- I will always care about the way that I look- but caring about my appearance became an obsession more about some abstract ideal rather than what I wanted. My home became a symbol, I had a large and light filled apartment, zip code 10014! I had doormen! I was thin! I was blonde! The door people and head wait staff at cool nightclubs and tony restaurants knew me! Everything was fine!

in my bedroom in my shared loft, where some of the walls are painted

But everything was not fine; I was too ashamed of myself to function. Too ashamed to fix it, too ashamed to work productively, too buried by intense shame to even admit that I carried any shame at all. I was not happy living alone. Once the initial shine wore off- and reader, it wore off very quickly- I realized that I was lonely and that living alone allowed me to indulge and hide my worst impulses. I stayed up until two or three in the morning even after getting in bed at ten pm, I slept late. I drank too much and I spent occasional full days in the nude. My life was still, basically, fine. I could pay my bills, I was seeing people. I was depressed and overwhelmed and it was not getting better. I worked out more and stayed out later and dressed better and ignored my guilt and shame about productivity. I ignored all of the internal mess that I had not processed and I dated the wrong men and became obsessed with them quickly, hoping subconsciously that someone would save me from whatever it was I needed saving from. And then in October of 2023 one of those wrong men gave me two black eyes and a severe concussion and all of the constant motion that allowed me to ignore my inner turmoil and shame stopped. But not because I had found the courage to stop it.

to freeze or not to freeze

Hannah Stella — Tue, 24 Feb 2026 18:06:32 GMT

A stable partnership and a family are two of the things that I want most in the world. I am not a particularly fantastical person but there is an imaginary scene that has existed in my mind for so long that it feels impossible that it is not a memory. I am standing in a pretty, open kitchen. It’s a Saturday morning. I sip coffee and slice strawberries and bananas, arrange them in little bowls next to chocolate chips and rainbow sprinkles. The griddle is hot and there is a mixing bowl filled with homemade pancake batter, a batter that makes tall and substantive pancakes rather than the flat kind. My children come in, there are two or three of them and they do not have faces or genders or ages. They select toppings and mix-ins and sit on the barstools while I cook and plate their pancakes- whipped cream smiley faces on top. My husband comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He whispers in my ear that he loves me and kisses my cheek. I used to stand in my kitchen making dinner and cry silently while imagining this scene, this life that felt so far away from my own. Now, I find the imaginary scene less unsettling and more calming. I suppose what used to be a symbol of my mistakes has become an ambition. All of that to say, I do not want a baby, I want a family. The type of family that I have never had but have seen from the barely outside, friend’s parents when I was little, some of my friends now. Love as an action is different from love as a feeling.

I’m officially old <3

I am thirty-five years old. I am unwed. (Though I am not single, divorced is a separate box on most government and medical forms. Did you know that?) I wish to be a mother. I do not have a long term committed romantic partner and I have no interest in being a single parent. I have had an IUD since I was twenty years old. I have never been pregnant, never even had a real pregnancy scare.

I have not frozen my eggs or had any bloodwork done to estimate fertility. I feel fertile but the only real indications of fertility are the regularity of my periods and family history. (I am one of five children, as is my mother. Fertile stock.) As I have aged, fertility has become an omnipresent topic– both in conversations with friends and in my social media and news algorithms. Geriatric pregnancy. Fertility cliff. Clomid. IUI. Six months of trying before you can see a speciality. Surrogacy. Heart shaped uterus. My friends are freezing their eggs and enduring infertility and getting pregnant on purpose but more quickly than they had imagined they would.

existing at the end of an empire

Hannah Stella — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 02:31:24 GMT

When I was sixteen, I had a wonderful and eccentric English teacher who felt it was important that she taught her charges open-mindedness and empathy, not just about comma splicing or Emily Dickinson.

“What is the world’s oldest monotheistic religion?” She asked us once. The replies were some combination of Judaism and Islam. “Incorrect.” She said, “The oldest monotheistic religion is Hinduism.” She explained that the Christian concept of the Holy Trinity– Father, Son, and Holy Spirit– looked a lot like polytheism. [If I recall correctly, she was a practicing Catholic.] She said to think of the Hindu deities as different faces of the same diamond– one God, many expressions. “You should be very very careful before you judge someone else’s religion. You need to make sure you understand what you’re talking about before you talk about it.” I took the first sentence to heart. Mixed results, for me personally, on actioning the advice in the second.

We lived in Washington, DC. One weekend she took us on an optional field trip to the Smithsonian where we visited a mo’ai that was housed there. “This does not belong to us, we stole it. The American government stole it and it should be returned.” She said, and then she had us all pose with the statue and promised to send the photo to a friend who lived and worked on Easter Island. She had friends on Easter Island because her husband had a previous career at an NGO or in the Foreign Service and they had spent many years living in Chile during the military dictatorship.

“What was it like, living under a dictator?” We asked her.

“There were military everywhere. Most of the street corners had soldiers with machine guns just standing and watching,” she replied, “but it mostly felt very normal. The strangest part was how normal life felt.”