Lady Gaga: The Woman Who Caught Herself

Trust falls, red lace, and learning how to stand tall—with claws out.

I used to shoot out of a cannon, close my eyes, and fall back into a full trust fall.

Then I kept falling flat on my back—nobody around to catch me.

Energetically, I was assuming the other person would lead—be the one to lean on—while I poured unconditional love their way. I kept falling backwards in faith.

Sometimes they saw it.

Most didn’t.

Few caught me with grace.

Almost no one trust-fell back.

Now? I stand on my own two feet.

I enjoy my own company.

I allow myself to have full fun.

Not productive fun—my former favorite flavor.

Okay fine, sometimes it still sneaks in—like Core Hot Yoga. It’s a 3-for-1: yoga, pilates, sauna. Boom. 50 minutes.

Today after class, a man, who was a total stranger… talked to me. I know, gasp.

It’s been so long since a man showed genuine interest face to face, I couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting or just friendly. Either way it was nice.

I walked home a little lighter, grabbed a cute little beverage and had a cute little pep in my step.

As I strut, I realize this pep requires balance—and having Lady Gaga blasting in my headphones is giving me all main character energy I need to remind me. Gaga’s got me oozing confidence over here.

Noticing—and loving—how I still believe in big feelings.

I just don’t hand any of it over without proof someone can hold them.

Now I’m eating a salad with fresh nectarine and damn it’s delicious—my baby step toward cooking again.

I’m dancing in my living room because I can.

Because I want to.

I still know how to shoot out of a cannon.

I just don’t close my eyes anymore.

That’s the benefit of making a room of your own—you can hear your own heartbeat, even in a crowd.

I heard mine at the Lady Gaga concert the other night.

It did that Care Bear thing—beamed love straight toward her onstage.

Not a second later she said,

“I can feel your love tonight, Los Angeles.”

I’ll never forget it.

She ended the night at her piano, saying things like,

“I try to do small tasks that help me stay true to myself,”

and

“I have meals with my friends and family. Talk about the future.”

And when she sang Born This Way, there was a sacred collective charge. A song that once sparked controversy has now rooted itself in the cultural bloodstream.

Even me—a straight white woman from the suburbs—felt tears well up at the reminder that God makes no mistakes.

If anyone shot herself out of a cannon, it’s Gaga.

She dueled on stage with her iconic red lace costume from the early 2000s MTV Awards—a night when we all still watched the same thing, together.

The set was haunting: blacks and reds.

Ornate columns flanked a 50-foot Gaga as she opened the show, her skirt unfurling to reveal dancers like spirits summoned from a shared past.

There was a theme of chess.

Of archetypes.

Of confrontation.

She, the white queen, was dueling the red queen—her former self in lace, fury, legend.

And I realized, I’ve done that too.

I’ve dueled with the part of me that shoots out of a cannon.

That part that craves intensity, goes all in, loves without a seatbelt.

And then, just as quickly, tries to erase the evidence.

To douse herself in shame.

For years, it was both a voluntary and involuntary ritual:

Leap. Crash. Erase.

I was someone who kept herself in the middle.

Softened her edges.

Erased herself out of her own life to make things easier for others.

But when I finally put the eraser down—

and started writing in pen—

I saw it.

I was born this way.

Even the parts I thought I had to hide.

Even the strange.

Especially the strange.

That weirdness that’s been with me since the 2000s?

It’s not going anywhere.

And thank God for that.

It’s what got me here.

It took me back to my own early 2000s self.

The one who kept blasting out of cannons and scraping herself up.

The one who kept getting back up.

I joked to the friends I went with that she could lead a spin class—because fuck yeah, she could.

She had my hands up like paws.

Like claws.

Thinking in the minor key.

Twisted. Angular. Powerful.

More powerful than I ever imagined I could be, back then.

None of us wanted to leave.

Even after the encore, we stayed.

And then there she was—back on screen.

Wig gone.

Head mic on.

Scarf tied.

Wiping her makeup off.

Stefani. Just for us.

She sang from her whole heart.

And it felt like a gift.

Lady Gaga, thank you.

For putting up with all of us these years.

For carrying so much emotion.

For letting yourself be felt.

For showing us how to be strange, and sacred, and free.

I feel forever changed.