In Defense of Your Unserious Pleasures
On rom-coms, romance novels, and what Shonda Rhimes taught me about giving myself permission to like what I like.
In 2019, it was announced that Shonda Rhimes—the very serious, very acclaimed showrunner behind Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, How to Get Away with Murder—had optioned a smutty historical romance novel series for her new Netflix deal. We now all know this to be the global phenomenon that is Bridgerton. Two of my friends who had already read the books had been campaigning hard for me to join them. You have to read them before the show comes out.
And I remember thinking: well, if Shonda’s doing it, it must be legitimate.
So I read them. All of them. Quickly and without apology, which was new for me.
That last part is the part worth examining.
I was a mathlete growing up. Genuinely, like competitions with excused absences from school, the whole thing. I loved it. I was a math and science person, deeply academic, and I cared about serious things: human rights, social justice, making some meaningful contribution to the world. And for the record, that’s not a phase I grew out of. It’s still what I do. I work in the impact side of entertainment—serious films about serious subjects—and I love it.
But somewhere in the process of becoming that person, I had drawn a quiet line around what I was allowed to consume and enjoy. Books that were too escapist. Stories that were too romantic. Things that were, in my own internal ranking system, unserious. Below me.
Looking back, this is hilarious. I have read countless romance novels since that first Bridgerton book. I have LOTS of opinions about the genre and recommendations on which authors and series I like best. The version of me who thought she was too serious for this was not protecting her intellect. She was just limiting her picture of herself, and not even consciously. She had absorbed a hierarchy about what counted as worthy and then lived inside it so completely she forgot it was a choice.
Permission to color outside the lines
Around the same time I was reading my way through the Bridgerton series, I was also turning 30 and looking up from my life for what felt like the first time.
I had left my job to work for myself. I was single. I was genuinely uncertain whether I wanted kids, which was its own unsettling realization because I had always assumed I’d eventually want the things you’re supposed to want. The relationship, the house, the timeline that more or less followed the script. I had never really asked myself the question directly. I had just assumed the answer was yes.
When I finally asked, the answer was: I don’t know. And in a lot of ways, no.
That surprised me more than I expected. I had done everything I was supposed to do. And now I was looking at a life that didn’t follow the lines, not because I had blown anything up, but because I had just quietly, incrementally built something different, without ever deciding to. Without ever giving myself “permission”.
The romance novels were smaller than all of that, obviously. But they were part of the same thing. The same pattern of waiting for external validation before letting yourself want what you actually want. Needing Shonda Rhimes to option the series before I’d let myself read it. Needing the life to already be built before I’d let myself call it intentional.
Aspiring Rich Wine Aunt
I’ve had “Aspiring Rich Wine Aunt” in my Instagram bio for years.
It started as a joke, but it has stayed because it feels like the most honest description I have for the life I want. Not wealthy in the generational wealth, retire early, buy a yacht sense. Not hustling toward some version of success that requires me to be serious about everything all the time. Something more like abundant. Expansive, generous. And ultimately, mine.
The aunt who travels and has stories and shows up with good wine and better advice. Who has done something a little different and is honest about what she learned from it. Who has figured out that the script was optional and who wants you to know that too.
That’s what this is. Essays about working for yourself, and the financial infrastructure nobody explains when you start. Honest takes on why women’s stories—the ones the industry keeps underestimating—are worth billions. Notes from a life split between Los Angeles and New York, and what it actually looks like to build something outside the lines.
Serious work. Unserious pleasures. No apology for either.
You don’t need Shonda’s permission. I just wish someone had told me that sooner.