Beyond the Gay Best Friend: Let’s Talk About Writing LGBTQ+ Side Characters Who Aren’t Just Sassy Props

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a group of four friends posing for the camera

So here’s the thing—I’ve read a lot of books. Like, so many that I sometimes forget what day it is or whether I remembered to feed the cat (don’t worry, she’s extremely vocal about reminding me). And one thing I’ve noticed over the years is this weird little pattern in fiction: the token LGBTQ+ supporting character. You know the one. The sassy gay best friend who only exists to give fashion advice, drop a few one-liners, and then vanish when the main character starts making out with their love interest.

Yawn. We’ve been there. We’ve done that. And honestly? It’s time for a glow-up.

Let’s talk about how we can write queer supporting characters who are actually, you know, human beings with dreams, flaws, backstories, and weird quirks—just like the rest of the cast. Because spoiler alert: queer people don’t just exist to prop up the straight protagonist’s emotional arc.

Step One: Let Them Have a Life (Outside the Main Character)

Okay, I get it. Your story might revolve around a main character who’s doing something epic—saving the world, solving a murder, falling in love in a coffee shop where everyone somehow has perfect hair and emotional availability. That’s cool. But if your LGBTQ+ side character disappears when they’re not directly interacting with the protagonist, that’s a red flag.

Give them a job, a dog, an unhealthy attachment to Bake-Off reruns—whatever! Just give them something that makes them feel like they exist in the world, not just in the MC’s orbit.

Example? Let’s say you’ve got a lesbian bartender in your urban fantasy novel. Don’t just have her pouring drinks and giving sassy advice. Maybe she’s a witch who’s secretly building protective wards around the neighborhood. Maybe she writes cryptic poetry that she folds into napkins. Maybe she’s terrible at dating and keeps asking your main character for help crafting dating app messages. Give her a messy, vibrant, real life.

Step Two: Break the Mold

Look, I love a good drag queen character or a snarky twink with zero filter. Truly, I do. But sometimes the best thing you can do for queer rep is write the character who isn’t what the audience expects.

Your bisexual character doesn’t have to be “confused” or polyamorous. Your gay guy doesn’t need to love musicals. Your trans character doesn’t have to spend the whole story focused on transition-related stuff (unless you want to explore that—totally valid!). The point is, people are nuanced. Queer folks are not one-size-fits-all.

Example? In one of my favorite paranormal mysteries (no shame, it’s mine), I’ve got a queer supporting character who’s a grumpy mortician with a ridiculous crush on the mailman. He listens to Scandinavian death metal, collects antique taxidermy, and has absolutely no interest in “helping the main character find love.” And that’s okay. He’s his own weird, prickly, wonderful person.

Step Three: Let Them Mess Up

Here’s something that really bugs me: the flawless queer sidekick. Like, they’re morally perfect, always say the right thing, and somehow know how to solve every emotional problem with a snap and a martini. I know it comes from a good place—writers trying to be respectful—but it ends up flattening the character.

Let them be wrong. Let them get mad. Let them ghost someone, fall for the wrong person, or blow up at the protagonist because they’re stressed and haven’t slept in two days. That’s what makes them feel real. Real people mess up. That includes the queer ones.

Example? Remember Robin from Stranger Things? She’s a great supporting character—funny, sharp, kind of a disaster. She’s got layers. She doesn’t just exist to back up Steve. She gets her own weirdness, her own anxieties, and even a painfully awkward crush or two. That’s what I’m talking about.

Step Four: Not Everything Has to Be About Being Queer

Sometimes a queer side character’s biggest plot twist isn’t coming out or dealing with homophobia. Maybe they’re just trying to solve a supernatural murder mystery while dealing with their mom’s obsession with crocheted owls. Maybe their queerness is part of who they are—but not the only thing they are.

This doesn’t mean we should erase queer experiences—those stories matter—but sometimes it’s nice to just see a trans woman who’s also a badass werewolf hunter. Or a gay uncle who makes balloon animals and secretly works for the CIA. Give me chaos. Give me complexity. I want to feel like they could carry their own book.

So yeah…

So yeah, if you’re a writer—and I know some of you are—don’t settle for cardboard cutouts or queer plot accessories. Write characters who are weird and messy and fully alive. Let them be the funny one and the one who screws up. Let them have dreams, flaws, and nervous breakdowns over IKEA furniture. We need more of that.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a grumpy demon to write and a queer necromancer who keeps refusing to follow the plot I gave them. Typical.

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What I’ve Learned from Writing Queer Characters Across Different Decades

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a good-looking gay male couple in the 1930s

(Or: Why Historical Queerness is Complicated, Beautiful, and Occasionally Messy as Hell)

When I started writing queer characters, I didn’t expect to become a part-time amateur historian, therapist, and decoder of unspoken longing. But that’s what happens when you plop queer folks into past decades and tell them to live, love, and maybe solve a murder or two without getting arrested or excommunicated.

Right now, I’m waist-deep in a detective noir series set in 1930s Chicago—think fedoras, gin joints, and a paranormal investigator who’s a little too good at noticing things (especially when it comes to handsome suspects). And before that, I wrote a time-travel novel with scenes set in 1860. Yeah. That 1860. Civil War-era, “homosexuality is a criminal offense in every state” 1860.

I’ve learned a lot from these queer journeys through time. About shame. About resilience. About how love finds ways to survive—even when the world keeps trying to erase it.

The Unspoken is Deafening

If you’ve ever read a historical novel where two men are just very good friends and happen to share a bed because it’s “more efficient,” you’ve probably side-eyed your way into Queer History 101.

In the 1860s, I couldn’t write a character openly saying “I’m gay” without breaking the narrative like a poorly placed anachronism. So instead, there were loaded glances. Letters with double meanings. Physical closeness that a modern reader understands but the characters themselves might not even have words for.

And let me tell you, writing those subtle emotional gymnastics? Weirdly exhausting. But also really rewarding. Because it reminds you just how hard people had to fight to understand themselves—let alone find someone else who did.

Queerness Isn’t New (But It Was Dangerous)

I used to think of queer history as this slow unfolding—like LGBTQ+ people didn’t exist until we gradually “appeared” in the 20th century. LOL. Nope. We’ve always been here. What changed was the language and the risk.

In 1930s Chicago, things were just barely starting to crack open in the underground scenes. Speakeasies had back rooms. Men danced with men—quietly. Women lived together and were “confirmed bachelors” or “Boston marriages.” It was all hidden in plain sight, like a magic trick nobody acknowledged.

Writing queer characters during this time meant leaning into that tension. My detective might be quick with a pistol, but he’s slow to trust when it comes to romance. There’s always this edge of fear and secrecy humming beneath the surface—like the wrong word to the wrong person could end more than just a relationship.

It’s Not All Tragedy (Promise)

I worried, at first, that writing historical queer characters would mean constantly flirting with doom. And yes, there’s pain. You can’t sugarcoat laws, persecution, and violence.

But there’s also joy. So much joy.

There’s coded love letters and whispered confessions in moonlit alleys. There’s finding the one person who sees you when the rest of the world insists you’re invisible. There’s loyalty. Found family. Unlikely alliances.

In the 1930s detective story I’m writing, my main character finds moments of connection in places he never expected. A bartender who looks the other way. A former lover turned informant. A kiss stolen in the dark while jazz spills from a phonograph. It’s a little noir, a little gothic, and 100% emotionally fraught (my favorite flavor).

You Can’t Ignore the Era

Here’s a lesson I learned the hard way: you can’t just drop modern queer people into a historical setting and call it a day. You have to let the setting shape them. They wouldn’t have had access to the same conversations, communities, or even concepts that we do now.

In 1860, there was no “coming out” as we know it. There was no Pride parade, no TikTok explaining the difference between demiromantic and gray-ace. People figured things out in isolation—or not at all.

And while that’s tragic, it’s also a space for rich character exploration. The internal battles. The slow dawning of realization. The accidental discovery of joy.

There’s Always Someone Watching

This one hits hard, especially in the 1930s noir world. Even when you’re not being chased by mobsters or ghouls (because, yes, I threw in a supernatural twist), there’s always the social eye. The ever-present judgment. The “what will the neighbors think?”

That pressure shaped how queer people moved through the world. So in my writing, I try to show how small acts—like touching a hand for a beat too long—could be monumental. Intimacy is magnified under the weight of fear.

And yet, people still loved each other anyway. Because of course they did.

The Takeaway (If I Had to Pick Just One)

Writing queer characters across time has taught me this: we’ve always been here, quietly defiant, stubbornly tender, surviving by candlelight until someone could finally flip the switch.

As a writer, it’s both an honor and a responsibility to bring those stories to life—flawed, complicated, passionate, and human. Always human.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a ghost-infested speakeasy to write and a very grumpy 1930s detective who needs to admit he’s in love with the man helping him solve a murder.

When Brooklyn librarian David Rosen accidentally brings a clay figure to life, he discovers an ancient family gift: the power to create golems. As he falls for charismatic social worker Jacob, a dark sorcerer threatens the city. With a rare celestial alignment approaching, David must master his abilities before the Shadow’s ritual unleashes chaos—even if using his power might kill him. The Golem’s Guardian

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Why Bob Marley’s Words Hit Different When the World’s on Fire

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evil puppet master pulling strings

So I’ve been thinking about this Bob Marley quote lately: “The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking the day off. Why should I?” And honestly? It’s been stuck in my brain like a song you can’t shake, especially with everything happening right now in the US and, well, pretty much everywhere else.

I mean, you turn on the news these days and it’s like… where do I even start? Climate disasters, political chaos, social injustice – it feels like the bad guys are working overtime while the rest of us are just trying to figure out what to have for lunch. But that’s exactly why Bob’s words pack such a punch, you know?

The Never-Ending Shift

Think about it – the people causing harm, spreading hate, destroying our planet? They’re not clocking out at 5 PM. They’re not taking mental health days or going on vacation from their terrible agenda. They’re persistent, they’re organized, and they’re relentless.

I was scrolling through social media the other day (mistake number one, I know), and I saw this thread about how certain political groups are literally meeting every single day to strategize ways to roll back voting rights. Every. Single. Day. Meanwhile, I struggle to remember to water my plants twice a week.

But here’s the thing that gets me fired up about Marley’s quote – it’s not about guilt-tripping us into becoming workaholics for good causes. It’s about recognizing that making the world better requires the same kind of dedication that making it worse does.

Small Acts, Big Impact

You don’t have to quit your day job and become a full-time activist (though if that’s your calling, go for it). Sometimes “not taking the day off” looks like calling your representatives while you’re waiting for your coffee to brew. Sometimes it’s having those uncomfortable conversations with family members at dinner. Sometimes it’s just showing up to vote in local elections that nobody talks about but actually affect your daily life way more than presidential races.

I remember this one time, I was feeling completely overwhelmed by everything wrong with the world. Like, paralyzed by it. My friend Sarah told me something that stuck: “You can’t save everyone, but you can save someone. And you can’t fix everything, but you can fix something.”

That really shifted my perspective. The bad actors aren’t trying to destroy everything all at once – they’re chipping away, bit by bit, day by day. So why shouldn’t our response be the same? Consistent, persistent, relentless good.

The Privilege Check

Now, I have to acknowledge something here – not everyone has the luxury of not taking a day off from world-changing. Some people are barely keeping their heads above water, working multiple jobs, dealing with health issues, caring for family members. The quote hits different when you’re in survival mode.

But I think that’s part of what makes it so powerful. Marley wasn’t speaking from a place of privilege – he lived through poverty, violence, and oppression. When he talked about not taking the day off, he was speaking from experience about what it takes to push back against systems designed to keep people down.

What Does “Not Taking the Day Off” Actually Look Like?

For me, it means staying informed even when the news makes me want to hide under my covers. It means donating when I can, volunteering when I can’t donate, and speaking up when I witness injustice – even when (especially when) it’s awkward.

It means remembering that every small action matters. That text you send checking on a friend who’s struggling? That matters. The local business you choose to support instead of the big chain? That matters. The time you spend listening to someone whose experience is different from yours? That definitely matters.

Sometimes it’s as simple as choosing hope over cynicism, which honestly feels revolutionary these days.

The Marathon Mindset

I’ve started thinking about social change like training for a marathon. You don’t run 26 miles on day one – you’d burn out or injure yourself. But you do show up consistently, build your stamina, and keep your eyes on the finish line.

The people working to make things worse? They understand this marathon mentality. They play the long game. They’re patient. They’re strategic. And that’s exactly why we need to match their energy with our own sustained effort toward justice and healing.

Finding Your Rhythm

The beautiful thing about Bob’s words is that they’re not prescriptive. He’s not telling you exactly how to spend your energy – just that you should spend it. Maybe your thing is environmental activism. Maybe it’s education reform. Maybe it’s supporting local artists or feeding people experiencing homelessness.

What matters is showing up consistently in whatever way feels authentic to you. Because the alternative – letting the destructive forces have the field to themselves – just isn’t an option.

So yeah, the people trying to make this world worse definitely aren’t taking the day off. But neither are we. And there are way more of us than there are of them.

That’s something worth remembering on the hard days.

Stay strong, stay engaged, and keep showing up.

Are you looking for an exciting adventure? A new magical world filled with hunky werewolves, gay protagonists and an epic quest?

This may be the paranormal novel you’re looking for!

Norian’s Gamble (The Wolves of Norbury)

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City as Character: How Urban Settings Shape Supernatural Narratives

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Photrealistic image of gritty 1930s chicago.

(Or why your vampire might prefer Chicago over Cleveland)

Let’s talk cities. Not the kind with brochures and trolley tours—though, yes, ghost tours are a must—but the gritty, rain-slicked, neon-lit, mystery-drenched kind that practically hum with supernatural possibility.

You know the type. The city that’s less “background noise” and more “this place will chew you up and spit out your bones, but like…in a magical way.” If you’re writing (or reading) urban fantasy, paranormal noir, supernatural thrillers, or anything that goes bump between skyscrapers, you need to think of the city not just as a setting—but as a character.

This post is mostly for my fellow writers, but if you’re a reader of Urban Fantasy or Supernatural Fiction, you’ll probably still find yourself nodding along like, “Yep. I knew New Orleans had ghosts in the sidewalks.”

The City Breathes, Bleeds, and Bites Back

Think about The Dresden Files. Could Harry Dresden function the same way if he lived in, say, Des Moines? No shade to Iowa, but Chicago is baked into his DNA. The biting wind, the history, the political corruption, the layered architecture (literal and metaphorical)—Chicago is the magic in that series. You can practically hear the El trains echoing in his spellwork.

Or Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. London isn’t just the backdrop; it splinters into a whole underground mythos. It drips with old magic and forgotten alleys and subway gods. London Below is a twisted mirror of the actual city, and without London’s ancient bones, the story just wouldn’t have teeth.

Urban Settings = Instant Conflict

Cities naturally come with built-in tension—class divides, gentrification, unsolved crimes, too many people crammed into not enough space. Now throw in a secret werewolf pack in Brooklyn or a necromancer keeping rent-controlled ghosts in San Francisco, and suddenly the supernatural bits don’t feel so far-fetched, do they?

Take The City We Became by N.K. Jemisin. Each borough of New York literally comes alive—like, human-avatar level alive. The city’s personality is the plot. There’s graffiti-level magic and eldritch invasions, sure, but it’s also about culture, resistance, community, and identity. The city isn’t just where things happen. It’s why they happen.

Dark Alleys Make Great Portals

Urban landscapes naturally lend themselves to the spooky and strange. There’s something about flickering streetlights, steam rising from manholes, and alleys that look just a little too quiet. Cities are full of liminal spaces—transit systems, rooftops, abandoned factories—that practically beg for magical weirdness.

Rivers of London (by Ben Aaronovitch) leans into this by grounding magic in the infrastructure of the city—rivers are gods, traffic has power, and the architecture holds secrets. It’s brilliant. And it makes the city feel alive in a way that suburban sprawl just… doesn’t.

Want Vibes? Cities Deliver.

You can get really specific with tone just by picking the right city. Want ancient secrets and ghosts tangled in the Spanish moss? Drop your story into Savannah. Need rainy gloom and underground magic? Seattle’s got you. Desire glamour with a side of decay? Hello, Los Angeles.

One of my favorite examples: The Beautiful by Renée Ahdieh. Set in 1872 New Orleans, it wraps you in opulence, rot, and vampires. The city oozes charm and danger. You smell the blood in the bayou and the perfume in the parlor. It’s lush and decadent and you know—know—there’s something unholy under the floorboards.

Writing Tip: Use the City’s History Like Lore

I’m just gonna say it: if your supernatural city doesn’t have a shady past or some unsolved mystery, what are we even doing here?

The best urban fantasy weaves in real-life history like it was always magical. Murders that never got solved? Witch trials? Abandoned asylums turned condos? Use it. Cities are basically story graveyards, and you get to dig up the bones and whisper to them.

My own writing has dipped into this—I set a paranormal detective story in 1930s Chicago (because of course I did), and let me tell you, between the mobsters, the speakeasies, and the corruption, I didn’t need to invent much. I just added ghosts. The city did the rest.

Readers Notice When the City’s a Flat Prop

This might sound dramatic, but nothing kills a story faster for me than a city that feels like it was pasted on with digital wallpaper. I want to taste the coffee from the bodega, feel the subway grime under my character’s fingernails, hear the street preacher screaming about demons on a corner that absolutely exists somewhere.

Even if you’re inventing a fictional city, like Night Vale or Hollows (from Kim Harrison’s The Hollows series), you want to treat it with the same messy, flawed reverence you’d give a real place.

The City Deserves a Speaking Role

Give your city quirks. Give it moods. Let it be weird and unpredictable and inconvenient. Cities are more than just backdrops for your haunted antique shops and secret supernatural nightclubs. They are the mood. The muscle. The rhythm.

So go ahead—write the alleyway that leads to another world, the haunted subway line, the rooftop where witches cast spells using broken satellite dishes.

And let the city speak.

Alright, I’ve rambled enough. I need to go eavesdrop on the guy muttering to pigeons outside my window—he might be casting something.

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Queer Paranormal Books to Binge When You’re Craving Something Dark & Magical

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AdobeStock 934476632.

Sometimes you just want a book that gives you vibes. You know what I mean? Something that’s a little eerie, a little sexy, maybe has some spells flying or ghosts whispering in the attic—and unapologetically queer. Because while I love a good haunted house or vampire romance, I want my monsters and magic served with a side of queer yearning, thank you very much.

So, I made a list. A lovingly curated stack of queer paranormal books to binge when your soul’s feeling all shadowy and sparkly at the same time. Light some candles, maybe brew a questionable herbal tea (it’s called ambiance), and let’s dive in.

1. The Dead and the Dark by Courtney Gould

Ghosts. Murder. Closeted TV ghost-hunter dads. This one had me hooked from chapter one. It’s set in a creepy small town where teens are going missing, and the vibe is deliciously unnerving. Oh—and the sapphic slow burn? Absolute chef’s—wait, no, not saying it. It’s perfect.

2. Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

If you haven’t read this one yet, I’m both jealous of you and a little bit suspicious. It’s like warm pan dulce and cold night air wrapped in one book. Yadriel is a trans brujo trying to prove himself, and he ends up summoning a ghost with unfinished business (who is also ridiculously cute and annoying). It’s spooky, sweet, and steeped in Latinx culture and heart.

3. The Sunbearer Trials by Aiden Thomas

Okay yes, another Aiden Thomas book, but hear me out—this one is like if The Hunger Games went to queer magical summer camp. It’s not as horror-heavy, but it has gods, monsters, trials, and a rainbow of identities. Trans rep, demi rep, gay rep—it’s basically a Pride parade with knives.

4. White Is for Witching by Helen Oyeyemi

This one is… odd. Beautifully odd. It’s literary horror, with a haunted house that may or may not be alive and xenophobia that literally creeps in through the walls. There’s a queer love story, but the whole book is like reading a dream that might smother you in your sleep. A+ for unsettling vibes.

5. The Devouring Gray by Christine Lynn Herman

Creepy forests. Moody teens. Mysterious deaths. And bisexual representation! Honestly, it scratches that Stranger Things meets The Raven Cycle itch. Small-town secrets and paranormal curses are my literary catnip.

6. A Dowry of Blood by S.T. Gibson

This is Dracula’s bride reimagined as a queer, polyamorous Gothic goddess reclaiming her power. It’s dark and decadent and written in this poetic prose that makes you want to underline every other sentence. (Also, toxic vampire relationships? We love unpacking those.)

7. Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

This one’s newer and… wow. Just wow. It’s weird, it’s tender, it’s monstrous. A grieving mother raises her dead son into a creature—yes, it goes there—and there’s this undercurrent of queerness and identity and transformation. It’s tender horror, if that makes sense?

8. Sawkill Girls by Claire Legrand

This one hit me in the face like a thunderclap. Girls are going missing. There’s a supernatural predator. And our sapphic heroines? So good. The atmosphere is sticky and strange, and the horror element is very much there without being overbearing. It’s empowering and haunting all at once.

9. Wilder Girls by Rory Power

Imagine Lord of the Flies but with queer girls and body horror and mysterious island quarantines. Yeah. That. The prose is lush and brutal and there’s this sense of decay and transformation throughout that I kind of loved. It’s not a romance-y book, but the queerness is there and it’s messy and real.

10. Silver Under Nightfall by Rin Chupeco

Okay. Vampires. Monster hunting. Found family. Queer romance. Polyamory. I devoured this one with the same glee I have when I find discount Halloween candy in November. It’s action-packed and a little gory, but also swoony and funny. Don’t sleep on this one.

11. The Honeys by Ryan La Sala

A queer boy infiltrates a mysterious all-girls retreat after his sister dies under suspicious circumstances. The bees. The weirdness. The unsettling perfection of it all. It’s like Midsommar but with queerness and grief and a big helping of WTF. I was enthralled.

12. Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant

Lesbian marine biologists + killer mermaids. That’s it. That’s the pitch. Also: the mermaids are horrifying, and I loved every squishy, scream-inducing second of it.

Bonus Round: If You’re Into Queer Witchy Vibes…

  • Mooncakes by Wendy Xu & Suzanne Walker – sweet, queer, witchy graphic novel.
  • The Witch King by H.E. Edgmon – trans boy raised in the fae realm returns to his magical roots (and his ex).
  • Her Majesty’s Royal Coven by Juno Dawson – adult witches, old friends, betrayal, and trans representation.

I don’t know about you, but I kind of want to curl up in a haunted mansion with these now. (Ideally with ghost-proof snacks and some enchanted tea. Maybe a cat who talks. Not required, but would be nice.)

If you’ve got favorites I missed, please send them my way. I’m always down to add a few more queer ghosts, witches, and vampires to my shelf.

Until then—read dark, stay magical, and never trust a mysterious bookshop that wasn’t there yesterday.

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Free Speech Doesn’t Mean I Have to Listen to Your Nonsense

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Young man blocking his ears

So I stumbled across this quote by Matt Gemmell recently and it made me stop mid-sip of my overpriced oat milk latte and go, “YES. THIS. FINALLY.” Here it is:

“It’s OK to cut out negative people from your life. Everyone has a right to their opinion, but people don’t have a free pass to be heard by you, particularly if their manner of expression is consistently unpleasant or unproductive.”

I’m not saying I got it tattooed across my chest in Comic Sans, but I did scribble it on a Post-it and slap it on my fridge next to a magnet shaped like a screaming possum. Because let’s be real: some people are walking thunderclouds who never bring snacks or decent conversation to the party. Okay, onto the rant!

Opinions Are Not VIP Tickets

You know that person in your life (or maybe just on your Facebook feed) who thinks “just saying what everyone’s thinking” is an excuse to be a relentless buzzkill or an aggressively loud conspiracy theorist? Yeah. Them. They love to scream “FREE SPEECH!” like it’s a golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory of your attention span.

But here’s the thing—and it’s a big one, like family-reunion-potato-salad big: they have the right to speak, sure. But you also have the glorious, soul-saving, peace-restoring right to not listen. Freedom of speech doesn’t come with a built-in megaphone that points directly at your face 24/7. It’s not some magical force that requires you to sit politely while someone insults your intelligence, identity, or basic sense of decency.

Cutting the Cord (Emotionally, Not Like… the Cable. Unless You Want To.)

There’s a weird guilt that comes with cutting people off, especially if you were raised with that whole “be nice no matter what” kind of vibe. But sometimes? Being “nice” to toxic people just gives them a comfy seat on the couch of your life, where they can kick off their muddy boots and spread negativity like glitter at a toddler’s birthday party. And glitter, as we all know, never leaves.

So let’s just say it out loud: You don’t have to keep someone in your life just because you’ve known them since high school or they’re your second cousin or they once lent you a lawn chair in 2009. If someone constantly makes you feel like trash wrapped in tinfoil, you are not obligated to keep giving them access to your emotional bandwidth.

Especially Now

Have you noticed how everyone suddenly has a podcast or a TikTok where they’re just… confidently wrong? Like, proudly peddling conspiracy theories they found in a Reddit thread written by a guy whose profile picture is a lizard smoking a cigar?

There’s a lot of noise out there right now. Political bile. Unfounded rage. Deep-fried misinformation. People using “opinion” as a shield for racism, bigotry, and just plain being a jerk. And if you’re anything like me, it starts to feel like walking through a crowded room where everyone’s yelling into a megaphone made of static.

You don’t owe your mental health to every loudmouth with a hot take. You are not a public service announcement. You are not a debate moderator. You are not legally required to “hear both sides” when one side is spouting hatred wrapped in the American flag and the other side is just trying to, you know, exist.

My New Mantra: Block, Mute, Repeat

Let’s normalize saying “No thanks” to garbage energy. Let’s normalize muting people who drain us. Let’s normalize unfollowing the guy who thinks the moon landing was faked and that oat milk is a government mind-control serum (okay, I might listen to that one just for the entertainment value).

Cutting someone out doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you the bouncer at the club of your own sanity.

So yeah…

There’s a weird kind of freedom in reminding yourself that your attention is a privilege, not a guarantee. You can walk away from people who turn every conversation into a rage-fueled monologue. You can reclaim your headspace. You can choose joy, quiet, curiosity, love, literally anything other than someone else’s performative rage.

So here’s to turning down the volume, unfollowing without guilt, and leaving toxic folks on “read” forever. Your peace of mind deserves a little VIP treatment.

P.S. If someone’s ever told you “you’re too sensitive” just for asking to be treated with basic respect… they’re the problem, not you.

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