Maybe ‘On the Outside’ Is the Right Name, After All…

Wrestling with a life lesson that I can't seem to master

Photo by Andrey Che via Pexels

I opened an account on Substack several months ago, when I unveiled the updates to my website. During the “renovation” of ylwolfe.com, I’d found the perfect way to describe myself in a nutshell to those dropping by my homepage. And it was just one word: outside.

When you land on my website, you see me lounging on my paddle board, next to the words A woman outside… And beneath that, several words and phrases scroll by: motherhood, the status quo, heteronormativity, the gender binary, the male gaze, in nature.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was quite pleased with this. It very simply and quickly defined the space in which I exist and the subjects that I love to explore in my work - and that’s not an easy thing to accomplish.

So naturally, when I started building my Substack publication, I thought it would be best to give it a similar name - hence, On the Outside.

The problem is, I instantly hated it. While I’m mostly content to be “outside” it all, I worried that On the Outside would have negative connotations for most women.

Though I think many of us wouldn’t be happy pursuing things that are considered “normal” (whatever that means) for a woman’s life, we have often been overlooked, dismissed, and othered for no other reason than that our lives don’t reflect social norms - and that’s a deep frustration for so many of us.

Sometimes, the outside isn’t so appealing. And for me, in this particular moment of my life, it’s definitely not.

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I don’t really want to be on the inside. I’ve tried - I really, truly have. And for the most part, I find little joy in it.

I don’t want to bond with girlfriends over calories counted and compliments about how skinny everyone looks. I don’t ever want to work for another person again and have to submit to dead-end negotiations that leave me with salaries that barely pay the bills. And the thought of being in one more heteronormative relationship in which I have to fake a validating laugh every time my boyfriend makes a joke about how virile he is makes me sick.

But sometimes, I get tired of being on the outside.

I’ve been here my whole life - since the moment my birth certificate was printed out. I have a strikingly unique name - in fact, I chose the pen name Y.L. Wolfe because I am the only person with my birth name who exists on this planet and as someone with an online presence, I didn’t want to tempt fate by making it that easy to google my street address.

My name has been something that has made me feel different since childhood. Not in a bad way - I like my name and I love that I’m the only one who has it. But there have been times when I wondered what it would be like to tell someone my name and have them get it right without first having to spell it out or write it down for them.

Throughout childhood, I was the biggest and tallest girl in my class by far. Further, I changed schools almost every year (long story), which literally put me on the outside.

Adulthood was a string of experiences in which I desperately tried to cling to the periphery of the status quo. Two of my younger siblings were already married, one of them with kids, by the time I entered the most serious relationship I’d ever had. I was already 32 and people had made it known that it was weird that I wasn’t married and didn’t yet have kids.

I was thrilled to finally be with a man who was so excited to get married and start a family - until we moved in together and he suddenly changed his mind. Then he changed it again. And again. And again.

We broke up multiple times but stayed in that house together because not only did I not make enough money (despite my hard-earned MAT) to live on my own but because I knew that by staying, I at least had the appearance of a functioning relationship. I at least looked like I might get married and have kids someday, even though my boyfriend’s constant indecision felt appropriately foreboding.

But what I didn’t realize at the time was that, despite my desperate determination to escape the margins of society, I never would.

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When I look back at my life, I see it everywhere: me on the outside, so diligently trying to get in.

As the eldest daughter in my family, I felt that I had to be a protector more than just one of the kids. Every job I’ve had has come with some weird circumstance that kept me from being a full part of the team. I even felt like an outsider in my romantic relationships, where I’d do my best to meet the needs of partners who demonstrated less and less care for me and our relationship as time went on.

I think we all find that the same themes unfold in our lives again and again, and that perhaps these experiences are lessons we are meant to master. One of the themes of my life that has presented itself with regularity is this archetypal journey of the outsider.

As I said, I’ve grown increasingly comfortable being on the outside, and in many ways, prefer it.

But at the same time, it wears on me, especially when it feels so far-reaching.

It’s hit me on many fronts this year, and right now, is showing up heavily in my work. Every time I think I find a place for my writing and an audience to whom I belong, the frantic pace of technology makes another round of drastic changes, and suddenly, I’m afloat in the cyberverse once again.

I always wanted to be a writer, but back in my teen years, I never envisioned that writing would look like this someday - desperately chasing algorithms in the hopes that my people would find me.

Or wondering if I even have people, at all. I often worry that I’ll never grow to a point of financial stability with my writing because I’m too far on the outside. Who is making the big bucks? Who gets the corporate sponsors? The lucrative book deals? Young, pretty women in their twenties and thirties. Women who are married with children. Women who are on the inside.

I will never get there, to that place where people are “normal.” And I’m content not to try anymore (for the most part). But are there enough women on the outside to keep my work afloat? I’m not so sure. We are, after all, a niche demographic. That’s both out greatest strength as well as the thing that makes us the most vulnerable.

Most people belong. Most people are “normal.” But we don’t and we aren’t. I’m often proud of that. And I’m often tired of it.

This feeling makes me think about the first time I saw Gillian Armstrong’s film adaptation of Little Women. I was 18, about to set off into the world with a dream of becoming a novelist, just like the heroine, Jo March. I understood her character so well.

In one scene, she’s frantically frustrated that, after a lifetime of trying so hard to fit in, she loses an opportunity she worked hard for to her little sister, Amy, a sister who mastered the art of normalcy. Jo’s entire future seems uncertain and stuck, and the one chance she had at being invited to the inside was suddenly ripped away from her.

I’ll never forget Marmee’s response: “Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life?”

To this day, it’s the best argument against normalcy that I’ve ever heard and I cling to it as my northern star.

But sometimes…sometimes, I get so tired of being on the outside. Wouldn’t it be amazing to experience the ordinary? A thriving career, a steady partner, cute kids, and maybe a fluffy dog, too.

Sometimes that seems like it would be so much easier than it is being out here.