• This mixture of nerves and novelty means she’s about to do something she cares about.
• It’s not about the presence of the feeling; it’s about how she reacts to it.
• She can let it pass through her, not paralyze her.

She wipes her sweaty palms on her ripped jeans and fiddles with the large gold button on her black blazer. Earlier, Suhani suggested she throw a blazer over her white T-shirt to look a little more polished. Suhani was right. The addition of the jacket does help Natasha feel put together, like someone who has important things to say.

Her Keds are soft against the wooden floor as she goes to the microphone. The buzz of conversation and clink of glasses become softer. Thank God for the two-drink minimum and her extra-strength deodorant.

The thick red curtains are parted to leave room for a microphone under a spotlight. A giant skull with red eyes hangs as a backdrop. Natasha walks toward the microphone. Shit, there are a lot of people here. A lot of quiet people. The smell of beer and burgers makes her stomach grumble.

“I wish we didn’t come for the open mic night. The real comedian nights here are so much better,” Natasha hears someone say. Another person agrees.

Ignore them, she tells herself. She tries to ignore the trembling in her hands, the beads of sweat collecting across her forehead.

But then another thought comes to mind. Maybe instead of ignoring the comments, she can use them.

“Hi.” She smiles. “So, I know some of you are disappointed that this isn’t one of those ‘Best of Atlanta’ nights . . . but you can get the fuck over it, okay?”

A ripple of laughter. Yes!

“I mean, do you people know how hard it is to be up here when you hate yourself?” Her grip is white-knuckled on the microphone. “And for anyone in here who has never hated themselves . . . first of all, you’re lying, and second, if you want to know what it feels like, you should try going to therapy with your family.”

“Woot! Woot!” Ifeoma and Payal cheer in the back corner.

They showed up, she thinks as relief settles over her. My girls always show up.

Their voices and outlines—Ifeoma’s curly hair and Payal’s pulled back in a tight bun—make Natasha’s breathing slow down. When they told Natasha they’d never miss one of her performances and asked why she hadn’t invited them before, she didn’t know what to say. That was one of the tricky parts of depression. It made her isolate when she needed the most support.

“Yep, those are my friends,” Natasha says. “Where the fuck would we be without those who take us for who we are, am I right?”

Some people clap, but otherwise, silence lingers over the crowd.

But she can’t let it scare her. She won’t.