On growing up, letting go of coolness, and finding yourself in the wrong Addams
The Dream
When I was younger, I wanted to be cool and mysterious.
I wanted to be Wednesday.
Specifically: Christina Ricci’s Wednesday. Deadpan. Central. Still. A child who never flinched and never explained herself. She didn’t need to perform charm or softness. She was sharp, contained, and unknowable. I wanted that kind of power. The kind that comes from silence.
If I’m honest, I also wanted to be Morticia. Angelica Huston’s Morticia, to be exact. Elegant. Serene. Untouchable. The sort of woman who moves through the world like she already knows how everything ends, and is fine with it.
That felt like the dream.
Composed.
Graceful.
Above it all.
What I Mistook for Strength
When you’re younger, it’s easy to mistake restraint for strength. To believe that if you could just be quieter, cooler, more contained, you’d finally be safe. That people wouldn’t see too much, ask too much, or expect too much.
The problem, of course, is that Wednesday stays a child forever.
And Morticia, despite the stillness, is not quiet at all. She is calm, yes — but she is also deeply, theatrically alive.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that.
The Family, Not the Centre
Growing up means learning that the characters you admire are not always the ones you resemble. Sometimes they’re the ones you reach for because you think they’ll save you from yourself.
And the other thing I missed, for a long time, is that the Addams Family isn’t built around any one person being the centre.
It’s built around belonging.
The family is huge. There’s room for everyone. Even the strange ones. Especially the strange ones. No one has to shrink to fit. No one has to justify their weirdness. It’s assumed. It’s welcomed.
My hair was far too frizzy to be Cousin Itt.
My cooking is significantly better than Grandmama’s.
And poor Pugsley — everyone forgets him, which feels unfair, because someone has to be quietly doing their best in the background.
I tried on all of them at some point. Morticia’s composure. Wednesday’s silence. Even, briefly, the idea that being aloof would make me safer.
It didn’t.
The Realisation
Because the truth I eventually arrived at is this:
I’m Gomez.
I am theatrical. I am earnest. I am all-in on the things I love. I have passions, and I honour other people’s passions too, even when I don’t understand them. Especially then. I try not to punch down. I do my best not to mock sincerity. I believe devotion is a virtue.
Gomez is ridiculous, yes. But he is also deeply principled. He knows exactly who he is. He loves fiercely. He shows up with enthusiasm and flourish and zero embarrassment about the size of his feelings.
That’s the part I couldn’t see when I was younger. I thought being taken seriously meant being restrained. I thought coolness was the goal.
But safety didn’t come from being untouchable.
It came from being seen and loved loudly.
There is relief in realising you don’t have to be the still, sharp centre of the room. That you can be the one gesturing wildly at the edges. That you can care too much, feel too deeply, laugh too loudly, and still be held.
The Release
The release, I think, is this:
Donnez-moi la joie.
Donnez-moi le chaos.
Donnez-moi tout.
Oh, ’Tish. That’s French.
Give me passion and theatrical nonsense and love without irony or shame.
I don’t need to be cool and mysterious anymore.
I just need to be home.