Sequins and Shadows

Sequins and Shadows

There are moments in life that stop you in your tracks—moments when a stranger’s words, their unexpected wisdom, change the way you see the world.

It was early Sunday morning when I pulled up outside a Beltline nightclub, waiting for my next passenger. The door swung open, and Jenny Lee made her entrance—or rather, her valiant attempt to get into my VW Taos. The car isn’t exactly tiny, but fitting a 7-foot drag queen in full glam is a feat in itself. She maneuvered her long legs carefully, making sure not to slam anything in the door. Once she settled, the car felt smaller. Her presence filled it, larger than life—almost outgrowing even the spacious backseat.

“You must be Daniel,” she declared with a knowing smile.

Only my mother and drag queens ever called me Daniel. But I kind of liked it. In my Uber, Daniel felt like an alternate version of myself, a character I played for a few hours each night. It added a certain charm to the role.

“Yes, but you can call me Dan,” I replied, catching her in the rearview mirror.

“Nope,” she said with a teasing grin. “I really can’t. You are definitely a Daniel to me.”

With her 6’6” frame—plus another six inches with the heels and hair—Jenny was impossible to miss. Her blonde tendrils framed a face still glowing from the night. Mascara clung to her lashes in clumps, a telltale sign of an evening nearing its end. But her sequined dress still shimmered in the glow of passing streetlights, and her energy was magnetic, unapologetic, entirely her own.

“Jenny Lee,” she said, extending a manicured hand.

“It’s really nice meeting you, Jenny Lee.”

She adjusted her purse, settling into the backseat. “People are more accepting in Madison,” she said. She was from one of those Wisconsin ‘Wau’ towns—Waukesha, Waunakee, Waupaca, or Wausau. Before I could guess which, Jenny pulled me back with her voice.

“Small-town charm doesn’t exactly scream sequins and stilettos,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m from a very conservative family. I just couldn’t dress like this anywhere but here.”

I nodded, charmed by her effortless candor.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I said, genuinely impressed by her confidence and style.

Jenny flashed a smile, clearly accustomed to turning heads. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re very kind.”

I shared that I wasn’t always super kind, and we laughed because, honestly, I do appreciate the kindness in myself—especially when it’s wrapped in Midwest sarcasm. I told her how, in 2008, I had cancer and only beat it because I was “too mean to die.” That got a hearty laugh from her. That line usually does in my Uber.

Talking about cancer seemed to open something up in her.

“I spent some time in federal prison—Terre Haute,” she said, her tone steady, as though the words no longer carried the weight they once did. “It saved my life, honestly. You don’t get to stay at rock bottom. Even with cockroaches and all.”

The words hit me harder than I expected, though I didn’t show it. There was something about the way she spoke, matter-of-factly, that made the experience sound almost surreal. A moment of rock bottom that became a turning point. I felt the weight of it—the rawness in her admission—and for a brief second, I imagined what it would take to find the strength to climb out of something that dark.

I thought about my own moments of hardship, and how Jenny's words made me realize that strength doesn't always come from erasing the past but learning to move forward despite it. That’s where the real transformation lies.

Then she added something that stuck with me:

“The next moment matters more than the one that broke you.”

I mulled over her words. There was something powerful in the simplicity of them. Life doesn’t often give us the luxury of moving past things easily, of neatly tying up our pain with a bow. But her words offered a different kind of perspective—a challenge, almost. To think that every moment after hardship, every new second, holds more potential than the one that shattered you. It felt like a quiet but profound reminder that resilience isn’t always about forgetting the past; sometimes, it’s about finding the courage to move forward despite it.

As we reached her hotel, she hesitated before opening the door. “Hey, you should come upstairs. We could keep chatting for a while.”

I gave a small, apologetic smile. “I’ve got to get going, Jenny. Maybe another time.”

She gave a nod, not pressing the matter further, but her eyes held something I couldn’t quite place.

As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror, but Jenny Lee was already a fading figure in the darkness. The hum of the engine filled the silence. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unfinished, something about her that didn’t quite add up. But maybe that’s just how it goes sometimes—one moment, someone leaves you with a thought that sticks, and the next, they're gone.