This post is part of my Saturday Morning Life Lessons series, where I mine the 80s cartoons of my childhood for the emotional wisdom no one expected them to have. If you want more nostalgia-fueled truth bombs, you can check out the full lineup.
Want to hear this post instead of reading it? Just hit the play button below, and I’ll happily read it out loud for you.
Saturday mornings always make me feel like the world is a little softer, like the sun is willing to give us a do-over even if we spent the whole week running around like a cartoon character whose outline never fully connected. Which brings me to the muse for today’s life lesson: Jem. Yes, that Jem. Pink hair, killer outfits, the original hologram queen.
If you grew up anywhere near the Xennial era, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Jem — CEO by day, pop star by night. Honestly, she might have been the first woman I ever saw living a full-blown double life without the courtesy of a nap. And she did it flawlessly. Never a smudge of eyeliner. Never a stray wig hair. She managed her record label responsibilities, protected her secret identity, led a band, navigated endless interpersonal drama, and still had the audacity to hit every note in platform heels.
Honestly, that’s just rude.
But the older I get, the more I realize Jem wasn’t aspirational. She was a walking, singing cautionary tale wrapped in glitter. Because let’s be honest: no human person can live like that without short-circuiting. And if you’ve ever tried to “do it all,” you know exactly what I mean. Every working woman I know has their own version of the hologram projector tucked somewhere in their emotional purse. We toggle between our roles — the polished professional, the present parent, the dependable partner, the good friend, the functioning human being — all while desperately hoping no one notices when the hologram flickers.
And it does flicker. Even if we hate admitting it.
There’s the moment you’re answering work emails in the school pickup line while trying to remember if anyone fed the dog. The moment you show up to a meeting with that suspicious combination of dry shampoo confidence and existential dread. The moment you’re trying to be supportive, charming, productive, emotionally available, hydrated, and well-rested, and you suddenly feel like a glitchy 80s cartoon character whose voice and animation are slightly out of sync.
It’s not the big moments that wear us down. It’s the constant shapeshifting. The emotional Quick-Change Act nobody warned us was basically the unofficial job description of adulthood.
And the wild thing? We treat it like it’s normal. Expected. Required. Like we’re supposed to flip between identities as casually as Jem touching her earring and saying, “Showtime, Synergy!” Meanwhile, we’re muttering, “Showtime, caffeine,” and hoping for the best.
Jem had holograms. We have to build our personas manually. It’s a lot harder. And honestly way less sparkly.
But here’s the thing I keep coming back to: Jem’s real magic was never the tech. It was that she kept going even when the transformation wasn’t seamless. Even when the plot got messy. Even when the glam glittered a little too hard in the wrong spots. She kept showing up imperfectly — which is honestly the part I relate to the most.
I spent so much of my twenties and thirties believing that balance meant mastering all my roles evenly. Turns out balance actually looks like a toddler’s attempt at stacking building blocks: wobbly, crooked, and occasionally collapsing in a heap. And yet, somehow, we think we’re supposed to do it with pop-star grace.
The truth is simple in that annoying, uncomfortable way truth tends to be: you cannot live a double life forever without burning out. You can’t be all things to all people without something glitching. And when you stretch yourself too thin, your hologram will flicker. And that’s not proof you’re failing. It’s proof you’re human.
Sometimes your “CEO-by-day” vibe wobbles. Sometimes your “pop-star-by-night” energy taps out by 6 p.m. Sometimes your “on top of everything” persona stops mid-sentence and can’t remember why it walked into the kitchen. None of these are moral failures. They’re signs that you’re doing a lot — maybe too much — and the wiring is trying to keep up.
And look, I love us. Working women, parents, partners, caretakers, creatives, leaders. We are truly outrageous. We are also truly exhausted.
But what if that’s not a bad thing to admit? What if instead of protecting the illusion that we can flawlessly shapeshift between every version of ourselves, we let people see a few reality pixels? What if we’re allowed to say, “Hey, I’m doing my best, but my hologram is flickering today. Please stand by.”
I don’t think Jem ever said that. But she should have. Imagine the impact that could’ve had on us as kids — seeing a woman who did it all say, “Hold up, this is too much.” It would’ve been revolutionary.
Our generation grew up believing multitasking was a personality trait, not a survival mechanism. Society told us we could have it all, which somehow translated to we must do it all. Perfectly. With lip gloss. And a smile. And a well-organized calendar. Preferably color-coded.
No wonder we’re tired.
But here’s the plot twist: maybe the hologram flickering is the most honest moment of all. It’s the moment the version of you that’s been hustling says, “I need rest,” and the real you finally listens. It’s the moment something breaks down just enough that you’re forced to rebuild in a way that actually supports your life rather than fractures it.
Because yes, you can be the multi-hyphenate. You can be the leader, the creator, the nurturer, the friend. You can wear the sparkly shoes. But you also get to take them off. You get to unplug the hologram for a minute. You get to drop the transformation sequence and just exist in the quiet space between personas.
And maybe — wild thought — that’s where the truest version of you actually lives. Not in the seamless switch. Not in the flawless performance. But in the flicker.
So if this week has left you glitchy, overwhelmed, a little smudged around the edges, or feeling like your personal hologram is running on low battery, come sit by me. You are not the only one trying to keep the light show going for everyone around you. You are not the only one who has reached the end of your transformation sequence and thought, “Okay, but what if I just didn’t?”
You are doing the best you can. Your hologram is allowed to glitch. Your personas are allowed to blur. Your energy is allowed to dip below “truly outrageous.” The world won’t end if you stop being magical for a minute.
Honestly, you might even find out the world loves you just as much — maybe more — without the hologram.
And that, my friend, is a Saturday morning lesson worth carrying into your week, glitter optional.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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