For as long as I can remember, Wicked has been a part of my life’s soundtrack. I’ve seen it twice in Australia and once in London’s West End, and each time I walked away feeling seen, heard, and utterly shattered—in the best way. When the movie adaptation came out, I braced myself for the emotional rollercoaster.
But I wasn’t prepared for the depth of feeling Cynthia Erivo’s, Elphaba would stir in me. Her performance wasn’t just masterful; it was transcendent. I felt every defiant note, every aching word, every decision to push against a world that wanted to silence her. And as I watched, I couldn’t help but see myself.
Elphaba’s journey is my journey. It’s the journey of so many queer people raised in faith communities, wrestling with shame, rejection, betrayal, and ultimately, the liberating—if terrifying—choice to be true to yourself. But I didn’t just see myself in Elphaba. I saw my former friends in Glinda. Watching her choose loyalty to a broken system over loyalty to Elphaba brought back waves of pain: the rejection, the abandonment, the betrayal I felt at the hands of people I once trusted. People whose conditioning and fear tethered them to harmful systems, even when it cost them me.
Elphaba: The Courage to Defy Gravity
Let’s talk about Elphaba first, the green-skinned powerhouse who refuses to shrink. From the moment she enters the story, it’s clear that Elphaba doesn’t belong—not because of anything she’s done, but simply because of who she is. Her green skin marks her as other, a walking reminder of how society treats those who don’t fit the mould. The parallels to queerness, especially in religious spaces, are impossible to ignore.
Existing in faith communities, I was taught that difference was dangerous. My queerness was something to hide, suppress, or “heal.” I spent years trying to mould myself into something acceptable, desperately hoping that if I tried hard enough, I could blend in. But there comes a point where you can’t keep living for other people. Watching Elphaba’s transformation—from someone desperate to be accepted to someone who takes flight in Defying Gravity—felt like watching my own liberation.
When Elphaba belts, “I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game,” it’s not just a lyric. It’s a battle cry. I remember the moment I realised I couldn’t stay in my faith community any longer. I had spent so much time trying to be what they wanted, but no amount of self-sacrifice could make me enough. The rules were always shifting, the bar always rising. Like Elphaba, I had to stop trying to play their game and start creating my own.
Leaving was terrifying. I lost chosen family, friends, community, and the sense of certainty I’d clung to for so long. But what I gained was so much more valuable: the freedom to live as my full, queer self. Watching Cynthia Erivo bring that journey to life on screen was like being handed a mirror. It reminded me of the pain, yes, but also the joy of choosing myself.
Glinda: The Weight of Conditioning
And then there’s Glinda. Sweet, sparkling, and oh-so-trapped Glinda. At first glance, she seems like Elphaba’s opposite. Where Elphaba is bold and defiant, Glinda is desperate to conform. But what makes Glinda such a heartbreaking character is her struggle. You can see that she wants to break free, that she envies Elphaba’s bravery. But she’s so tangled up in the expectations of society, in her need to be seen as good, that she can’t bring herself to follow.
I’ve met so many Glindas in my life. People who loved me deeply but couldn’t stand beside me when I left the church, and choose to embrace my queer identity. Watching Glinda choose betrayal over bravery felt all too familiar. There’s a scene in the movie where you can see the pain on her face as she realises what her choices have cost her. She knows she’s losing Elphaba, but her conditioning is too strong.
Glinda as My Former Friends: The Pain of Betrayal
It wasn’t just Glinda’s inner conflict that struck me—it was how much she reminded me of my former friends. People who were once close, who I laughed with, cried with, and leaned on for support. People I thought would stand with me no matter what. But when I started to question the system we were all part of, when I made the decision to leave for my own survival, their conditioning and loyalty to that system became more important than me.
Glinda choosing the Wizard and the society she was raised in over Elphaba felt like watching those friendships unravel all over again. Like Glinda, my friends were too scared to let go of the safety and validation the system offered them. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about me—I know they did—but their conditioning was stronger than their love for me. They stayed, even though it meant turning their backs on me, even though it meant betrayal.
The rejection from those I once trusted cut deeper than almost anything else. It wasn’t just the loss of the friendship; it was the sting of knowing they chose the system over me. Watching Glinda’s sparkling smile falter as she realises the consequences of her choices brought back that ache. It was the same look I saw in my friends when they told me they couldn’t support me, that they couldn’t question the beliefs that were harming us both.
And yet, like Glinda, I know some of them didn’t fully understand what they were doing. They were trapped, too—trapped in the same system that tried to trap me. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it does make it a little easier to hold compassion for them, even as I grieve what we lost.
The Power of Reflection
As I watched Elphaba and Glinda’s stories unfold, I couldn’t help but see my own. Elphaba is who I was becoming as I left my faith community—a force of nature, unpolished but determined. Glinda is who I was when I still clung to the belief that I could belong if I just tried hard enough. And Glinda is also the people I left behind, the ones who couldn’t and wouldn’t make the leap with me.
The tension between these two characters is what makes Wicked so powerful. It’s not just a story about good and evil; it’s a story about choice. About how we decide who we are and what matters most. And for those of us who have had to leave behind faith communities, it’s a story about the cost of authenticity.
When you step out of the systems that have shaped you, you’re not just leaving a church or a belief system—you’re leaving an identity, a history, a community. It’s a kind of death. But it’s also a rebirth. Watching Elphaba rise into the sky during Defying Gravity, I felt that rebirth all over again.
Why Wicked Matters
For me, Wicked isn’t just a musical. It’s a mirror, a roadmap, and a reminder that we’re not alone. Elphaba’s defiance and Glinda’s struggle capture the messy, complicated journey of leaving behind what no longer serves you.
I think that’s why the movie hit me so hard. It wasn’t just the music or the visuals—though both were stunning—it was the way the story held space for all the contradictions of this journey. The pain and the joy. The losses and the gains. The fear and the freedom.
Watching Elphaba was a reminder that even when the world is against you, you can rise. You can fly. And watching Glinda reminded me to hold compassion for the people who haven’t found their wings yet – because that’s the person I choose to be.
So here’s to Wicked. Here’s to Elphaba, the one who reminds us to push back against harmful systems and stand up for the oppressed. And here’s to all of us who have had to defy gravity in our own lives. May we continue to rise, unapologetically.
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