The Courage to Be Called Wicked: Because sometimes the villain is the truth-teller.
- Dec 1
- 8 min read
Just a few days ago, I had the most amazing mother and daughter afternoon! We went to see Wicked: For Good, and we were both absolutely thrilled. I even got us matching pajamas and bracelets to celebrate. After the movie, so many parts lingered in my mind long after the credits rolled. Maybe it's because I didn’t just watch a movie — I experienced a reflection, a reminder, a story that feels as timeless as it is relevant today.
As I sat there, I couldn't help but think about the steps we take in life — the ones we cherish, the ones that go unnoticed, and the ones that are misunderstood — and how all of them weave together to tell a story. My story. Our story. The story of humanity.
And somehow… Wicked captured it all.
Elphaba: The Girl Marked “Different” Before She Could Even Speak
Elphaba enters the world already “wrong” in the eyes of others. Her green skin becomes her introduction before she ever has the chance to show her heart. Even her own father struggles to look at her simply because she is not what he expected — or wanted.
To people like her parents, Elphaba wasn’t what the world would consider beautiful.
Different meant flawed.
Different meant less.
Different meant bad.
But despite all that, she has something no one else does —an ability to see the truth and the courage to challenge it.
She wants to protect the animals, stand up for justice, and ask the questions others are too afraid to voice.
She isn’t wicked.
She’s aware.
And when I think about Elphaba, I can’t help but see a little bit of her spirit in my daughter.
My daughter dares to be different. She has no desire to blend in, no interest in shrinking herself just to match someone else’s definition of “normal.” She speaks up when something feels wrong, even if she’s the only one willing to say it out loud.
Sometimes people give her those familiar, uncomfortable looks — the kind that say, “Why can’t you just be like everyone else?” She dresses in ways that feel authentic to her, bright and bold and completely her own. And she’s told me that some girls won’t talk to her because of it.
But my daughter, in her own strong, beautiful way, simply says,
“I’m not changing for anyone.”
And that kind of courage — the courage to stay true to yourself in a world that rewards conformity — is powerful.
In Wicked, this makes Elphaba a threat to people who benefit from silence, from sameness, from keeping things exactly as they are.
Glinda: The Girl Loved By All Yet Still Longing to Be Chosen
Glinda shines in all the ways Oz celebrates. The friends, the attention, the spotlight — she has it all. But she also has something else:
A deep craving to be accepted by the “right” people. To be praised. Approved. Selected.
I mean, isn’t that something we all want?
To be liked.
To be accepted.
To feel like we belong somewhere.
We spend so much of our lives trying to squeeze ourselves into the version of “normal” that the world tells us is good. And sometimes, without even realizing it, we start shrinking or stretching pieces of ourselves just to fit in.
I know I have.
There have been so many moments when I stepped outside of who I really was, hoping someone would look at me and think, “Yes… she’s one of us.”
It shows up in the little things — the way we talk, the way we style our hair, the clothes we buy. Things that once felt natural to us suddenly feel “wrong” when we’re standing in front of people whose approval we think we need.
I remember a time when baggy clothes were my comfort.
They were my style, my expression, the way I felt most myself.
I wore five or six bracelets on each arm, kept my hair tossed up in a bun, and I never held back from saying something silly just to make someone smile.
But slowly, I started to feel the weight of being different.
The subtle glances.
The feeling of not measuring up.
The quiet pressure to smooth out the parts of me that didn’t fit neatly into the group I wanted so badly to belong to.
The people I hung around with were already considered “outcasts,” and I didn’t want that label assigned to me too. So, piece by piece, I traded in who I was for who I thought they wanted me to be.
And just like that, I changed my identity — not because I outgrew it, not because it no longer felt right, but because acceptance felt more important than authenticity.
Glinda bends herself over and over again, chasing Madam Morrible's approval like its oxygen. But what she really wants is what Elphaba seems to carry so effortlessly — purpose, meaning, and a calling bigger than herself.
Glinda has the world’s approval, but not her own. Elphaba has her own truth, but not the world’s.
And in their friendship, we see the tension between conformity and authenticity — a tension so many of us know well.
Madame Morrible & the Wizard: The Systems That Choose Their Own “Truth”
Then there are the power brokers — the Wizard and Madame Morrible — who manipulate narratives like puppeteers. They elevate Glinda not because of her heart, but because she looks the part. She fits the story they want Oz to believe.
Meanwhile, they fear Elphaba because they cannot control her. Her uniqueness is a threat. Her power is inconvenient. Her questions are dangerous.
When Elphaba dared to write the words “Our Wizard Lies” as a cry for truth, Madame Morrible twisted them into “Oz Dies” before anyone could see what Elphaba had actually written. It was a deliberate act of sabotage — a way to brand her as wicked, to make her look like a villain instead of a truth-teller. Morrible knew the Wizard’s secret, yet she chose to protect him, working hand-in-hand to preserve the illusion.
And when Elphaba confronted the Wizard directly, asking him to tell the truth, he refused. His reasoning was chilling: the people of Oz would never believe him. They didn’t want the truth — they wanted something to believe in. And so, he admitted, they would believe his lie.
So instead of honoring her truth, they rewrite it. They brand her wicked.
And the people — hungry for something to believe in — accept the story without hesitation.
Doesn’t that sound familiar? It echoes our current administration, where lies are told so often that they become the accepted narrative. People continue to follow and believe, not because the lies are convincing, but because whatever else they once believed in didn’t work — and somehow, this does.
If I had to label someone in this story as wicked, it would be Madame Morrible. She is the one who tried to change everyone's of not only each other but within themselves.
It’s About Anyone Who Dares to Break the Pattern
Yes, this story mirrors deeply the experience of Black women and women of color — misunderstood, mislabeled, and asked to give endlessly without ever being fully seen. In both Wicked and Wicked for Good, Elphaba was asked to join, to “fall in line.” She was asked to be the voice, not because they valued her truth, but because she could read the Grimmerie. Her gift made her useful, but not cherished. She was treated as an object — someone special only insofar as she could serve the purposes of others.
That dynamic is painfully familiar. Too often, women of color are elevated for their labor, their resilience, their ability to carry systems on their backs — but rarely honored for their humanity. They are asked to lend their brilliance, their strength, their voice, while being denied the dignity of being fully seen and fully heard. We are often called loud.
"Loud" is a word I tend to avoid. It's often what I say to my kids when they're joyfully yelling and screaming during playtime. "Loud" is a term that can be used to diminish someone's spirit.
But Elphaba’s story also speaks to anyone who dares to challenge the systems around them. Anyone who refuses to stay silent. Anyone who recognizes that “the way things have always been” is not the same as what is right.
People who rise, question, challenge, disrupt — these are the ones who get called wicked in every generation.
Change is uncomfortable for those who benefit from the way things are. And so, the people who bring change often become the villain before they become the truth.
The Ending: When Glinda Finally Finds Her Voice
What struck me most was the ending. After everything — the lies, the manipulation, the branding of Elphaba as evil — Glinda finally sees, or rather accepts, the truth she ignored for so long.
She faces the Wizard and tells him to leave. She sends Madame Morrible to prison. She steps into her own power instead of withholding it.
But I couldn’t help wondering:
Was it too late?
Did her awakening come only after Elphaba was already gone? How many times do we wake up to truth after we’ve already lost something precious?
Because lies, hurt, and pain don’t just wound the one who carries them — they ripple outward, harming others too. Nessa, desperate to keep Boq by her side, changed the traveling rules so he could never leave. And when he admitted his love for Glinda and his desire to attend her wedding, Nessa used an unfamiliar spell that twisted him into the Tin Man — a figure with no heart. Her pain became his curse.
Elphaba, too, tried to use her power to save Fiyero after he was captured. But her spell, meant to protect him, transformed him into the Scarecrow. Her love became his burden.
These moments remind us that even when intentions are rooted in love or desperation, the misuse of truth and power can reshape lives in ways we never intended.
Glinda’s transformation was beautiful, but it was also a lesson:
Silence may keep us safe for a moment, but it costs us something deeper in the long run. Lies may feel like protection, but they leave scars that spread far beyond ourselves.
So, What About Me? A Mom. A Wife. A Woman Walking Her Own Yellow Brick Road.
Watching Wicked made me reflect on my own journey — the pieces of myself that have been misunderstood, the moments when I stayed quiet to keep the peace, and the times I spoke up even when my voice shook.
As a wife, I’ve learned that truth and partnership grow stronger when we honor who we really are, not just who we are expected to be.
As a mother of three, I carry the weight and the privilege of teaching my children that being “different” is sacred — that their truth is not something to shrink to fit someone else’s comfort. I want them to know that being brave can look messy, lonely, or misunderstood… but it’s still worth it.
And as a woman navigating this world — this political climate, this culture of labels and narratives — I feel the tension between being Glinda and being Elphaba. Between wanting to be liked and wanting to be free. Between following the script and writing my own story.
What I’ve learned is this:
We don’t have to wait until the end of the story to find our voice.
We don’t have to wait for permission to stand in our truth. We don’t have to let the world tell us who we are.
Every step we take — even the hard ones — tells the story of who we are becoming.
And maybe, just maybe, being called wicked is not the worst thing. Maybe it means you are brave enough to disrupt the wrong things. Maybe it means you are changing the system, not serving it. Maybe it means you are finally stepping into the power that was yours all along.
🌟 WICKED
W – Wisdom: the courage to seek and speak truth, even when it’s unpopular.
I – Integrity: standing firm in values, refusing to bend to lies or manipulation.
C – Compassion: leading with empathy, seeing the humanity in others.
K – Knowledge: using insight and learning as tools for empowerment.
E – Empowerment: lifting yourself and others to rise above systems of control.
D – Determination: the resolve to keep pushing for justice, even when branded “wicked.”
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