Amanda Mayhem writes at the intersection of personal narrative, urban culture, and social consciousness. In “Overwhelmingly Happy”, she captures the subtle joys and transformative moments of daily life in Santa Fe, blending vivid observation with reflective insight. The essay moves seamlessly between self-reflection, social commentary, and cultural context, inviting readers to explore how environment, memory, and community shape experience. Amanda’s voice is immersive, dynamic, and distinctive—personal yet universal, precise yet poetic—making her work ideal for literary magazines, cultural publications, and outlets seeking essays that illuminate both place and perspective. “Overwhelmingly Happy” exemplifies her ability to turn lived experience into compelling, polished prose that resonates with thoughtful, engaged audiences.

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A Seat at the Jean Cocteau

Jean Cocteau Cinema in Santa Fe, New Mexico, has a way of pulling me in gently. I’d gathered the courage to return, remembering how it felt to step through those doors weeks earlier just to “check out the vibe.” What I found then—and rediscovered today—was a space that holds a certain quiet magic. It’s an easy place to disappear into the low hum of background conversations, a blend of anonymity and warmth. The music and low-key energy feel like a soft invitation to breathe.

Years ago, this was the very theater where I poured myself into organizing a screening and meet-and-greet with the director and producers of The True Cost. It was a keystone moment in my social sustainability and justice work—an event that nearly broke me, not for lack of passion, but because it took everything I had. The turnout was painfully small, but the people who helped me pull it off reminded me that shared purpose can hold a lot of weight, even when numbers don’t.

Today, I rounded the corner to the reception and bar area and was met by Matt’s warm, practiced ease. His effortless kindness caught me off guard, a moment amplified by the small bowl of “medical stuff” I’d finished moments before. My cheeks burned with gratitude and shyness. I hadn’t planned to write about this place, but it’s as if the walls themselves invite reflection. Maybe I believe, superstitiously, that proximity to George R. R. Martin’s creative world will rub off on me by osmosis.

Bright decorations, classic movie posters, and the energy of the adjoining bookstore—where writing workshops and literary conversations thrive—wrap the space in a creative hum. It’s a perfect place to exhale.

Memory, Mind, and Space

My brain tends to loop on old moments, replaying what I could have said or done differently. But here, in Santa Fe, I can feel some of those reflexes loosening. I can catch myself before the spiral. I can feel a little more at home.

Outside, I light another discreet smoke and take in the neighborhood’s pristine brick buildings and cozy shops. The contrast between that quiet opulence and the reality of living in a shelter doesn’t escape me. It reminds me of my teenage years in Aspen, dressed in black, haunting the streets, eating crepes, and never quite feeling the cold. Even then, strangers extended small kindnesses: a jacket, a scarf, a bit of warmth. I never forgot that.

Santa Fe holds that same kind of layered contradiction—elegance and struggle coexisting in the same frame.

Conversations That Linger

On my way here, I spoke with a colleague who told me, almost proudly, that he had already voted for Trump. He was certain World War III was inevitable. I listened, absorbing his fears, even when I disagreed. I’ve always been a pacifist. My foundation was laid at Antioch College, in a Peace Studies course taught by Patricia Mische, who spent her life teaching nonviolent action and working with the United Nations.

She taught us that nonviolence doesn’t mean an absence of harm—but it can mean the presence of courage. Her class cracked something open in me. It made me question not just power, but how societies choose to wield it.

I describe myself as “intensely left,” though I’ve walked through enough scenes—from street punks to political salons—to see how labels blur. At my core, I believe in dismantling oppressive structures with intention, not just tearing things down. I don’t trust rulers or fascists. I trust organizers, builders, and communities who choose to protect the most vulnerable.

The Weight of Inheritance

I grew up in a racist household. I was taught about “freedom” in the same breath that justified control. My mother believed science was of the Devil; I believed it showed how God did it all. As a child, I was labeled “prophetic” because I could sense things others missed. It wasn’t divine. It was survival.

I also grew up in the church—until I was excommunicated at 13 after being abused. Women told me I was “lucky” it was a “man of God.” I learned early how language can be weaponized, how faith can be twisted. It’s why I respect the faithful but keep my distance from institutions. It’s why I name things clearly, before anyone tries to “not all churches” me.

Only recently did I fully understand that my mother’s “discipline” was waterboarding. At 43, I am still piecing myself back together, memory by memory, truth by truth. Writing is part of that return.

This is why spaces like Jean Cocteau matter to me. They’re more than creative sanctuaries—they are anchors.

Choosing Presence

As I order another glass of wine, I think about how good it feels to choose where I sit. How lucky I am to live at the only ADA-compliant shelter in New Mexico, surrounded by people with stories that command attention. They are complex, fierce, and brilliant. And this is only the beginning of the stories I plan to tell.

I will keep showing up here to write. I will keep gathering the threads. And maybe, just maybe, something extraordinary will grow out of this quiet, buzzing room.

#journal #santafe #writinglife #survivorstories #politics #peace

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