I met Margeaux Feldman here on Substack. Usually, at least for me, it’s strange to meet people on the internet. I’m an in-person type of gal. I want to know what you smell like, how tall you are, what your body language is saying in the moments where words fail us. The internet steals some of that. Zoom, especially, has become this easy extension of our hiding.
But with Margeaux, it was different. They hopped on Zoom and suddenly there we both were—standing in front of each other, somehow not disconnected by the screen between us, but fully present, fully there. Almost instantly, we slipped into conversation like old friends, two people moving through the strange tenderness of publishing debuts in 2025 and all the vulnerable, epic, disorienting things that come with that. Their book, Touch Me, I’m Sick, came out in September. Mine arrived a few months before, in July.
In reading Margeaux’s work, I was delighted. The central question in so much of what they write seems to be: In a world that works to oppress and divide us, how do we care for one another and ourselves? What an essential and extraordinary question. One that I think all of us should be asking ourselves more often.
In my internet stalk of them, I was also introduced to their Instagram — @softcoretrauma— which is full of spot-on memes and thoughtful conversation about the implications and whiplash of trauma, anxiety, and the human condition. This meme, in particular, which reads “sorry for not texting back, my body was too busy keeping the score,” made its way to every single one of my group chats.
It was one of those tiny internet moments that opened into something larger, something that makes you want to follow the thread. What follows is exactly that — the rabbithole of Margeaux’s literary mind. Below, you’ll find our conversation about books, about life, about the tenderness that is required to keep on keeping on.
ON THE SHELF
Tell me your origin story as a person. I already know “what you do,” tell me who you are!
I think I’ve always had this interest in why we do the things that we do—especially in our relationships. How do we harm each other? How do we love each other better?
Originally, I wanted to be a criminal psychologist. I grew up watching Law & Order, CSI, all those shows, and I thought I was going to work with serial killers and psychopaths. I went to university as a criminology and psychology double major, but it turned out my brain doesn’t work well with the way science is traditionally taught. So I was like, “Okay… what now?”
I took some English lit classes—because that was what I’d always loved—and realized literature was a way to explore the exact questions I was asking. Characters became case studies. And because authors feel connected to the characters they write, I felt invited into these intimate examinations of why people behave the way they do.
So literature became my door into understanding harm, intimacy, and choice.
And so, literature really became this way for me to think about why we do the things that we do, especially in our interpersonal relationships, and what it looks like to make different choices.
Mmm. I like that. I think you’re kind of asking the question around autonomy — are we sort of predestined in a way to make choices? Will our past always determine our future? Where do you think those questions came from?
Honestly, probably from needing to understand myself. I grew up with a lot emotional and mental harm from my dad, but I didn’t have the language for it. And like we do with trauma, I replicated what was familiar. I hurt people too.
I think I see now that trying to understand “monsters,” for example, in crime shows was really me trying to understand myself. And what I realized was that these people, no matter how extreme their actions, were humans with trauma. I was also a person with trauma. And shame wasn’t helping me transform; it was actually holding me hostage.
So from that I think extending compassion to people who’d done “the worst things” helped me extend compassion to myself. That’s why I’m drawn to messy characters—people making painful choices that you want to judge, but you can see yourself in them. When I read [messy characters] I resonate with them in some way shape or form, and my initial insinct is to push away. I want to judge, I want to resist — but doing that is actually judging and resisting myself.
Interesting — so would you say then that your origin story begins with a journey to acknowledge your trauma?
That’s really tricky. I used to think yes, actually, My MFA thesis was literally about this—trying to understand the point where my wounding and my wanting became linked. I used to think it started with my mom’s death when I was eleven. But then I went back into my own archive—old journals, old poems—and found a poem called Heart Bet (which honestly might have been a misspelling of heart beat, but whatever I love Heart Bet). There was no date on it but based on the handwriting I must’ve been seven or eight years old. And in this poem, there it was — unrequited love, chasing someone who didn’t want me but I loved so much. What I started to realize was that there was some sense of wounding and wanting there already. It had taken shape long before I had the “right” language for my trauma. And from that, I’ve realized there was a period where I knew things instincutally, but I just didn’t have words yet. It wasn’t until later where the language finally arrived.
Are you a reader?
Yeah. For sure.
When did that start?
For as long as I can remember. That was something my mom really nurtured. The Scholastic Book Fair was basically the peak of my childhood. I read recreationally until my teenage years, when I only read for school, but reading was never a chore. It was escape and an education.
I think learned ethics from books. I never had clear lessons at home about equity or how to treat others, so I’m like… where did that come from? From reading!
Under what conditions does reading feel like absolute magic to you? What are your rituals, your terms + conditions for reading?
I always have multiple books going at once because I have different reading needs. Books I’m learning from—research-y books—require daytime brain power. Anything experimental also has to happen before it gets dark.
At night I read things that are narratively straightforward—fiction or nonfiction—but nothing too experimental or too trauma-heavy. I’m doing personal work right now, so reading about trauma is harder than usual, even though that’s normally my favorite category.
I need quiet. If I’m in public, it has to be a coffee shop where noise blends into a sort of hum. And ideally, I’m cozy—on my couch, in bed, or on a blanket in the park where I can spread out.
What’s the first book you fell in love with?
I can’t pinpoint the earliest, I have a trouble sometimes with early memories, but I can say that around age 13 I read She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb, and before that I loved Shel Silverstein and Nothing’s Fair in Fifth Grade [by Barthe DeClements] — I still have a very tattered copy of that book.
Was there a book that changed your mind or made you see the world differently?
Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble. I never really understood the gender binary, and I’ve always just been attracted to who I’m attracted to. But growing up in the ‘90s suburbs, I didn’t have language for any of that. Her articulation that gender is performative was like a light bulb for me. I was like… Oh. This is fake. It’s all made up.
It opened the door to play, to seeing possibility. I remained very femme until recently—I’m 40 now—but that book helped me see that if I wanted to fuck with gender, I could. It took years until I felt comfortable doing it, but that book was part of that path.
Like every good book, life has big plot twists. What’s the biggest plot twist in your life? And is there a book that was on your shelf to get you through it?
Ooo my biggest plot twist. I think it was my first big breakup, right as I started my PhD. This was the person I thought I’d marry. It was late 20s, Saturn return energy and they completely pulled the rug from under me. It was my first safe, healthy partnership, and the first time I really grieved a relationship.
Two books carried me during that time:
Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart — My therapist recommended it and I hated it because it’s all about surrendering control. Trauma loves control. Whiteness loves control. Everything in me resisted, but it shifted my thinking.
Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter — She’s amazing. So many people don’t know about her so this is my plug for her. She was writing in the 20th century as a queer woman in the south, inspired by William Faulkner and other gothic writers. She wrote The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter when she was in her early twenties. It’s about misfits in a small town looking for love. I’d read books about intimacy before, but something about immersing myself in that beautiful, strange world made me feel less alone in my heartbreak and search for intimacy.
another stunning shelf!
A book that should be required reading?
Toni Morrison’s Beloved. For the subject matter, yes, but also for the sentences. They’re masterful. I’ve taught it many times, and every time I re-read it I end up making these involuntary guttural noises because the writing is that good. You can feel that she thought about every single sentence.
If you could only re-read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Wuthering Heights. It’s so heartbreaking. These messy characters you shouldn’t even like, but you’re rooting for them anyway. They make excruciating choices—like all of us do. They’re trapped by circumstance, by the world they’re in.
It’s not the model of love I want for us, but it feels real. And my Cancer sun in the eighth house loves the idea of lovers figuring out how to be together as ghosts after death. I know Jacob Elordi is playing Heathcliff in the new adaptation. He’s great, but Heathcliff is supposed to be brown? And that racial dynamic is central to the story. Still, I’ll watch it. Anyway, I could reread that book forever.
The last book you read?
Soft Core by Brittany Newell. It’s about a woman in her mid-to-late 20s who’s a sex worker working in a strip club. She lives with her ex, who’s a drug dealer, and he goes missing. It becomes this story about how she copes (or doesn’t cope) with his disappearance, and you get deep into the underbelly of various worlds connected to sex work. It’s phenomenal.
And at last! I play this game with everyone I talk to, asking about what they are obsessed with or curious about, and then I send them a book in the mail. What’s your obsession right now?
Well…. I have been newly introduced to the MTV show Catfish. I watch a lot of reality dating TV because I’m fascinated by relationships, but Catfish surprised me. Usually, someone has been lying, but the reason is almost always the same: they’re starved for connection.
And the hosts (two white cishet men!) approach people with so much emotional intelligence. They actually want to understand the person who lied, hold them accountable, and also honor the connection both people felt. It’s basically transformative justice disguised as reality TV.
I’m obsessed. I’m on season five.
That’s all for today! This Thursday, I’ll reveal our next guest, share where Margeaux’s rabbit hole led me, the bookstore I went to, and what I bought for them. Subscribe to follow the thread!
See you next week on the shelf!
xx
Natalie