Critics are calling the climax of American Horror Story's latest episode a grotesque endpoint for true-crime IP. I call it the exact energy I am bringing into my next wellness retreat.
I was absolutely at the end of my capacity on Thursday. My parasympathetic nervous system was in tatters after my pilates instructor used a slightly aggressive tone during cool-down, and my algorithm had spent the entire afternoon serving me exhausting, low-vibration news alerts. I needed a ritual. I needed a soft launch into the weekend. So, I drew a bath, poured a glass of aggressively unfiltered orange wine, and put on season 13, episode 7 of American Horror Story.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer, unapologetic somatic healing of the episode’s climax. When Madison Montgomery leaned over the freshly immolated, still-sizzling corpse of notorious serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer to light her cigarette off his glowing ribcage, I didn't just gasp. I felt my cortisol levels instantly regulate.
There is something deeply cathartic about watching a conventionally attractive woman repurpose the charred remains of a historically devastating cannibal for minor aesthetic utility. We are always told to hold space for others, to process the macro-traumas of the true-crime industrial complex with reverence and gravity. But what if the ultimate form of self-care is simply using the Milwaukee Cannibal as a bespoke Zippo?
I brought this up on Saturday at an intimate dinner party I was hosting for a few founders in the adaptogenic mushroom space. Over bowls of heritage-grain risotto, the consensus was unanimous. We have spent the last decade doing the work, going to therapy, and apologizing for our carbon footprints. Madison’s crisp inhalation of Turkish tobacco, filtered through the smoldering connective tissue of a man who kept heads in his refrigerator, felt like a cultural permission slip to finally put ourselves first.
Naturally, I texted my spiritual advisor about the somatic resonance of the scene, and she immediately understood the assignment.
When a woman bypasses the expected emotional labor of witnessing a serial killer’s demise and instead pivots directly to light respiratory gratification, she reclaims the narrative of the patriarchy’s carbon output.
She is entirely right, of course. For too long, we have allowed toxic figures to dictate our energy. By reducing Dahmer to a functional heat source, Ryan Murphy’s script isn't just delivering television; it is offering us a masterclass in establishing non-negotiables. The corpse is no longer a monument to terror. It is merely a convenience. It is a tool for romanticizing one's evening.
I have spent the last three days meditating on how to bring this exact energy into my daily life. I obviously cannot literally set a 1990s sociopath on fire every time I need to light my Diptyque Baies candle. But I can emotionally replicate the process.
When an acquaintance I am slowly phasing out of my life texted to ask why she wasn't invited to my upcoming desert retreat in Joshua Tree, I didn't engage in a draining back-and-forth. I simply left her on read, imagined her grievances bursting into flames, and used the residual warmth to visualize my five-year financial goals.
Critics of the episode have called the scene tasteless and a grim reminder of how Hollywood sanitizes real-world tragedy. These are, frankly, the complaints of people who do not know how to curate their peace. If your immediate reaction to a woman finding a sliver of joy over a burning murderer is to police her behavior, I implore you to unpack that.
As we move into the colder months, I am making a commitment to myself. I will no longer let the heavy, dark realities of the world drag down my personal vibration. If a situation does not serve me, I will burn it to the ground, and I will use the embers to touch up my lip gloss. We all deserve a little light.