I’ve always loved The Wizard of Oz—the original 1939 version. I remember my mom showing it to me when I was little, or maybe I just caught it on TV. They used to play it every Thanksgiving on Turner Classic Movies. I vividly remember watching it as a child, my bedroom completely dark except for the glow of the TV. The grayscale flickered across my face as I sat back on my heels, chubby little cheeks wide and grinning, mesmerised as Dorothy stepped from grey into full Technicolor.
It wasn’t just the visuals that drew me in. Even at five years old, I felt a deep longing, a connection to Dorothy.
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can’t I?
That lyric cracked something open in me. Even at that age, I had already seen too much, felt too much, and I knew it.
As I got older, The Wizard of Oz kept showing up.
I was also obsessed with The Wiz—of course I was. A Black version of The Wizard of Oz? With Michael Jackson, my favourite singer of all time? It became just as beloved to me as the original.
In my senior year of high school, our school musical was The Wizard of Oz. Everyone had to audition for Dorothy to be considered for any role. I knew I wouldn’t get it. I was a decent singer but not confident enough to really nail “Over the Rainbow.” My voice cracked when I auditioned.
And this beautiful girl in my year looked like Judy Garland reincarnated and had the voice to match. Spoiler: She got Dorothy. I didn’t.
But I got a significant background role. Two other girls in the choir and I sang harmonies throughout the whole show: we were the background vocals, the poppies, the flying monkeys, everything. It was technically challenging: harmonising, matching the leads, and constant costume changes. But it was so much fun.
That show ended up being more significant than I realised. One of my lifelong friends came into my life because of it. He’d graduated the year before but returned to help with the production. I had just moved to Reno at that point, so we’d never met before, but The Wizard of Oz brought us together. We stayed friends for 20 years. That show changed my life.
Even as the years passed, I never stopped caring about Oz. I didn’t rewatch the movies repeatedly like I did as a kid, but I always stayed tuned in. I watched The Wiz! Live a few years back. It was okay. I’ve listened to dozens of “Over the Rainbow” covers on Spotify. And, of course, I’ve seen Wicked—the movie version, not the stage musical (somehow, I’ve missed it every time it’s come to a city near me).
When I finally watched Wicked, I saw myself in Elphaba. For once, I didn’t relate to Dorothy; I related to the so-called Wicked Witch. But that’s the whole point of Wicked, isn’t it?
I came out of a really deep depression in 2024.
One of the ways I coped was going back to childhood loves—mainly Michael Jackson (I’m working on a piece about this, too, stay tuned). I did a huge deep dive on his unreleased and demo tracks, and that’s when I found “You Can’t Win” from The Wiz again. Of course, I already knew and loved the song. Michael kills it. But I hadn’t heard the extended version before—the second part: “Can’t Get Outta the Rain.” It had been quietly rereleased on Thriller 40.
I started playing that second part obsessively. It was so hopeful, and it made me feel happy; joyful in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
But “You Can’t Win” kept following me. I’d be on the way to work and suddenly have it stuck in my head. I’d put it on and wonder, Why this song? Why now?
I made a giant leap this year, 2025.
I started seriously writing my memoir.
It was the first time I openly shared my writing with people who knew me, the first time I told my story without a filter—the trauma, the joy, the grief, the grit, all of it. It was also the first time I publicly and proudly claimed my identity as a writer. And the imposter syndrome was brutal.
At 37, I struggled to really step into myself as a writer. I became especially sensitive to people who didn’t seem to take my dreams seriously. No one said anything overtly negative, but I had this moment at work where I casually mentioned that I was planning to print business cards for Brittany Brown Writes. A few colleagues laughed. Maybe it wasn’t a mean laugh, but it stung.
I went home and cried. I’m sensitive. Sometimes, I come off a bit airy-fairy, but this isn’t a hobby. I have an ABN, a website, and a logo. I have over 200,000 words across six viable memoir concepts, not including the fiction and other nonfiction I’ve planned. I’m not just publishing books—I’m building a business. I’m branding myself as an author, editor, mentor, speaker, and ghostwriter.
So yeah. I’m going to print those business cards.
That day, “You Can’t Win” hit different. The scarecrows in the song? They were those coworkers—but they were also me. My imposter syndrome. My inner critic.
And because I’m a deep thinker (read: chronic over-analyser), I realised something: my whole life mirrors The Wizard of Oz. I am Dorothy.
My life has mostly taken place in grayscale—dusty-ass Kansas. But I’ve been walking down the Yellow Brick Road for years now. And when I finally got over the rainbow, I met the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion. Some of those are real people. But mostly, they’re me.
- I’m the Scarecrow—I doubt my intelligence.
- I’m the Tin Man—I question whether I can give or receive love.
- I’m the Cowardly Lion—I’m afraid of everything.
But I’m also Dorothy. I keep walking. Like Dorothy, I’ve had the power all along. I just needed to believe.
Life is the Wizard of Oz.
My mom was the Wizard—a loud, terrifying illusion.
My trauma is the Wicked Witch.
I’m still working on this metaphor, but I know this: I’ve walked through grayscale, and I’ve decided to live in Technicolor.
And no, I don’t want to go back.
I never understood why Dorothy would go back. In the original film, sure—she’s a kid, she has no choice. But in The Wiz? Why would she go back to Harlem after experiencing Oz?
Oz was bright. Oz was alive. Oz was freedom. Why go back to a world that never saw you?
Even rewatching The Wiz recently as an adult, it made even less sense. Her friends (Scarecrow, Lion, Tin Man) said, “Let’s stay here in Oz.”
And I get it. I want to stay here too.
Grayscale life had me in bed in 2023 for two and a half months, wanting to die.
Technicolour life is scary, yes. It’s overwhelming. But it’s life. It’s mine. And I’m choosing it.
I’m wearing ruby slippers. My cat, Max, is my Toto. I’m wearing my blue gingham dress. I’m walking forward.
I’m not fully over the rainbow yet—there’s still more Yellow Brick Road ahead. I’ll still nap in poppy fields. I’ll still get scared and want to run home. But for the most part?
I want to stay in Oz.
🌈I want to live in Technicolour.
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