I know I’m an Asian living on the opposite side of the world from where the mumblecore, monochrome 2012 movie, Frances Ha, is set—where the parents are not as liberal and the parties nowhere near as wild—and that I claim to feel seen by every coming-of-age tale of the awkward and angsty variety. But I swear, though there is glaring evidence that suggests otherwise, that I really, truly believe Noah Baumbach made the film’s eponymous protagonist for me.

The hero of this story is a twenty-something apprentice at a dance company, making her way in and out of apartments, relationships, and existential crises in the endearingly awkward, effervescent way only she knows how. In her, I saw my own idiosyncrasies: my mannerisms, jokes in bad taste, and occasional Freudian slips. When Frances’ credit card gets denied during her date with Lev, she can’t help herself from blurting out: “I’m not a real person yet!” and I cackle and aggressively yell SAME at my laptop screen.

But in her, I also recognized the same bouts of listlessness I experience when overwhelmed, as well as the impulsive decisions that follow which get me the wrong end of the stick (or, in her case, land her on the other side of the world). I identified with the one-sided intensity with which she approaches all of her relationships and her struggle to tone down these emotions to avoid appearing needy. As Sophie, Frances’ best friend, informs her of her plan to move out of their shared apartment to live on a far pricier street, I can see something shift in their dynamic. Even without the presence of visual or verbal cues, I feel that Frances is terrified of losing her platonic soulmate but she knows she can’t stop it. This, I’m sure of. Because I’ve been here before.

Frances is so sentimental she “has trouble leaving places”. She has the habit of speaking before reading the room. It takes her a second to do something she doesn’t mean, and hours to dwell on the consequences of her actions. And of course, she has no idea what the hell is going on most of the time. Frances is the version of myself I morph into during my most shameful, most vulnerable moments—and I adore her for it.

But of course, when has society ever seen the beauty in a flawed woman?

I went over to Letterboxd to log the movie and was greeted by polarized reviews, which claimed that who Frances was as a person was enough to override the level of artistry the film exhibited. I’ve seen people call her “every first world problem personified” or “the kind of millennial that makes them want to cyberbully”—others admitted to abandoning the movie halfway because they couldn’t stomach another moment of her immaturity.

Now, I don’t plan on making excuses for any sociopaths or serial killers, but maybe we only ever hate these so-called annoying and immature lead characters as much as we do because we’ve already seen enough of them in real life: why give them an additional platform to tell their own stories? The degree of humanness they display is something we deem unfit for public consumption, something reserved for ourselves because it is ugly and raw and real. Because the slightest manifestation of it drives away even those who promised they would never leave.

At some point in the movie, these people get into all sorts of messes because of their inherent flaws. Acknowledging that we are like them somehow means acknowledging that we are doomed to the same fate. So, in an attempt to remove ourselves from their narrative, we express our disdain in the loudest ways we can, as if that can prove that we are not and can never be like them.

I never saw my negative characteristics as anything worth parading or celebrating. I knew that they were there, but I never drew attention to them in fear that making others aware of their existence would magnify them until they were the only visible parts about me. But seeing them fleshed out and personified on the big screen served as a much-needed reminder that I could be all these imperfect things and still have the right to occupy space in the world and redeem myself in the end.

After all, it’s not like Frances remains stagnant the entire film. In the last couple of scenes, we find her fresh out of a reassuring conversation with the best friend she thought she lost forever, moving into an apartment of her own, making phone calls and attending meetings for her day job like a proper working woman, and trying out a relationship with the boy who once called her “undateable”—definitely the long-awaited maturity arc she deserved. Through her journey, we see something more important than the unrealistic standard of perfection we often hold fictional characters up to—a second chance at genuine growth.

I find it comforting that on both sides of the screen, we find people who are screwed up in their own little ways—people who are selfish and mean and rude; people who know better but do it anyway then blame it on forces that are out of their control. But either way, they learn from these experiences and use them to create their own happy endings.

Angel Martinez is a 19-year-old business student, freelance writer, and mental health advocate from Manila, Philippines. She is a contributing staffer for Lithium Magazine and Reclamation Magazine. When she's not busy purging her emotions one personal essay at a time, she can be found watching films and taking photoshoots in her bedroom. You can find her on Twitter @angeltriestotwt and on Instagram @angeltriestogram

This article was edited by EIC Kailah Figueroa

Copyedited by Tah Ai Jia