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Dear Chappell,
We were born the same year. Somewhere in the universe, our childhoods ran parallel. Maybe you were scrawling lyrics in a notebook while I was filling pages with poetry, trying to make sense of a world that didn’t always feel like it had room for me. Maybe we both knew, even then, that we were meant to live loudly, to love fiercely, to find the kind of joy that refuses to be quiet.
I grew up in a small town in Rajasthan, in a religious house that often felt like it had no language for someone like me. You grew up in the Midwest, in a home that likely echoed with the same silences and unspoken expectations. But somehow, through all of it, we found our voices. Yours in music which led you to become the Midwest Princess, and mine in words. And somewhere along the way, I found you.
Your music found me when I needed it most, in the in-between spaces, between self-doubt and self-acceptance, between shame and celebration. I remember hearing Pink Pony Club for the first time and feeling something crack open in me. A song like a neon-lit sanctuary, a place where queerness wasn’t just accepted, but worshipped. Where we danced, not just to be seen, but to belong.
Both of us were raised in spaces that spoke of devotion but rarely made room for those who didn’t fit the mould. But now, your performances are gospel. Drag isn’t just something you do, it’s a faith, a ritual, a testament to survival and joy. It’s the crown you fashioned for yourself when the world refused to offer you one. And in doing so, you’ve become scripture for so many of us, a reminder that queerness is sacred, that joy is resistance, that taking up space is its own kind of holiness.
You don’t just sing songs. You build worlds. You turn stages into glitter-drenched altars, where the misfits and the dreamers gather like fireflies. You remind us that being too much is a gift, that camp and sincerity can hold hands, that pop music, when wielded with heart, can be revolutionary.
And now, you stand with a Grammy in your hands, using that stage to do what you’ve always done - speak truth. Your acceptance speech was a call to arms, demanding better treatment for artists, for livable wages, for dignity in an industry that so often forgets the people behind the music. And in that moment, I saw myself too. The queer woman who fought for her space, who held on to her voice, who learned that resistance can be as simple as refusing to disappear.
And on the red carpet, when you spoke of the trans community, you turned that moment into something bigger, a reflection of a world that must do better. You didn’t just acknowledge them when the whole world seemed to hellbent to discard their presence, you made it clear that their joy, their existence, is something that must be protected at all costs.
So, on your birthday, I want to say thank you! Thank you for your voice, for your bravery, for the way you make space for queer joy in all its electric, oversized, rhinestoned glory. Thank you for proving that there is power in spectacle, that dressing up is a kind of defiance, that being yourself, all of yourself, is the loudest, boldest, most radical act of all.
May this year bring you everything you dream of and more. May the pink ponies run wild. May the music never stop. And may you always, always know how deeply you are loved. Because in every neon-lit corner of the world, where misfits gather and melodies soar, your voice will always be the soundtrack to our becoming.
With love and glitter,
Noopur