Is Costa Rica expensive to live in?

Costa Rica isn’t the cheapest country in Central America, but it’s not outrageous either. Daily life costs less than in most major U.S. cities — especially if you adapt to local food and lifestyle. Where it gets pricey is rent in beach towns, imported goods, and electricity if you blast the A/C all day.

What is the average rent in Costa Rica?

Rent depends on location. In San José, a two-bedroom apartment runs $600–$1,200/month. In popular beach towns or suburbs, expect $800–$1,800/month. Rural areas can be as low as $400/month — but you’ll trade off some conveniences.

How much money do I need to live comfortably in Costa Rica?

A single person can live modestly on $1,200–$1,500/month. For more comfort (A/C, private healthcare, imported snacks), budget $2,000–$3,000/month. Couples usually spend $1,500–$2,500+ depending on lifestyle and location.

What’s the cost of food in Costa Rica?

Local produce, coffee, and seafood are affordable (think avocados for $0.50, pineapples for $1, fresh fish at local markets). Imported items, though, are expensive — a jar of peanut butter can be $8 and wine can sting your wallet. Sticking to the local diet saves money and makes you healthier.

Why I Wrote Notes from a Sissy — and Why We Need Queer Memoirs More Than Ever

Waymon Hudson
Jul 21
4 min read

Updated: Jul 28

Looking for LGBTQ+ memoirs that blend humor, heartbreak, and truth? A queer story with bite and belly laughs? Something like Boy Erased meets David Sedaris but with more Jesus, sequins, and trauma flashbacks?

Welcome. You’ve found Notes from a Sissy.

But more than that — you’ve found the reason I had to write it.

What the Hell is Notes from a Sissy?

Notes from a Sissy is a darkly funny, painfully honest memoir about growing up gay in the South — in a world where being “a little different” was treated like a sin, a sickness, or a punchline. It’s part glittery coming-of-age story, part fragmented trauma journal, and part loud-ass declaration that I survived. That I found my voice. And that I’m telling this damn story before someone else tries to rewrite it.

It’s a mix of vivid, theatrical vignettes and haunting interludes. Some chapters will make you laugh so hard you snort. Others might make you go still. That’s intentional — because that’s what it felt like living it.

Take this moment from one of the funnier chapters, “Jesus, Take the Mic,” where I finally got my big church pageant solo after lobbying (read: scheming) to play the Angel Gabriel — a role traditionally played by a girl. Because I was always very jealous that Mary got all the attention. And what can I say? I was born for the spotlight. Or at least a 3rd-grade nativity with good lighting.

“First, I rewrote the vocal line. Nothing crazy—just a tasteful and a dramatic key change on the word blessed, because what is annunciation without modulation. Then I added choreography. Not full choreo, just… expressive movement.

Some turns. A tasteful Fosse hip thrust. Some reach-for-the-light arms. A little sway that said “divine messenger meets R&B video extra.”"

Cue gasp from the congregation. Cue beaming, oblivious pride from 8-year-old me.

But not every chapter ends in laughter. Some end in silence. In fragments.

Like this one — from a much harder chapter called “Fragment: Breathing”:

“I lie completely still, body turned to face the wall. I know better than to move. Or speak. Or breathe too deeply.

Stillness is safety. The only shield I have. A sheet pulled tight like armor. A breath held like prayer..”

That’s the emotional range of this memoir. From jazz hands to numb hands. From pews to panic attacks. From hiding to shouting it all on the page.

Why I Had to Write This Now

I grew up in a world that didn’t have stories like mine — or if they existed, they always ended in tragedy. Or moral lessons. Or silence. If you were queer and Southern, you were either a joke or a funeral. There weren’t a lot of joyful endings. Hell, there weren’t many beginnings.

Even now, queer memoirs often get filtered through the lens of trauma first, voice second. But Notes From a Sissy isn’t just about what happened to me — it’s about what I made of it. It’s not a trauma dump. It’s a survival song. A reclamation of power, voice, humor, and defiance.

And here’s the truth: we still need these stories. Not just because there are still queer kids out there feeling like they’re the only one — though there are. Not just because book bans and anti-LGBTQ+ policies are rising again — though they are.

We need these stories because visibility is still resistance. Because laughter can be holy. Because writing the story on your terms can be a radical act of healing — for you and the people who find themselves in your pages.

This book is for:

Every queer kid who ever got called a sissy and didn’t know yet that it was a superpower.
Every survivor trying to find the words.
Every reader who wants a queer memoir that makes you feel something — not just cry, not just rage, but maybe recognize something in yourself you didn’t have language for until now.

And yeah, I’m a late-deafened writer. I lost my hearing in adulthood, which reshaped how I experience the world, music, and even language itself. (More on that in a future post — it’s a wild, beautiful story of brain rewiring, lipreading, and feeling music in my bones.) But even before that, I knew what it meant to live between sound and silence. Between being heard and being invisible. That’s why this memoir hits so deep.

Because sometimes survival looks like a whisper. Sometimes it looks like a punchline. And sometimes, it looks like putting it all on paper so no one else can erase it.

The Sissy Speaks

If you’ve ever searched for:

“LGBTQ+ memoirs that are funny and heartbreaking”
“Books like Boy Erased or Sissy”
“David Sedaris but make it gay and Southern with trauma and jazz hands”

Then hey. You’re home.

Notes From a Sissy is the story I needed to write, and the one I hope others need to read. It’s my voice, loud and unapologetic. It’s my truth, unbroken. And it’s just the beginning.