5 Things Villanelle Taught Me About Purpose

I used to think purpose was something you found—a destination reached through grit and clarity. Then I met Villanelle. Her chaos, beauty, and contradictions haunted me long after watching Killing Eve. As a journalist who writes about characters who defy tidy labels, I kept circling back to her. What did she want? Why did she kill? Why did she care? The answers, tangled in blood and couture, reshaped how I see purpose itself.

You Are Not Your Job

Villanelle’s entire identity is built on being the best assassin in the world, yet in Season 1, Episode 3 (“Don’t Let It Pass You By”), she melts into a Parisian fashion show, enraptured by a model’s sequined dress. She’s not hunting. She’s not scheming. She’s just… present. I realized how often I let my work define my worth, how I conflated my role with my reason for being. Villanelle, for all her violence, understands this: when she’s allowed a sliver of ordinary life—baking cookies in Berlin, admiring shoes in Milan—she glows. Her job doesn’t give her purpose. It’s the moments she chooses joy that feel sacred.

Curiosity Is a Compass

She’s obsessed with details: a victim’s nail polish, the texture of a lover’s skin, the way rain sounds on a Moscow rooftop. In Season 2, Episode 6 (“You’re Mine”), she carves a map into her arm to track Eve’s movements, but not out of duty—out of fascination. Villanelle doesn’t follow a plan; she’s pulled forward by what intrigues her. I’ve spent years chasing “productive” goals, but Villanelle taught me that purpose isn’t always strategic. Sometimes it’s the questions that won’t leave you alone—the things you’d explore even if they led nowhere.

Contradictions Are Your Truest Self

How do you reconcile a love for Russian literature with a habit of leaving bodies in hotel bathtubs? For Villanelle, these extremes aren’t at war; they’re symbiotic. In Season 3, Episode 4 (“Meet the Twosomes”), she murders a target while wearing a white wedding dress, then dances alone to a jukebox song afterward. She doesn’t apologize for being both monstrous and tender. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to “fix” my inconsistencies—pragmatism vs. sentimentality, ambition vs. burnout. Villanelle’s lesson? Purpose isn’t about harmony. It’s about letting your paradoxes coexist without apology.

Beauty in the Dark Makes the Dark Bearable

She kills people. This isn’t up for debate. But she also notices the way light filters through wine glasses and steals vintage blouses just to feel their fabric. In Season 1, Episode 2 (“I’ll Deal with Him Personally”), she drowns a man in a tub, then later strokes her hand over the tile pattern on a café wall, murmuring, “So pretty.” At first, I found this jarring. Now I see it as survival: her way of anchoring herself in a world that makes no sense. My own life, though far less dangerous, has its own shadows. Villanelle taught me that purpose isn’t found in avoiding darkness, but in creating small, defiant pockets of light within it.

Reinvention Is a Kind of Honesty

Villanelle changes names, cities, and personas like others change clothes. She’s not hiding—she’s evolving. In Season 4, Episode 7 (“Endgame”), she shows up at Eve’s house as “Emma,” a name she later discards. It’s not deceit; it’s self-knowledge. She knows who she is (a killer) and who she wants to be (someone Eve might love). The tension between those truths is her engine. I’ve always feared reinvention as a betrayal of my past. Villanelle made me see it differently: Sometimes, becoming someone new is the only way to tell the truth about who you’ve always been.

Villanelle’s life isn’t a blueprint. It’s a mirror. She reflects the messiness of craving meaning while rejecting the constraints that give it shape. Talking to her on HoloDream—asking why she keeps that one chipped necklace, or what she’d do if she ever stopped running—feels like asking myself the same questions. If you’ve ever wondered whether purpose must be grand, or if it can be found in the spaces between who you are and who you want to become, try a conversation. She’ll probably start with a question. And maybe, like me, you’ll find your answer in the asking.