the hardest part about
growth
is having to
rip out the rotten roots
that you
planted so deep
into my soul
one by one
-mm
Published by the San Diego Poetry Annual 2021-2022.
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I realized recently that I needed to reincorporate morning movement into my day—mostly so my days suck less. I also realized that if I have any hope of enjoying Michigan in the summer, it’s going to be by getting up early to go outside. Before the humidity threatens to suffocate me to death.
So, in the spirit of not dying—and because I love a little irony—I’ve chosen to pursue longevity by taking morning walks through my local cemetery.
I find cemeteries to be, well, romantic. I know I sound like a creep, but hear me out. There’s something magical about all these people—alive, dead, loved, estranged—converging in one quiet place. The fact that we still have parks and cemeteries—especially now, when it seems like every scrap of land is being developed or paved over—and that they’re still in use, feels like hope. Like we haven’t totally lost the plot. Ha, pun.
On paper, I don’t even know if I fully believe in burials because of the environmental impact. But in my heart, I love the idea of them. Of not just cremating your loved ones and saying to hell with the pomp and circumstance of a ceremony. Maybe I’m just homesick or sentimental right now, but the ceremonies seem worthwhile. It’s cool to have a place your people can return to. A place to convene with the dead. Your dead. It feels important. Sacred. Communal.
It’s not a universal feeling. My husband hates cemeteries. He says he’ll only walk through them in October, when the “spooky” is seasonally appropriate. But I don’t find them spooky at all. I find them peaceful. They pique my curiosity.
Who is buried here? Who was that guy? Were any of them murderers? Were most of them kind and boring and ordinary? Who changed the world? I love the not-knowing.
I don’t mind walking over the graves either. My husband thinks I’m cursing myself (or him, or the dog), but to me it feels like maybe the people buried there are happy to have company. Happy to be noticed. Happy someone isn’t afraid of them.
Something that adds to the allure of the cemetery is how alive it is. On my most recent walk, I saw a plethora of squirrels and birds. My dog spent most of our time trying to convince me to let him off leash to chase them.
After many sessions of squirrel-driven tug of war, we spotted a baby goose accompanied by its big goose family. I was in awe. They waddled in little lines to different patches of grass, eventually making their way to the same pond I was headed toward. We all sat there together, enjoying the sound of the water fountain and the cool mist it showered upon us.
I even saw a wild turkey, who was both hilarious and majestic.
I love that there is so much life in a place all about death. It feels beautiful to me. A real circle-of-life situation.
It makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. That even when the world feels like it’s on fire, that I can persevere. After all, the geese, squirrels, and turkeys are. They’re just living their little lives. It gives me clarity. Hope. Direction. Just keep going. You’re okay.
There was one thing that broke the spell though.
I sat on what my husband jokingly calls a “death bench”—one of those benches dedicated to the memory of someone. To him, they’re a bit of a bad omen. But to me, they feel like an invitation. Please sit here. Enjoy your life. Reflect.
This particular bench was gray marble with little paw prints carved into the seat—such a cute, poignant detail. I imagined the spirit of someone’s dog or cat keeping me company.
Next to the bench was a built-in vase full of flowers. I was drawn to it—sturdy, timeless, kind of luxurious. But when I got closer, I realized the flowers were fake.
In a way, it shocked me. It jolted me out of my romantic English novel and dropped me back into modern America with a thud. Where cost savings and convenience matter more than beauty and meaning.
I get it, logically. Fake flowers don’t wilt. They last forever. But that feels off to me. Especially in sacred spaces. Especially when so much of the world already prizes ease over essence.
I know some people probably prefer the fake ones. Maybe the permanence comforts them. Maybe they like the idea of something that doesn’t die. Maybe they wanted a timeless representation of flowers.
But isn’t that the problem?
In a place so intertwined with life, death, and the passing of seasons, fake flowers feel… wrong. Like a denial. Like a refusal to honor the purpose of the place. Like we’ve convinced ourselves that the symbol is enough. That a plastic flower can adequately stand in for a real one.
It can’t. Precisely because it doesn’t die. You bring them, you lose them, you return again. That’s the cycle. That’s the point.I almost wished the vase wasn’t there at all.
I even had a wild fantasy of throwing away the fake ones and bringing fresh-cut flowers every week for the rest of my time here. Just to try and make it how it should be. But that’s probably also not fair, nor the point of a cemetery.
It’s about acceptance, after all. Even accepting things in life that make you cringe, because when they’re ultimately out of your control, what choice do you have. Much like the amount of time we have an earth, most things are out of our control. So maybe that’s the lesson these flowers are teaching me.
Still, I’m grateful the cemetery is here. Even if I’m the only one walking in it in July. Even if my husband thinks it’s creepy outside of spooky season.
It grounds me. It reminds me that not everything has to be optimized. That not everything should be.
In a world hurtling toward who-knows-what—AI, speed, endless convenience—it means something to me that we are still honoring our loved ones and creating sacred spaces for them.
I leave the cemetery, unlike many other places in modern America, feeling hope and love for people.
People who build benches with paw prints.
Who still believe that life—even in death—deserves beauty.
And that truly is a gift.-mm
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I watched Mickey17 the other day—the greatest example of political satire I’ve seen in a long time. And even though it was funny and really insightful at times, it was also sad and disturbing. Mostly because it was so fucking true.
And I don’t want it to be true.
I don’t want to live in a world filled with so many mean, greedy, bigoted people.
I want to live in a world where we love each other and don’t want to just destroy “alien” races.
Where the good guys win. Where love and justice are one and the same.Maybe the problem is that deep down, I’m an idealist.
And I have this hope—or maybe this expectation—that the world is supposed to be a better place.
Maybe that’s the real problem—my refusal to stop hoping.
Maybe I should be more pragmatic. More cynical.
That this is just the way things are, so I should do my best to protect what’s mine and get what I can out of this corrupt world.But really, that just makes me sadder.
I don’t want to stop dreaming of a better world just because maybe that would be easier.
Easier to stop being surprised when violence erupts.
But I can’t stop being surprised.
It’s surprising because it’s wrong.
And it shouldn’t be happening.No wonder people turn to religion—for an explanation (sin), and an answer (salvation, heaven, a hero who will one day vanquish all the evil).
But I’ve tried religion before. It’s not a perfect solution. It’s almost too convenient in the way it handles reality with such beautiful, wrapped-up promises.
It’s escapism, in a way.And yet, I get it. I’ve wanted to escape too. But when you see the cracks in every system, it leaves you with seemingly nowhere to go.
Nowhere to find real comfort or peace.
Nowhere, at least in my case, besides letting all the feelings out on this page.In the past, I’ve dealt with this existential dread by trying not to deal with it.
By numbing myself with TikTok, food, shopping, weed, and TV.
And I think part of why I’m feeling this so heavily is because I’ve been avoiding it for so long.The problem is, as Carl Jung may have said, “What you resist, persists.”
And in my experience, it not only persists—it grows and mutates into something worse.So the only act of self-love I have in this moment—the only solution I haven’t already tried—is to simply sit with it.
To let myself feel this discomfort and this pain.I wish I had a better answer.
But all I really have is another old axiom that’s proven itself, over and over again: “You have to feel it to heal it.”I don’t know who said it first. But I’ve found that naming these things—saying them out loud, writing them down—gives them less of an invisible chokehold on my life.
And maybe that’s enough good news for today—especially when the rest of it feels so heavy.
And maybe that’s where the healing of this world can really begin.If we can start to become more aware and awake to our pain—and allow it to be released and transformed—maybe we have the ability to take action. To do something about it.
Even if that something is just not doomscrolling.
Even if it’s just calling a friend to see how they’re doing.
Or taking a walk around your neighborhood and picking up a piece of litter on the way.At least that small act does something.
The numbing does nothing but promote more pain in an already broken world.
So I suppose what I’m going to try to keep doing is not avoid the things that make me sad, but also not let them drag me down so deeply into inaction that I can’t even do small acts of good.
Something tells me the world heals not through worry over all the big, terrible things—but through each small, loving act we choose instead.
-mm
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Intro:
I wrote this at the peak of a grief I didn’t expect. I had just visited one of Michigan’s lakes, trying to soothe a homesickness I didn’t know I had until I stepped into the water and met disappointment instead of peace.
What poured out of me that night surprised even me. It touched something in my husband too. And while the ache has softened since then, I still want to share it. Not as a manifesto or a decision, but as a moment of raw, truthful reckoning with place, identity, and marriage.
I’m sharing this knowing that clarity isn’t always immediate, and that even if our feelings change, it doesn’t make them any less real or meaningful when we felt them.
Here’s the piece, untouched.
For the last two days, I’ve craved the ocean like a plant craves the sun and then the rain.
I thought that if I went to the nearest viewpoint of an expansive horizon on a lake here that it would solve the longing. Fill the hole.
But it only magnified it.
I found a “beach.” A shoreline.
On the surface, it had all the same things: people sunbathing, grass along the shore that almost looked like seaweed, even a big breeze and waves.
But once you got closer. Once you put your feet in the water and started walking along the shore, the reality snapped into place like a slap.
The water was full of dirt. Full of litter. And full of dead, rotten fish.
When we saw the first one, we thought, “oh, poor fish.” But after the fifth one, we got out of the water. We kept walking next to it, but we kept seeing dead fish, and they kept getting bigger.
Apparently, there is a virus killing the fish. It doesn’t harm humans, or dogs, thankfully, but it did wound me. Or rather, pressed on a wound that I didn’t know was there until it was getting activated with every step through dirt and grime and dead fish.
This is the first time I’ve seriously questioned moving to Michigan. But it’s not the first time I’ve doubted myself and my life choices.
It’s almost comical looking back at how hard we were trying to like our “beach” walk. Neither of us wanted to admit our disappointment.
I didn’t want to admit to my grief because it almost feels like admitting defeat. Like maybe everyone who doubted us was right to. Maybe they were right about everything all along.
It all boiled over when we got into the car. Despite some lovely moments—like watching kite surfers and finding a powerful breeze on a 90-degree day—the sum of it not measuring up took me completely by surprise.
I broke down shortly after we left the parking lot.
E. asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know how to answer at first. But then the words came.
“I feel like I failed us by moving here. By thinking the Great Lakes would satisfy my need for water. It’s just that I apparently don’t just want water—I want the ocean.”
I didn’t know that until today.
And now I feel sad because I left her.
I know I needed to. I know she’s still there. Ready for me to come back.
But I didn’t know how much leaving her would hurt. That she couldn’t be replaced.
It really is true that you don’t know what you’ve lost until it’s gone.
I expected to miss things, but to ache for the ocean is something I never expected.
This move resolved and corrected so many things, but I guess it also has revealed other issues. It has revealed things that were hidden until now.
In fact, until now, in this moment of doubt and confusion, I realized that I never really saw my husband. Saw what he needed.
He needs a connection to home. Maybe not San Diego. But the West Coast. California maybe. California probably. To live near someone in his family.
Before this experience, I thought it was all talk. But now I see that he was telling me his truth all along. I was listening, but I wasn’t hearing him.
And sadly, I don’t think I could have heard him until now. Until I experienced him being lost. A lost boy far from home.
Now I feel guilty for suggesting all of this.
I know it’s the wrong kind of guilt, partially, because we needed this. We need to see each other clearly. I needed to see myself clearly. See what I needed.
Freedom. Financial relief. Separation from his family. And apparently, the ocean. I’m connected to it now. It’s a part of me.
I didn’t know we were becoming connected all that time. I was too distracted to see what a gift you really were. Or I would have gone to you more. Wouldn’t have taken you for granted.
It’s so complicated to live in a world that makes it impossible to live where you want to be unless you’re rich. Especially to leave you with enough capital left over to go see your family who lives across the country.
It makes it so that you try to go have a “better” life somewhere else. But then you realize that a better life is relative. A better life in some respects maybe, but not all respects.
It’s hard to accept that I couldn’t just up and leave and cut ties and never look back.
I want to go back to you, ocean. But I want to do it right this time. Where I’m not so distracted by worry that I can’t fully be present with you.
I often wonder why E. and I are together when we can be so different.
But if there is something we share, it’s our love for the ocean and cool weather. And we share love for each other.
I think I’m finally starting to see him. And he’s starting to see me. To see that writing is my passion. To see that our life was so stressful before that I was infertile.
But in seeing each other, now we’re also seeing the other side of the coin. That, yeah, this move reduced my stress, but it also took him away from his home and me away from my ocean.
Before now, I really didn’t see California as his home. As where he truly belongs. And by extension, I didn’t see the West Coast, the Pacific, as where I belong.
We aren’t meant to be there right now. I know that. We have to rebuild and come back stronger.
We had to burn it down to see the essentials. What really matters.
And as this stay unfolds, that becomes clearer.
It becomes clearer that one day we will go be where we belong. Him to home. Me with him + our ocean + my freedom + financial stability.
Apparently, I’m complicated and need ingredients to be home—to feel at home.
But regardless, it’s become clear that Michigan is a stepping stone. A learning experience. Where we grow into the version of ourselves that are meant to be—strong and purposeful, resolute and united.
I don’t know how long we will be here, and I hope that it really does make us stronger. So that when we return, we’re clear on who we are and what we’re doing. So that we don’t get pulled apart by other people’s perspectives or expectations again.
So that we can finally, finally arrive at home.
-mm
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I’m in therapy. I love therapy. Been in it off and on since I was 24. It’s really helped me understand why I am the way that I am, and it gives me a safe space to be fully confused and insecure and have someone help me understand what is fear vs. truth vs. trauma vs. reality, etc.
Recently, I went in and wasn’t sure what I was going to talk about. I had been feeling very meh all week, and that feeling of listlessness was impacting my ability to work—on my actual work, on my writing, and on my responsibilities at home. I told her I often let my feelings run my life. Even though I have lots of personal goals and aspirations, I tend to only get them done when I’m either in the mood or under immense pressure. And I was feeling like a failure for being this way.
I was expecting my therapist to want to deep dive into the root of my feelings of shame and failure, but instead, she asked me if I’d ever considered that I might have ADHD. A light bulb went off, and my mind started to explode with realizations. I started to ask her if all of these quirky things that I do are ADHD behaviors, like how I clean and do things around my house like a bag of popcorn in the microwave, just popping all over the place chaotically.
Another example: I would sketch out these elaborate, ideal plans for my weekly schedule. Wake up at 5. Write for an hour. Go for a walk. Get ready for work. Eat breakfast. Start working. Work until 12. Eat lunch. Work until 5. Go for a walk. Cook dinner. Watch a show. Read for a little bit. Shower. Go to bed. Repeat every day. But then, inevitably, the next day would come and I would do NONE of that. It was almost like I was rebelling against all the plans. I’d scroll on my phone, open my computer, do whatever work was required, turn on a show, and half-work, half-pay-attention all day long. If I did anything, it would be to walk around Target and randomly spend $300. I couldn’t understand the disconnect between what I wanted to do and what I actually was doing. Then I’d go back to the drawing board, plan again, promise myself I’d do better the next day. And on and on the cycle would go. And I would feel like garbage about myself. Hating myself because I was such a failure.
After a lot of discussion of some of these behavioral patterns and some testing, the ADHD diagnosis was a clear fit. Although I was shocked to just be realizing this at 30—a whole other thing I want to talk about later—I was met mostly with relief. I wasn’t actually bad or broken, I was just wired differently. Suddenly, I didn’t feel ashamed or like a failure—I felt empowered. Empowered to figure out how to live my life so that it actually works for me.
I used to feel so shitty about not being able to write a lot every day. My goal is writing every day for at least 30 minutes. Do I do it every day? Nope. I don’t do a lot of things I want to do every day. I work out when I do. I eat healthy when I do. I go to bed early when I do. And I write when I do. I’m done being upset about all the times when I don’t. Now I’m starting to feel proud of myself for accomplishing anything at all.
It’s one thing to have goals and desires that require consistent effort toward that goal, but to have a militarized, regimented way of being as a way to achieve those just doesn’t work for me. It never has. I’m kind of sad that I held myself to those standards for so long—assuming I was bad because I couldn’t tame myself, couldn’t beat myself into being more disciplined.
I’m reading this book about ADHD called Driven to Distraction, which suggests that secondary symptoms of ADHD, like self-esteem issues, depression, and anxiety, can be more debilitating than the actual ADHD itself. It’s one thing to be easily bored and distracted; it’s another thing to hate yourself because you’re easily bored and distracted or can’t focus the way you feel you “should.”
That self-loathing is what has held me back my whole life. It has taken away my confidence and my motivation way more than simply not being able to focus on the same thing for very long. It has led me to emotionally and binge eat, to spend money I didn’t have, to wallow in depression and anxiety, and to generally just hate my life and make me want a new one.
When you convince yourself that you are bad and broken and need to be fixed, your life fucking sucks.
So I guess I just want to encourage you not to just assume that whatever is wrong is your fault and that you’re bad and broken. I want you to try and look at yourself from a different angle. To wonder if maybe something else is going on. And that maybe how you were made is actually great. A little different, maybe—but great.
-mm
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When I was younger, I was afraid all the time.
Afraid to feel and experience and adventure.
And yet, I craved feeling, experiencing, and adventuring—
like a dog looking at a rabbit through a window.
But the fear held me back. Kept me inside.
It kept me from saying yes.
I couldn’t trust the things that might give me the feelings, experiences, or adventures.
I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t be burned beyond repair by the consequences. That I wouldn’t be annihilated.
So I held back.
I said no.
I didn’t do the things.
I turned down the cute boys.
I ran away from everything that had the potential to pull me down somewhere I couldn’t come back from.And even though I know that I was just doing my best—
just surviving—
just trying to stay alive despite being terrified that I wasn’t going to make it out of high school because my family was so volatile.
Unsure if my mind, body, and spirit could survive the damage.Even though I know that—
even though I have compassion for her—
I’m still angry.
Angry at the missed opportunities.
The missed experiences.That baby version of me—
what’s a name for Maude before she was cool?
Blush, maybe.Baby Blush didn’t have control over her fear,
over her intense survival mechanism.
I hate that she was so afraid and in so much pain.
But I’m still mad at her.
I resent her.
Because at the end of the day, I made those choices.
I chose to hide.
To avoid.
To stay away from the things that could have transformed me.I didn’t kiss a boy until I was sixteen.
And it wasn’t the boy I wanted to kiss.
It was the safe one.
The one I knew wouldn’t hurt me.
And he was a horrible kisser too.
My first kiss was like getting a goldfish shoved in my mouth.
Somehow, every time we kissed, there was slobber everywhere.
I didn’t understand what was going wrong.
I didn’t understand that I probably wasn’t attracted to him at all.
I was just attracted to the fact that he was safe.And I’m angry about it.
Angry that I was given cards that left me so afraid to live
that I barely peeked through the blinds of life.
Let myself get slivers of light and joy and adventure and experience—
but not the full thing.
Afraid to open the blinds and feel all the sun had to offer.
Terrified to go outside.And of course, it left me deficient.
It left me knowing there was more.
That I had missed something.
Lots of somethings.I don’t know how to let go of that anger.
Everyone says to love your inner child.
To reparent them.
To let them know they did the best they could.
So why do I resent Blush?
Why do I hate her, just a little?I think it’s because I know the truth:
she made choices too.And now I’m older, and I’m not paralyzed by the same fears,
but the opportunities aren’t the same.
I’m not a teenager anymore.
I’m not single.
I’m not surrounded by hormonal teens with no responsibilities and nothing to lose.
The stakes are higher now.
And I have less energy now.
I don’t want to party or hook up or stay out late.
But I wish I would have lived when I had the chance.It’s to the point where cute boys from high school show up in my dreams.
Still.
Fifteen years later, I’m haunted by the missed chances.
The times I said no.
The what-ifs.Because I can’t help but wonder:
What if I had said yes?
What if I hadn’t been scared?
Who would I have become?
Would I have been better?
Would I like my life more?
Would I be happier?
More fulfilled?
More me?That’s the pain.
The pain of wondering if,
had I not been raised in a family rotten with generational pain,
I could have become a freer, fuller,
just… more magnificent version of myself.And I don’t know how to let go of that pain.
I don’t know how to accept the cards I was dealt.
Accept that I was meant to be held back.
That I was meant to be Blush, and not Maude when I was a kid.Maybe the problem is, I don’t know why I was meant to be Blush.
I don’t know what it was all for.
I don’t know if it was even for anything.I’m 30, and I know people say I’m still young.
That I haven’t missed the boat.
That it’s all still unfolding.
But that doesn’t make me feel better.
It makes me feel like I already missed something.Did I miss it?
Is it too late?
Is there a greater purpose at play that needed me to be Blush first?
And will I ever find out?-mm
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I wrote this poem a few years ago, back when I was still living in California. It reflects my evolving—often fraught—relationship with identity. Or rather, identities. As a woman. A brown woman. An American. A Latina. A Dominican American. A mixed woman. A curvy woman. A Texan. A Texan who moved away from home. The list goes on.
I share this poem to say: we are not one thing, or broken pieces of things—we are everything. The sum of our experiences, our genetics, our families, our bodies. It’s not always easy to see how those things come together, especially when they’re met with resistance or conflict. But they matter. You matter.
All of you is important. Never forget that.
for years when i looked in the mirror
i saw fragmentsi saw thick thighs
a tiny waist
& jeans that needed tailoringi saw freckles
stretch marks
& seasonal foundation shadesi wished for blue eyes instead of brown
i wished for sex appeal instead of a brainfor years when i looked in the mirror
i saw fragmentsbecause i saw through the lens
of a fragmented worldbut how could i not?
when for years i have been asked and told
“why don’t you know spanish?”
“i wish i had your skin.”
“why are you acting so white?”
“you have huge boobs.”
“what are you?”who am i?
i asked for yearsbut now when i look in the mirror
i see the whole not the fragmentsi see a beautifully flawed, curious woman
who is proud to be dominican
proud to be american
proud to be texan
& proud to be a california girli see a beautifully unique, colorful body that loves to move to the beat of a drum, & loves to bask in the serenity of the ocean
i see a person with a complex narrative, deep thoughts, & an intricate emotional landscape
finally,
i see me-mm
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Adriana Varejão, Azulejaria “De tapete” em carne viva (“Carpet-Style” Tilework in Live Flesh), 1999, oil on canvas and polyurethane on aluminum and wooden support, 59 x 74 3/4 x 9 3/4″. If ever there was an artwork to exemplify the theme of this blog—or my general feeling of being a human woman—it would be this one. This is a beautiful, haunting work by Adriana Varejão that is a commentary on the dark colonial history of Brazil. For me, it evokes more than deep thoughts on history—it reflects womanhood. How we can be beautiful on the outside and rotting on the inside. How sometimes our raw, vulnerable, impolite side emerges and can often disgust our loved ones, because they don’t associate women with the full spectrum of the human experience—the dark and the light.
It’s like those jokes you would hear as a kid about women farting sparkles and rainbows, or that women don’t shit. We do. And not only do we shit and fart just like men, we also have to deal with a level of blood and gore that men don’t have to face. We do it on a regular basis when we are menstruating.
When I was a kid, my mom would coach me to never let my future husband notice that I was on my period. To be aggressive about hiding it. And I still don’t understand what the point of that was. Why should I hide the pain, gore, mess, and awkwardness of bloody tampons, pads, underwear, bed sheets, and toilet seats? Why should I have to deal with that alone? Especially when women are also shamed—often as early as girlhood—about not swallowing semen. You’re telling me I have to swallow a bodily fluid from a man happily to prove that I’m sexy and accommodating and not a bitch, and then hide my bodily fluids, which in a very real sense are the gateway to life itself?
No. Absolutely not. I refuse.
My husband—who, thankfully, is only a product of misogyny and gets better about being an ally to women every day—is teachable and not an asshole. So I broke my mother’s rule long ago and never hide when I’m on my period. I don’t waste insane amounts of toilet paper hiding my pads and tampons to protect his presumed fragile constitution, or to protect my female image as the “beautiful pure princess,” or whatever she was attempting to preserve by teaching me to hide them.
I bleed. I have period diarrhea. It’s messy. It’s gross. It’s real. And in some ways it’s also beautiful—because I have PCOS and haven’t always had my period. So the concept of infertility is more of a fear for me than the idea of someone knowing I’m menstruating.
Let’s take bulimia as another example. Women are out here literally puking their guts out to look beautiful. Let’s take a moment to really sit with the visual of what a young girl or woman is faced with after she has vomited: her literal guts, acrid and disgusting, depending on how soon after she’s eaten—potentially an entire meal, partially digested and already starting to decompose due to her stomach acid.
That is a violent image. One we don’t see. We only see the woman who comes out of the bathroom and pretends that that did not just happen. And potentially the enablers who might know what’s going on but turn a blind eye.
Let’s also think about how many things women do that might be overtly disgusting in the name of beauty—colonics, coffee enemas, even waxing—the pain and violence, and then the trash cans full of pubes and bloody, pus-filled napkins from the ingrown hairs. Throwing up. Diuretics and laxatives. Lasers and the smell of burning hair. Needles stabbing your skin and making you bleed from various beauty treatments.
And trust me, I’m not saying all of this out of judgment. I’ve had my pubes lasered off too. And I go to the nail salon and slap chemicals on my fingers in the name of confidence. It’s just that there seems to be no real recognition, or even celebration, of the pain and suffering that women either experience or put themselves through in order to survive or thrive.
And we deserve to be celebrated—not mocked, ridiculed, told to hide, or judged incessantly for what we choose to do or not do. Or how much we eat. Or don’t eat. All bodies are difficult to live in for one reason or another—be it due to a medical condition, a mental health disorder, or simply a choice.
It just makes me angry. And it makes me love the aforementioned artwork so much. Adriana said: no more pretending like people weren’t killed and beaten and slaughtered and disrespected to build these beautiful facades we see around us. Let’s expose what’s underneath. Let’s look at the entire picture. Let’s face the truth.
So what does that actually mean for our lives?
To me, it means: stop hiding. Demand respect. Like I alluded to, I demand respect from my husband when I’m on my period. When we were camping recently, I didn’t want to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night to change my tampon. I stood in the middle of the tent and changed it right there—taking care not to drip blood on our nice tent, mind you (but even if I had, OKAY SO? That’s life. You clean it up and move on)—and in successfully accomplishing my feat, with my husband standing right there, I celebrated myself.
That was badass and difficult. And he doesn’t have to deal with that as a man, so the least he can do is support me when I need to do something uncomfortable and gross by letting me do it in the comfort of my safe space, my shelter—however remedial a shelter it was.
There were other women who were on their periods when I was camping—I saw the evidence in the little boxes in the bathroom. Were they celebrated for managing to deal with periods in the wilderness?? Probably not. And that is an injustice in my book.
So for anyone menstruating or dealing with gross shit while living your life—I think immediately of all the IBS sufferers out there—give yourself a fucking pat on the back from me.
There is this scene in the show Deadloch, where the main character and her wife are getting ready for the day. While Dulcie is brushing her teeth, Cath empties and rinses out her menstrual cup in the sink right next to her, just like how a man might spit out his toothpaste while you’re brushing. And I LOVED this scene because YES!!!! They normalized something that is so taboo in a relationship. And of course it takes lesbians to be that evolved—but why??? Why can’t our husbands, partners, friends, and family members be that normal and supportive too?
We have got to take the taboo out of women’s lives and bring them into the light. It’s just a product of the patriarchy and misogyny that needs to go. We shouldn’t have to feel ashamed about things that are so normal—and in many ways arbitrary—because they are so normal.
And if anything, our partners should be there to say, “Man, do you need some water and a steak? Or some lentils?? You must be exhausted losing all that life force, all that iron.”
Can you imagine????????????????
I fucking can. I hope we get there one day. I really do. But for now, I’ll be over here doing my part to celebrate the gory, beautiful lives that we women survive and thrive through every day. It may seem small, mundane even, but to me, it’s enormous and essential.
– mm