Adventure in Healthy Living

Hello, it’s me your friendly content warning. The following will be on the topic of fitness, weightloss, and eating disorders. Please take care. Here’s Walter.

 

 

Kindergarten through high school I went to a small private Christian school. This came with pros and cons as with all things. One of the pros and cons was that I graduated with only 58 other people. Twenty-two of those people went to school with me from kindergarten to grade 12, which is remarkable. That is nearly 40% of us who went to school together for 13 years.

With that very small number of fellow classmates came a higher rate of girls to boys. Not drastically different, but near the 60/40 mark. Which also came with advantages and disadvantages. One of the many disadvantages was in sort of pressure cooker of self-esteem issues. Private schools, particularly Christian ones, have this tendency to let students (children) believe that perfection must be maintained. Not attained, maintained. It is assumed you will average in the high Bs or As. It is assumed that you will be a godly person. It is assumed that you will not make mistakes that a student (child) might make. Pour on top of that societal pressures to look a certain way or dress a certain way for young women (and men, but we’re talking about girls as you’ll soon see). And for fun throw on a dash of financial disparity.

According to NEDA, in a study of nearly 500 girls over 8 years, 5.2% of them suffered from a clinical eating disorder anorexia, bulimia, or binge eating disorder. Doing my own very unscientific research, that is talking to people I know, this seems about average or even a little high for most high schools. Where I went this was incredibly low; it was much closer to what felt like 50, but was probably more like 15-18%. Let me tell you why.

Much like suicides, eating disorders can act as a psychological contagion. In evangelical circles, emotional responses can be perceived as the Spirit working, and this causes a sort of inspiration for replication. When I was in middle school a girl in my older brother’s class came forward in a chapel and told her story. (This is in no way the fault of that young woman, who was working hard to overcome something). She told of how she had an eating disorder and how through the support of her family she had overcome it. This young woman was incredibly popular, an athlete, and stereotypically pretty.

The following year there were murmurings of girls with more eating disorders. Including one who had spent some time in community theatre working with a woman she admired and who had taken her under her wing. This woman had anorexia and struggles with it to this day. That girl, between my age and the previous student’s age, unhappy with herself and seeing the success of her older friend became anorexic. Noticeably and severely.

One evening following a performance in my freshman year, she was driving me and several other girls in my class that she had taken under her wing to a cast party. She was telling us her story. How she had overcome anorexia. Girls asked questions and listened intently. One girl really heard it. And she told her friends. She lost over 150 pounds. She saw someone she admired and saw as successful, and followed suit. Soon her friends saw her “success” and began to do the same. It became known that many girls in my class were not allowed to go to the bathroom alone for fear of what they were doing.

Here’s where I come in. At 5′ 7″ I weighed, pretty consistently around 135/140 pounds. Right in a healthy BMI. I was athletic, though didn’t do much exercise if I didn’t have to. I loved playing hockey in gym. That was my favorite. I began to see changes in my friends. I began to feel the pressure. I baby-fatted, but not in anyway overweight 15-year-old, felt ashamed of my body. This is when I was regularly asked to follow girls to the bathroom, by teachers and parents. (not my parents). “Hayley seems fine” they clearly thought so I could not be at risk. I was made fun of by boys and girls alike for being fat. Not to mention a certain family member. Listen, I was still wearing boys’ large t-shirts. Not teen boys. Child sized boys t-shirts. I was wearing C-D bras, and still wearing children’s t-shirts. I was not fat. But I hated my body. I was incredibly ashamed.

But I was also incredibly loud and insensitive. I strut around that locker room in my bra and underwear like I was so confident with my body. I dressed stranger and stranger to let people know how much I didn’t care what I looked like (I cared so much). Let me tell you the truth. I laughed with an older girl who also thought the eating disorders were ridiculous. We made fun of the idea to each other. I’m not proud of myself. I’m incredibly ashamed now as an adult. Then I was only incredibly ashamed that I didn’t look like them.

Move forward a couple of years to college. Me eating marshmallow fluff right out of the jar with my roommate. Me feeling the shame of my body even then as costumes had to be resewn to fit my boobs. Not the rest of my body, just my not designed for theatre boobs. (boobs I’d also been taught to be ashamed of). I gained the freshman 15, and honestly that was about it. All the while I heard the echo of a certain family member and people from high school telling me how fat I was. All the while remembering what sickness looks like on a body, and how I knew I wasn’t supposed to become that. So I did the opposite. Depression set in my senior year of college, and I became so sad I couldn’t leave my dorm room that I shared with no one, but a dead cactus. Even if I wasn’t pretty, even if I was fat, like all of those people had said, at least I wasn’t sick. Never once considering that I might be sick in a different way.

Add ten years and nine assaults to a woman who has learned to eat her emotions rather than deal with them. I gained over 60 pounds from that average healthy weighted high school girl. Here I am on the cusp of 33, working hard. Working to overcome my mental blocks of what healthy means. That signs of an eating disorder are not indications of a healthy body or strong mental health. That eating my emotions is also a sign of an eating disorder, even if I thought I was stronger than them. That a specific body type, the private christian school body type my high school classmates had wanted to achieve, is not the only type of healthy body. That what is healthy for others is not healthy for me.

When we’re tiny I don’t think we think about our bodies. I didn’t. Outside playing tag with the neighbor boys, the only time I thought about my body was when I hurt it, which I did regularly. I am nearly 33 years old, and for the first time in possibly ever, I love my body. There are many things with my health that are not good, but the skin and bones and muscles that move me around the world and good and strong and I am so proud of them. And this is important for me to note to myself. There is not one thing wrong with being proud of your body.

What They Probably Haven’t Told You

Potentially triggering moments ahead, mentions of assaults, exams, and memories, so here is a picture of Gilda Catner if you need to stop here.

 

 

It has been over a year since I was last assaulted. That alone for me is remarkable. In that year a lot has happened. I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly. I’ve been working the same job consistently. I’ve been to Harry Potter World (and isn’t that all that matters?). I’ve also been diagnosed with endometriosis. I’ve had surgery. I’ve had flashbacks. I’ve healed. I’ve learned, and in a lot of ways I’ve found tools to get out from under the pain of traumas.

To that end my therapist has celebrated with me as I’ve moved into what is genuinely a relatively stable place. I’m not healed. I’m not cured. But I am better. I can confidently tell you that I am constantly getting better. Flashbacks are fewer.

This all, to me, is incredible.

Now that society-at-large is starting to talk about sexual harassment and trauma, let’s talk about what no one is talking about. Hell, I haven’t been talking about it, because I didn’t know it was a thing. So let me tell you what I’ve learned to be a thing.

Mental and emotional damage is a big side effect of sexual assault. Lasting damage, and I am so glad we’ve reached the stage where people are getting the platform and space to speak about that. It’s important, and while heartbreaking, it is beautiful.

It’s safe to assume that some physical damage also comes with sexual assault. Bruises, tears, and some times worse, but often it’s relatively superficial physical damage. Or so I believed.

After months of searching, I finally found a new gynecologist. I was given the most thorough exam I’ve ever received, and with it some of the most needed patience. He explained every he did before he did. I was with him for at least 45 minutes, before he told me that he believed I had both bladder damage and damage to my hip muscle from the assaults, likely one within the last year based on how my pain has changed.

He sent me to a physical therapist who specializes in the pelvic floor, again something I did not know existed. When they handed me the pamphlet for it, it was described as for pre and post-natal treatment. The nurse told me that’s just what they call it, so don’t be intimidated.

A little over a month ago I started seeing my physical therapist, for what I refer to as “vag therapy.” She’s patient. She’s calm. She shows as much care to how my mind is doing as my brain therapist. If I don’t feel up to an internal treatment, she doesn’t even give it a second thought. If I don’t feel up to her touching me, she walks me through stretches that I do myself. This experience has been incredibly healing, but there’s something I really need you to understand.

When I first did my rape kit back in April of 2017, the nurse pointed out that I had hemorrhoids. Those were new. She noticed some mild damage, but she also explained that the same cell structure in your mouth that heals so quickly, is the same cell structure in vaginas, which is why they also heal quickly. Perhaps if I’d gone in the minute after it happened, she’d have seen other damage, but she didn’t tell me about the possibility of future problems. She didn’t even mention it.

When I went to see my physical therapist, she told me there wasn’t just damage, there’s a tear in one of the muscles in my pelvic floor that controls my hip. Not a strain. Not a kink. A tear. That tear then changes how I use my hip which pinches the nerves in my hip. This affects so much more of my life than I realized. It dictates whether or not it hurts to poop, or if I can poop. It can mean I pee more or less because of pain. It changes how I walk, because it’s not just about that muscle. Since it involves my nerves, sometimes there’s a searing pain in my foot, when I’ve done nothing differently. Sometimes I collapse in the middle of a grocery because I’ve been walking too long. Sometimes my head lilts to one side because the nerves are all bound up.

When I say it hurts, I’m understating. I’ll burn myself sitting on and resting under heating pads. I’ll lose sleep. I’ll cry uncontrollably to my boyfriend because I think the way this may be affecting his life is incredibly unfair to him. It determines whether or not I can attend something I was looking forward to. It can genuinely bring me to my knees.

The first time I met with my physical therapist, I got in the car and lost it. I started sobbing. I had, no, I have made so much progress in the last eight years, and in this last one specifically. I’m incredibly proud of how hard I’ve worked, how far I’ve come. I’ve cut out people who were detrimental to my growth, and in many ways deliberately working to undermine it. I’ve given myself tools to get through bad days. I’ve had less bad days. And yet, here I am.

I felt like I’d lost, again. In many ways, I still do. (For corn’s sake, it’s only been a month). These monsters have gone on with their lives, many feeling like they’ve done nothing wrong, some despite conversations. While I’ve begun to feel like every few months I have to start fighting this battle all over again. Like getting to the end of your five-hundredth meter in the pool and remembering just before your feet reach the bottom of the pool that you’re doing the 1,000. Just as you start to breathe relief, your splashed with the reality that this race is not over. It’s both exhausting and heartbreaking.

Hear me though. I am not telling you this for pity or sympathy or anything else. I don’t think I’m telling you for my own sake. Know that your friends who have suffered and survived, may not just be trying to get through mental blocks, and trust me that’s hard enough. Their bodies may also be fighting. Their bodies maybe fighting fights that the mind is not yet aware of.

It’s a long struggle. I know that, and I’ve seen people come and go with time as it weighs on them too. That seems like a dark place to leave, but as of this moment, I don’t know what all comes next. Just do me a favor, check on your survivor friends. Keep growing.

Adventure in Self-Righteous Unhelpfulness

April was sexual assault awareness month. With that came a lot of personal boldness. I’m always pretty talky about things, but I decided it was time to be just a little louder. I did something brave, even for me. I tweeted just the first names (that I knew) of those who have assaulted me. It came with little response. I didn’t do it for anyone else. I did it for me. I did it to bravely say aloud. For me.

A couple of weeks later I got an email from someone I hadn’t heard of in a couple of years. The same person who upon hearing of my first rape laughed at the situational irony and said, “He got what he always wanted.” A couple of years ago when we met up, we talked about that night. We talked about that conversation. I extended forgiveness. I extended grace. We had a conversation in which I believed we’d reached an understanding.

Remember last month when I said “if you don’t know what to say, it’s really okay to just shut up?” (I probably said it nicer than that). She should have just shut up.

This same person came across this tweet and decided that she knew people with those first names, and before checking with me, contacted those she knew with those first names and told them “Hayley is telling people you raped her.” I received threats. I received insults. From people it shouldn’t have impacted at all.

I received what felt like an unending email thread from this person. Even though I repeatedly asked that she never contact me again. Someone who stakes her reputation on being a voice for women made sure to shut mine down, because in her mind it affected someone she once knew, regardless of concern for how it affected the woman she knew. She didn’t stop emailing me until she heard from my boyfriend.

Why am I telling you this?

It takes an awful lot for me to get to a point where I cut someone out of my life. In fact, I should be better at it, based on how many toxic people I’ve let run my life.

Throughout all of the emails she cites her god, the Enemy. Let me tell you something. I believe in God. I believe we’re all in this together. I believe that this world is awful. I believe that the only way it’s going to get better is if we take care of each other. I believe that people who think more about even the potential accused over the victim are the Enemy. I believe that Christians who spout their self-righteousness as faith are a greater detriment than anyone else to faith in general.

If you cannot hear a victim and let them tell their story the way they need to, then you need to take your seat.

It shook me. It knocked me out for a while. It made me terrified again. It made me shake with anger. It rekindled nightmares. It rekindled distrust. It elevated her superiority.

What we share that isn’t ours is affecting. How we share it matters. It’s so, so easy to see some information and draw our own conclusions.

All of that to say this. Bad things are going to happen. Bad people are going to show themselves. Everyone you know and care about isn’t going to support your survival. They won’t like that you’re getting better. Maybe they don’t wish you ill, but they don’t understand how you can get out from under something when they can’t. You aren’t doing it for them. You are doing it for you. It’s your survival, and it’s beautiful.

A year ago I met up with someone from tinder. A year ago guns were brought out in my presence, and I instantly felt trapped. A year ago I was beaten. A year ago I was raped. A year ago I felt so isolated. A year ago one of my best friends met me at the Sexual Assault Treatment Center. A year ago she sat in that lobby for hours, while I did all of the things you’re “supposed” to do. A year ago I made phone calls. A year ago I hid at the Let’s office. A year ago I felt like it was all over, again. A year ago I wanted to be dead. A year ago people I love rallied around me and wouldn’t let me go.

A year later I am stronger. A year later I am different. A year later I have healed and grown. A year later I’ve walked away from a lot of things and a lot of people. A year later I am medicated. A year later I am in consistent therapy. A year later I am still here.

Ya know what? I’m glad I’m here. Thank you to everyone who has helped make that possible.

Adventure in Just Shut Up

In the name of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, I’ve compiled this list. 

Remember, this is one survivor’s opinion. On both sides of this I’ve heard almost all of these at least once. This isn’t a complete list and maybe even some of the suggestions of what to say aren’t the right things for each individual. The key is to listen.

Suggestions on what to say:
I believe you.
Thank you for trusting me.
I’m so sorry.
(if you can ensure it) Right now you are safe.
I’m here as long as you need.
Take your time.
(if you’d like to hug or hold someone) Is it okay if I hug you?
You can say or do whatever you need to. Please know that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.

Silence is okay.
Offer suggestions, rather than making them come up with things to do/say. “Would you like some tea?” rather than “What do you want to drink?” “Do you want to watch parks and rec?” not “watch whatever you want.” Take out too much need for decision, but if no answer comes, try not to do something (i.e. turn on the tv) because you’re uncomfortable. So are they. This is about their timing, not yours.

What not to say:
Are you sure?
That doesn’t sound like him
Yeah, that sounds like him
I can’t imagine him doing that.
What were you doing?
Where were you?
What were you wearing?
Who were you with?
Had you been drinking?
How much had you had to drink?
Had you given any indication?
Well, of course he did.
You shouldn’t have been there alone.
God is trying to teach you something.
I’ll kill him.
Who was it?
Did you report it?/You should have reported it.
It will be okay.
Did you clearly say no?
He got what he always wanted.
What do you need? (we often don’t know, and this adds a lot of pressure)
Why were you (anything at all)? (get your why questions out of here)

Things not to talk about or do:
Anything attention related
Laugh or joke
Anything about what will happen to him.
Calling it “non-consensual sex”
Story compare
Don’t share the story, no matter how helpful you think you’re being.
Don’t ask for specifics.
As you listen do not change the language. If they say “attacked” you don’t say “raped.” If they say “hurt” you don’t say “assaulted.” This is their story. Not yours.

Adventure in Existing in the World

(This is available for purchase at TheEscapistArtist Go buy it.)

 

March 8, 2018

I walked out of my office and down half a block. As I reached the half block point a man in his mid-50s came out of the Salvation Army. I was on the phone, so I didn’t hear what he was saying, but he started shouting at me. He ran across the street to where I was walking and continued to yell. He continued to follow me. I went into the nearest building which was a Starbucks. I stood there a few minutes until it felt like the coast was clear. I walked out and changed routes, changed plans, looking over my shoulder the whole time. I walked two more blocks and the man came from around a different corner shouting again. I changed routes again. I changed plans. I turned a corner and two men in their late-20s or early-30s walked out of an office building. They started to turn a corner, then turned around. They started walking back toward me, yelling. Still with my headphones in I turned again and changed course. I walked another block only to have a man sitting in his truck rolled down his window and started shouting at me. Looking over my shoulder the whole way back to the office. Outside less than 15 minutes. Never made it to a place to get lunch.

It shook me. It changed my whole day. It changed how I felt about myself. Every insecurity poured into my heart and mind. Every cruel way someone complimented me as a joke. Every piece of safety stripped from me. All control taken again.

March 10, 2018

While pumping gas a man in his late-30s working in the parking lot was picking up trash. Every time he walked by me he smiled an unsettling smile, every time he looked at me. As I finished pumping my gas I looked up. He was across the parking lot staring. Once again I was on the phone. I went inside to buy something, when I came back he was standing next to my car, less than ten feet away. Just standing there. Staring at me. As I got in the car he stared and gave his unsettling smile. I started my car, and he walked backwards away from my car staring the whole time.

I left, and as I drove by again I checked to see if I could see him so I could take his picture and send it to his employer to inform them of what had happened. I did not see him.

March 12, 2018

Leaving a grocery store I was in my car about to start it when I looked up. A man in his early-20s walked by the front of my car. As he did he made direct eye contact with me the whole time and did the old tongue-between-the-fingers. He then sauntered off casually into the grocery as if nothing had happened.

My instinct, my greatest desire is to yell at them. I want to approach them, face-to-face, and ask, “what do you want to happen here? What’s your end game? Where do you think that’s going to lead?” The truth is though it shakes my sense of safety so unbelievably, I can’t imagine putting that in further risk by engaging. Without engaging though it will continue to happen. The cycle will continue. If I engage, I’m at risk, but if I don’t engage, we all remain at risk. I’ll be honest though, I’ve just spend 8 years rebuilding my sense of safety, I’m not going to risk throwing it away again until I’m certain it’s stable.

Maybe that’s selfish, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. If you think it is, sorry, but also tough shit. It’s something that doesn’t just leave my mind. It’s something that lingers with so many questions about what I’m doing wrong. Which coat, which top, which hairstyle, makeup or no makeup? What are the factors? How is this my fault? What am I doing?

I know the answers are all that I’m not doing anything. That this isn’t my fault, but still as they pile up, it becomes almost impossible not to wonder what I’ve done, what I’m doing to make this keep happening.

Adventure in Control

Abuse comes in a lot of different forms. **trigger warning** This post will mention, though not explicitly describe the concept of rape.

 

A few years ago I started regularly seeing someone. He went to a church that I used to attend. He came to a show I did with some friends. He started liking all of the things I posted on social media, I guess to get my attention?

We started seeing each other a couple of times a week. I’m a very punctual person. I believe that being habitually late tells people my time is more valuable than mine, and I hardly believe my time matters at all, so I try to be early. He, on the other hand, would be half an hour to two hours late without explanation every time I saw him.

One night I had purchased tickets for an event that he had interest in. It was the least I could after dinners and things. He also didn’t have a car at the time, so I had to drive out of town to pick him up. I drove around his town for two hours waiting for him to come home. Ten minutes before he arrived at home he said “I’m on my way back from *wherever the hell he’d gone.* I just need to shower and change.” He was insistent we drive up to the show that was now almost over to see if we could still get in. I said, “No. That’s not how theatre works. We missed the beginning; we missed it all.” We ended up driving all the way back to his town to watch a movie. We didn’t have to make that trip at all.

He had given me a pair of pants to mend for him, which was fine with me. But one day, the information about my assaults and the way I’d spun out after that was not okay with him. Over a text he broke up with me. He didn’t want to see me. He still won’t acknowledge I exist if we’re standing next to each other in line to see something.

The problem was that I still had those pants. For weeks. About once a week he would text me that he wanted to come pick them up. I would wait, for hours because I just wanted rid of them. Hours later he would say “oh I just went home because of y.” I’d have someone in my apartment, so he wouldn’t feel like he could stay. I’d sit outside in the rain. I’d wait.

This was his way of maintaining control over me. To still be able to dictate what my life was.

Eventually, I got fed up and drove to his town with several other unwanted pairs of pants and threw them all over his yard in the middle of the night. (I highly recommend pantsing someone’s yard. The thud pants make when they hit the ground is very satisfying.)

I’ve lately been trying to walk away from an emotionally abusive situation. He once checked on my cat so he was given a key. He still has that key and has put a lot of work into making sure he just can’t quite get it back to me, which leads to sleeplessness.

He said I could have two whole bars in town. Granted, they’re the only places I really go, but on a recent occasion where I went to one of those two bars, one of his friends said “you’re not welcome here.” I stared. “You know why.” I didn’t, but I’m pretty decent at social math. Nonetheless, it remained that was one of my spaces. He had the entire town at his disposal. Still as a courtesy I let him know I’d be there for a show. I’d stay at the show. I wouldn’t be seen. So naturally he had already had plans to be there and made sure I felt guilty for even thinking about going. He’d change his plans, he pouted. He didn’t. He didn’t change his plans, and I uncomfortably cried during a show I was trying to enjoy.

The key has been attempted to be retrieved on several occasions, but there’s always a reason it doesn’t make it to me. This is control. This is a power play.

Abuse has so much to do with control. Assault has so much to do with control. Rape is about control and power.

In dealing with my most recent rape, I made a joke about all of the weight I’ve been gaining and how often I’ve been raped. “How fat do I have to get to stop being raped?” This was called out as fat shaming. If it was, it was shaming me. It was also called out that I was saying fat people aren’t desirable. I’ve never been more disgusted that someone would think rape had one fragment to do with desire. It doesn’t. It has nothing to do with desire. That’s why it doesn’t matter how fat I get, how much or little I’m covered, how drunk or sober I am, how old or young I am. It has nothing to do with those things. Nothing. It is about control.

I haven’t been sleeping. He has my key and the power still to keep me from sleep. Control and abuse comes in a lot of forms. Right now it’s little cuts and bruises in my mind that don’t get to heal.

Adventure in Daunting Resilience

The summer of 2000 my family went camping at a now-closed campground called Oak Hill in Fremont. It was a Christian campground that on occasion my youth group also stayed. This particular weekend jaunt I brought my pal Emily with me. Emily and I have been pals so long that I’m the one who taught her oldest daughter to dance. The day Ellie realizes it was my fault, she’ll never forgive me. I don’t recall it being a particularly warm weekend. I remember grey skies, but maybe I remember grey skies because the weekend is now a little sullied.

It was warm enough that we walked down to the grimy, grey beach. We built sandcastles. We built sand-witches. We were in seventh grade and admittedly little weirdos. One-piece bathing suits. No grace or class at all. Just strange creatures, who worked so hard to be different than everyone else that we ended up almost exactly alike (at the time).

When we left the beach, I remember it being because the clouds were starting to roll in, but maybe it was too cold. Or maybe we got bored with being weird there and wanted to take the show on the road.We walked back through the woods and winding paved roads to the campsite. As we approached we heard my parents talking to other people. The people from the site next to us had come over. Another married couple and their son. Maybe they had a daughter about my brother’s age. I don’t remember. That’s not the part that stuck with me.

My parents introduced us to the new-comers. The parents told us their respective names, and this was their son Stephan. Not Stephen, guys. Not Stefan Urquelle. Stephan. Steph-an. In fact, it was pronounced like how you’d read Stephen if you’d never heard it aloud before. We all chatted for a while. They were staying for the week; we were leaving the next day. Stephan and I exchanged emails. He seemed nice enough, and I was about to be in eighth grade. I didn’t know. I didn’t know then what I know now, but can’t seem to avoid.

A couple of weeks later I got an email from Stephan. Harmless email. “Hey how’s it going?” email. Emails like this went on for a while, until about a month or so later when he said, “I have to tell you something.” And I didn’t know any better. I should have walked away weeks ago.

“When you and your friend…” Emily. Her name is Emily. You know her name. I talk about her all of the time.
“went down to the beach by yourselves…” because we did. We were in a safe place. Camping was safe. Christian camping was safer. It wasn’t that far, and we weren’t small children. We could go to the beach alone.
“the day I met you…” Not we. I.
“I followed you.” YOU WHAT?!
“I just stayed back in the trees and watched you.”

My reply was simple. It felt simple. “What? Why would you do that? If you wanted to talk to us, you should have. That’s so scary. Why would you do that?”

“You were just so pretty.”

I repeated my first email. “If you want to talk to us, you should have. That’s so scary.”

Also, I was not. I was remarkably gawkish in middle school, as most are. I didn’t know how to do my hair, but I wanted it cut like Mary-Kate’s in Our Lips Are Sealed. It was supposed to be thinned and straight and flipped out. Even when I got it cut it didn’t do that. She didn’t do that to my hair. It just piled up in a bundle of poof that neither curled nor laid flat. My neck was longer than I could understand. My boobs were bigger than they should have been already. And I spent most of my freetime rollerblading, because I watched the movie Brink a lot. I wasn’t pretty. I was weird. I was intentionally weird, which made me even weirder.

That’s me in the blue. (Emily not pictured)

I got a lot of emails from Stephan over the years that I mostly ignored. When my junior year rolled around, he was still emailing me. He wanted to know if he could come to prom with me. Not me go to prom with him at his school. He wanted to come to my prom. Blackhawk didn’t have prom. I’ve still never been to a dance. We had Jr./Sr. banquet, which was getting dressed up and inevitably spilling chicken on your expensive dress at an uncomfortable table. “You don’t have a date, do you?” I didn’t at the time, but I also didn’t want to take someone who followed me to a beach and assumed I wasn’t good enough to get a date from people I knew. “You don’t have a date, do you?” In the end I still went with a, at the time, near stranger. A new friend from church, but it seemed better than going alone or with Stephan. We went with Emily and her boyfriend (they’re married now and have four kids).

“You were just so pretty.”
“You don’t have a date, do you?”

The boy in college who raped one of my friends told me I was a “fucking slut” and a “piece of shit,” because I wouldn’t come to my window and stand there naked while he smoked in the parking lot.

Another boy in college tried to “jokingly” drag me to the woods. He pulled out a chunk of my hair to commit to that joke. The tag on that is “it’ll be funny to you later when you think about it.” I can’t wait for that slow burn to finally sink in for me. It’s gonna be so rich.

When I told my friends about the first time I was raped, I framed it terribly. I didn’t know what had happened to me, so I certainly didn’t know how to tell them. How to tell them I didn’t know what happened. That I was with our friends. That I thought I was safe. The situational irony was rich the way I framed it. It still is even when framed properly. It doesn’t make it any less terrible. “That’s perfect. He finally got what he always wanted,” one of them said.

Since that day, six years later, we all sat down. They asked for my story, and I gave it to them. The whole thing. We all realized a lot in that moment. I framed it incorrectly. We were all distracted by ourselves. I’ve never doubted they love me, but for a time I didn’t trust them.

When I was attacked in Huntington on a date, I was on a date, with someone from church. It should have been safe. It was supposed to be safe. Moreover, it was the first date I’d ever really been on. Certainly since anything had happened. Truth to tell though, he’d be Stephaning me for a while. Just watching me from the balcony on Sunday mornings. Lurking behind me at parties. Never speaking to me until St. Patrick’s Day. And then not for a few weeks later.

When I was attacked in Indy, I was wearing a skirt and wool tights. I was wearing flats. I was wearing a sweater. I didn’t wear heels then. I couldn’t walk in them. I barely wore skirts, if I did they usually came to my knee or lower, because part of me still felt like I was in seventh grade. Part of me was still trying to be a little weird. I was walking. From the car I’d just parked to a restaurant a few blocks away.

When I was attacked at the Brass Rail, my drink never left my hand. It was the only one I’d had all night. It was warm. I was wearing tattered jeans. I was wearing a tank top. I was wearing moccasins. I was standing. I was surrounded by people.

When I was cornered in my own home. Threatened about my own home. At work. I keep repeating in my own brain all of the time that I didn’t do anything. It’s not my fault, but it is constantly fighting a battle with the part of my brain that reminds me how many times terrible things have happened. How many times I’ve let terrible thoughts overcome me and given into them. How many times I’ve played along to manipulation because if I’m not polite worse things happen. That somewhere in the inner war that wages in my brain, I’m the one firing canons from both sides. That somehow it still feels like my fault.

It still feels like my fault when someone in a car catcalls me when I’m walking down the street. It feels like my fault when a comic grabs my ass. It feels like my fault when teenage boys harass me. It always feels like my fault. It always feels like my fault.

It always feels like my fault.

Adventure in Imagination Station

Lately I’ve felt sick with adventurous longing, which has been manifesting itself as crying. I never expect it. I can’t prepare myself for it. Some days I’m completely fine, and then it happens.

It happens when I see the sun reflect in just a certain way along a puddle in the grass. It sparks this part of my imagination, the part that it did when I was tiny. Recess brain. And I feel it. I physically feel it. I just think, “What is it I’ve been doing? How could I forget? How do I get it back?” Like nostalgia, but it’s not just memories. It’s like something I once knew, but now can’t remember. Like it’s just out of my reach. Like I should be 7, and that puddle is an unswimmable lake, and it’s up to me to cross it. Like I need to be in it. To save us all. Like I should be in the woods. Deep and lost. Adventuring. To save or be saved.
When it hits, I can’t even say words out loud. I think I should, but I can’t. I even some times try, but it’s like the Gentlemen have come and taken away my voice. Or Ursula, if you prefer, but it probably is closer to the Gentlemen, because I didn’t volunteer for this.
I wish I had friends who would be 8 with me. I remember when I was maybe 10, 10 seems right. All of the other girls, the “cool” girls stopped playing.

At recess they just stood in circles talking. Like the Ashleys.

If you played, particularly with your imagination, you were weird. It’d be one thing if you were playing kickball, ya know for the attention of a boy, or because you just didn’t know how to be a girl, which was more often what you were accused of. But to play Ghostwriter at 10 (not just because it cancelled when we’re 8, or because The New Ghostwriter Mysteries suuucked). To play Narnia at 10. To have to fight monsters at 10, as a girl, made you a weirdo. And I was a weirdo. I was a damn weirdo. I still am, but I also wanted to have friends. So I stopped. I stopped before I wanted to. I stopped before I should have.

Like so many other things it feels like a piece of my childhood was taken away from me. So many things get taken. Taken isn’t fair. In this case I sacrificed it. I burned it on the alter of cool, and still I wasn’t. The ash and smoke of my imagination in my eyes and hair. Wafting up to the gods of cool, but never accepted.

So weird still, in fact, that I was asked to distract someone else, who by all cool girl standards, was not weird. I always thought she was cool. I didn’t get that that was their way to keep us away from them. But I will always love that that joke backfired. Sure, they got what they wanted, but we each gained a best friend. She got weirder. I grew more normal. We wrote stupid songs that we sang constantly. Some that I still do. Maybe we didn’t play the way I wanted to, but we wander. We wandered our respective neighborhoods and woods. We spent whole weeks of spring break together, not going anywhere, but the other’s home.

I still pine for someone to take my hand at the sound of a strange noise and make an elaborate tale of what that might be. To wander the woods with me looking for clues, clues to the mystery we haven’t yet discovered. A fleck of paint on the tree is a clue. It’s not a trail marker like you think. It’s a warning. It’s a cry for help. It’s someone that needs saving.

Maybe that’s what it all falls back on. I can’t save people. I’ve tried. I can help. I wanted to “save” the other girls from [redacted]. I wanted to save myself from the shame of being odd. Because deep down, I still wanted to rescue people. From their captors. From the monsters. From themselves. My imagination needs saved. It’s trapped in a loop, and I can’t get it out to roam free. It’s spinning. I feel it spinning, but it’s stuck. I’m stuck.

Adventure in All Grown Up Now Part III: Man, I Feel Like a Woman

On Doctor Who, a long time ago, Queen Thalira who said, “It would be different if I was a man.But I’m only a girl.” To which Sarah Jane Smith beautifully replied, “Now just a minute. There’s nothing ‘only’ about being a girl, Your Majesty.”

This is it. The big question.

When did you first realize you changed from a girl to a woman? Like the moment you realized.

Maria: Wow, really sitting down to think about this, a moment comes to mind that I would have skipped over had I not really thought about this. The moment I first realized I changed from girl to woman was when I said “no”, for the first time, to a man who was physically and verbally abusive to me…the man that was supposed to be a father figure to me. I said no to going over to his house any more, to allowing his abuse any more in my life. It was the first time I stopped feeling like a girl and more like a woman.

Kristen G.: That is a super good question and I would say my very first day of college. I told my roommate where I was going and when I’d be back and she said “I don’t care – I’m not your mother – do your own thing” and I couldn’t believe I was on my own – – – and not to be cliche, but there is nothing like holding your baby in your arms and thinking “holy crap”

Emily Y.: Hm. I don’t know. I mean, I feel like I want to say when I started menstruating. That’s the most physiologically correct answer. But I started menstruating at 13. In some cultures, a 13 year old female may feel like an adult, but I think that’s more the exception than the rule in America. I honestly don’t think I felt like a woman until much later, potentially even recently. And what is a girl and what is a woman? Is there a distinct difference? I don’t really think so. It’s a gradual developmental change, right? I mean, in baby development in utero, there is never a moment between when you don’t have arms and then you do. You grow arm buds that slowly and gradually grow into fully functional arms. Maybe that’s a weird example, but I think the same concept applies here. I don’t think there was a moment for me. Sometimes I’m not even sure that I feel more like a woman than a girl. Adulthood is a loose construct for me. Although I am an adult, I’m still not sure what that means yet.
I did not answer your question…but I’m not really sure how to.
Also, if you aren’t thinking about “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman” by Britney Spears right now, I’m not sure what’s wrong with you.

Kristen K.: I think around age 7 I realized I should start taking care of my little brother and sister.

Hayley: There are few moments. When I was 6, and my mom and dad explained that my sister wasn’t going to make it. That my baby sister wasn’t going to be a part of our lives. That’s the first time I remember really coming to terms with mortality, and actual disappointment.
When I was 22, and I not only didn’t get a say in what happened to my life and body. But the eventual step when I realized, I needed to start recognizing myself as a powerful entity, because not everyone else will.
And just the other day. This is the day that I realized I was an adult. There were these two boys on my block throwing a kickball at my porch cat Bill Purray. I drove by the house and parked in front of mine. Left my thawing groceries in the 90 degree car and marched down the street. Before I even reached them I said, in the most even tone, “Don’t throw the ball at the cat.” Not “Hey, don’t throw that ball at that cat.” No introduction. Just “stop.” And the older of the boy now red in the face, said, “We weren’t.” It came right out of my mouth, and I still can’t believe it. I said, “I saw you do it. Don’t lie to me.” They turned and instantly ran into their house as I snatched up Bill Purray without missing a beat and walked right back to my house and sat on the porch with her. Eventually, one of the boys came back on his porch and sat in a chair. Pouting. I turned my chair and faced his porch and glared. I still don’t feel bad. That’s a future serial killer.

Harmony: It took me a long time to answer this. It took so long because I am not proud of the story I’m about to share.
I grew up in a safe, loving environment with parents who are truly in love each other. This environment was ideal in so many ways, and even as a young teen, I knew how good I had it. So when the dating scene became a part of my life, I didn’t take it very seriously. There wasn’t anything out there that could even come close to comparing to what my parents had. Dudes were disposable.
Then one day, I realized my heart had changed. I was 20 years old and had been ‘seeing’ (because ‘dating’ was too committed) a guy for almost a year. We were not dating, but we spent a lot of time together; ate meals together, visited with his family together, went to concerts, watched movies, got stoned and shared a healthy physical relationship. But we weren’t dating.
My phone rang around 7.00am one morning when I wasn’t dating this guy, and a very sad female voice spoke quietly to me from the other end of the line. I didn’t recognize the voice, I just remember being so startled at how sad she was; she was sobbing. She had said something about someone, and an accident, and how sorry she was. I was trying to put all the syllables together and still identify the caller…
It was my friend.
My friend that was dating my non-boyfriend’s brother.
On no, something happened to my non-boyfriend’s brother.
But she was apologizing to me – why is she sorry?
The car? Last night. Too much to drink.
Kevin. Kevin is dead. The Kevin that was not mine, but he was.
My non-boyfriend died.
I felt the heat in my face. I felt nothing but rage. RAGE. I told her how dare she call me and dump this load of crap on me. I refused to believe my non-boyfriend friend guy had died. DIED? No. Come on, now. So I hung up on her. Actually, I accused her of lying first, then I hung up on her.
15 minutes later doorbell rang. It’s now 7.15 in the morning and I’m all, “Oh now this has gone too far.” I opened the door, already pissed off, but there she was. Her normally pretty face, pale and swollen. Her eyes, pitted and bloodshot. Makeup, long gone. She hadn’t slept all night. Her hands were shaking and she said one word to me that I will never, never forget: She pleaded, in a whisper, “Please.”
And then I lost me.
Whoever I thought I was.
Whoever I thought he was.
Whatever I thought he meant to me.
Whatever I convinced myself I needed.
It was lost.
It was the day I learned what life really is.
That it isn’t a farce. It isn’t fake or showy or shallow.
In one moment I realized all that I kept from myself in treating him like he didn’t matter.
I realized what I’d kept from him.
Life as I knew it, had effectively gone from 2D to 3D. I felt everything all at once: the laughter he brought to my life. The joy. His old soul; his immense intelligence. The way his hands played the piano; held his brandy glass. How he looked past my distance and into my essence. The way he still held me, long after he’d fallen asleep, as though I were a treasure he protected even in his off hours.
I saw myself through his eyes for the first time. I saw myself as a woman. A woman he loved. A woman he adored. A woman who had willingly kept myself from feeling all these things he felt or me. And then he died. I had run out of time. My lesson came too late.
In the months afterward, I didn’t know what else to do, but march on. After a long time I started dating again, but it was different than before. I dated to get to know them, but I also dated to learn more about myself. It all came full circle when I met my husband, Sam.
Sam’s gentle soul and desire to love me is what opened my heart even further. I wanted to love him and I wanted him to know I loved him. I opened my life to him and he treated it with respect and patience. I appreciated all things about him and in doing so I began to appreciate all things about me.
So, back to the question: when was my moment when I switched from a girl to a woman? Well, like any complicated algebraic equation, there was a roundabout way to coming up with the final answer:
Part one was losing all I didn’t know I had.
Part two was giving it all had and losing myself to it.

Ashley L.: I think I’m still waiting to feel like a woman. I often feel like I’m still a scared little girl trying to put on a brave, “fake it ’til you make it” face.

Courtney: The moment I realized I was a woman… I think I realized something was different when I noticed men were looking at me. I remember two specific times were I was just doing normal activities (shopping, eating), and a grown men were either staring at me, or physically came over to hit on me (which, I didn’t realize what that was then, only that it make me uncomfortable). I remember being probably around 12 years old and confused as to why these people are looking at ME and knowing that I felt not OK with it. And shortly later I noticed more of my body changing. But I don’t think I ever felt anything INSIDE that was different, but realized something was different because of my OUTER circumstances.

Allison: I don’t recall having an “ah ha” moment about changing from a girl to a woman. Is that a thing?! Maybe it is for some, but I have been wracking my brain trying to remember if I had one. It definitely wasn’t when I got my first period and it definitely wasn’t the first time I had sex! Neither were very pleasant experiences and did not make me feel very womanly. Perhaps it was more of a series of moments and events that made up my transition from a girl to a woman. I suppose for me, the broader experience of trying to get pregnant, getting pregnant, and having miscarriages are the most womanly experiences I have ever had. You ain’t a child anymore when you have gone through that. Sometimes I look at women who have children and I still see myself as a girl. Certainly that isn’t true, but our culture tells us that part of being a woman is being a mother. Well of course I know that being a mother is not what makes a woman and being a woman is not what makes a mother. But sometimes it stings, you know? If I truly think deeply about this, my journey to becoming a woman has the thought of motherhood in it, but it is not what defines me. To me, being a woman is living through the tough moments and milestones and the happy and joyful times, to come to an understanding what it means to be a female in our society, and then embracing and spreading that power. It is important to me to try embody the positive and empowering aspects of what it means to me to be a thoughtful woman and a feminist for the sake of the young men and women I come into contact with.

Danee: I don’t think I’ve had that moment of realization yet. I mean, I know by all societal standards, I am a woman. However, there are many ways in which I still feel like a girl. When I’m with my mom, for instance, or my sister, it’s easy to slip into a more child-like version of myself. Old friends can have this same affect, and my partner, Brown, probably sees this side of me more than anyone. Of course, there are many other situations where I feel old as hell. When I’m teaching college students… yeah, those moments definitely make me feel like an old lady. Does that count?

Amber S.: I’m not sure I always feel like a woman versus a girl at this point in my life. It’s so easy to feel lost and weak. I’m not sure if I ever feel like a woman without someone else being involved.

Rebekah: The moment I realized I had become a woman was just a little over a year ago. I was in a production of “the Music Man” and a friend took a backstage photo of me in the “Grecian urn” costume. When I saw the photo, my instant thought was “I look like a woman.” (my mom had the same thought, and expressed it on Facebook.) It was a bittersweet thought. At 29, it seems I ought to have become a woman years ago, but I was sad that the spritely youthfulness of my face had diminished. It made sense. I’d done a lot of growing up that year, and it showed in my complexion and my eyes. It also felt true in my soul. I had faced what seemed unbearable, and I was okay. I was going to be okay.

Emily L.: Another cliche answer, but it would have to be when I first became a mother. Up until that point I was being taken care of and had no real need to truly think of anyone else, but when I became a mom I was completely responsible for someone else and not to mention what my body was able to do by carrying and delivering a child made me realize a whole new side of womanhood.

Alex: I’m not sure I can define the difference from child to adult. I feel there were different stages in my life that matured me into my own autonomous self but I am not sure this makes one an adult. I am over the age or reason and hold responsibility for my own actions in God’s eyes, but again, not sure this means adult. I am over the legal age and deemed an adult when it comes to our governments laws but again does the single second between 11:59:59 the day before my 18th birthday to 12:00:00 really change me that much? I guess the closest thing I have to an answer is telling my parents I was moving to Indiana for school despite the cost. And despite feeling like an adult at that moment, telling my parents 2 years later that I was leaving this same school with all kinds of debt and no degree because I wanted to live authentically. It made me realize how much of a child I still was in ways I wasn’t sure would ever change. I feel like any time I do something new for the first time, no matter how prepared or confident I am, I still feel a little childlike.

Laura: Here’s the thing: I don’t like the word “woman.” It’s a soft, round word that has connotations of periods and menopause and chunky robes and fuzzy slippers and cold coffee. Now don’t get me wrong, I like chunky robes and fuzzy slippers as much as anybody, but to me the word has connotations of giving up. I don’t even know why those connotations exist. They have no basis- my mom is a go-getter who never gives up. I can’t think of a single woman who speaks into my life who is this tired picture I see in my head. But I still don’t like the word.
So I don’t see myself as a woman. Instead, a grown-up girl. A lady, maybe. A chick, even? All words with hard consonants and bright vowels. The moment I felt most like a woman is when I was pregnant- a literal “womb-man.” There was no getting around it. I was grown, about to give life, carrying a baby in my belly. And I hated being pregnant. I was slow and hot and tired all the time. I lost creative energy and wasn’t allowed to lift heavy things. I didn’t look like myself and people treated me differently. So I guess, in my own thoughts, I prefer to distance myself from my baby-making capabilities and don’t really think of myself as a “woman.”

Dana: It’s funny, really; it has been a sneak-attack in three parts. The first, when I was bold enough to speak my mind with my mother about views she did not share. I realized that I was my own person. I had my own thoughts and feelings that were no longer dictated by her. I felt freedom…and fear. I felt my growing up that day. (Thankfully, my mother has done well with that transition. As well as expected anyway) The second, when I was speaking at a conference, promoting the empowerment of women and purity. It was something I would have never seen myself doing, but I felt an ease and comfort and passion that has only grown since then. And third, I was bold enough to wear HOT red lipstick and sassy heels for a formal banquet once. And I carried on with myself as normal, but people (specifically men), stopped to say how beautiful I looked. But not in that “she’s so sweet and cute and 10” kind of voice, but “WOW. You’re you in all your youness” voice. You know the one.

Ashlee: Do people really have moments? I don’t even know if I would consider myself a “woman.” I don’t feel old enough for that. I still drink on weeknights. I suppose during my sophomore year of college I started doing things more independently. I learned about cleaning my own bathroom and buying groceries to make meals. I took ownership of my education. I think that’s what I started developing my own thoughts and feelings towards important issues. That made me feel more like an adult woman.

Jessica: I think the girl to a woman moment for me was likely when I finally understood that I could not be first. In my marriage, in my teaching job, in my life, I needed to put others before myself. When I was able to let that bit of selfishness go I was able to mature and see a greater picture of the world that didn’t center around me and my problems.

Amber F.: Hmm, I don’t know. My gut says when I got married, but I’d say it was more recently- after getting divorced, I had to learn all sorts of things about being an adult. I think I feel like an adult for the first time in my life right now.

Brett: I feel like I’m still waiting for that moment. I think it will come, but it may not be until I’m 75, and I’m cool with that.

Allie: I honestly cannot pinpoint a moment like that. If I have to narrow it down at all, I’ll say that I only started thinking of myself and referring to myself as a woman when I learned that calling adult females “girls” is condescending. This realization came about three or four years ago, but I still struggle to think of myself as a woman the way I think of other women as women. It’s often easier to see other women for who they are instead of what they do or accomplish, and I am learning to extend myself the same grace rather than focusing on the ways I fall short of my own or other people’s expectations.

“I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We’ve been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.” Audre Lorde

Adventure in All Grown Up Now: Part II

Here we go! Thanks for coming back! I’m excited to keep going. If you missed part one you can find it here. Stay with us. The big question (When did you first realize you were a woman?) is coming in the post after this one. Can you believe how much there is to say about something that seems so small, when you stop to really think about it?  Okay, enough, enough. Diving in!

What has been the greatest moment of your year?

Maria: This airing. It was the most overwhelming feeling to see the fullness of the story put into a video. Coupled with this video coming out, where I got to talk about all God has done through tragedy, and of course, talk about my best friend, my mom and her legacy.

Meg: I got married to Brian. Just over a year ago … but the year following was rather nasty with work and deaths, so I will cling to that :)

Kristen G.: Floating on a raft, chit-chatting with my nine-year old son, having him share his heart

Emily Y.: I’m not sure that I can single out just one!

Kristen K.: Coming to terms with my weight and deciding I don’t need to or want to lose any of it.

Hayley: I regret picking this question. I made myself write it because I think it’s important to look back before the year is over to reflect. To see how far you’ve come. So I’ll say February 14. Not because of any romance, but because something I poured my heart and brain into came together because I had incredible people surrounding me and supporting me. It didn’t just come together. That’s an understatement. It was a massive success, and I need to remember my successes. It was a success in the middle of what, at the time (and some times still does), felt like a massive devastation. How loved and lucky am I?

Ashley L.: Dear God, I hope it hasn’t happened yet…

Amber S.: Realizing it’s time to love myself first and foremost, no matter what changes that takes.

Rebekah: Landing the lead in a show where I earned my equity card.

Emily L.: I can’t say I have 1 great moment in the past year. I have been truly blessed with many.

Alex: I married my best friend. And this is selfish because thankfully it was legal in Illinois at the time. It was made even better by marriage equality being handed down by the Supreme Court. It is crazy what being recognized on a bureaucratic level does for ones heart, even if there is a ton more ground to cover.

Laura: The moment I saw my book nestled between two Sarah Dessen books on Amazon- ranked in the top 50 of YA Contemp romance. (And it was really only for a moment!) (Laura’s Novel)

Dana: Watching a boy in my class walk to the feet of Jesus, and taking me with him as his strength. Walking with him from the beginning of the most terrible anger, despair, confusion, to that vulnerable breaking point and surrender. (This could also be added to the things that make me cry without fail.) It was no less than radical and humbling and beautiful and GLORY. I could talk about this for the rest of my life. And most likely will.

Jessica: The greatest moment of this year was finding out that we were pregnant. We had major fertility issues to overcome to get the boys so having this pregnancy be a surprise was amazing.

Amber F.: This year has been full of ups and downs, but I’d say the moment I became divorced- both the worst and the greatest simultaneously.

Brett: It’s been a rough year for me, so just making it through to now has been a success. I have the best friends, so it’s not all on me

Allie:I’ll be honest; it’s been a tough year. A moment that stands out to me is when I finished a research paper for an independent study on Mariology. It was a subject that intrigued me and through researching and writing the paper, I came to adopt views that have changed the way I understand God, the Church, and women. It was a tedious paper, and turning it in felt wonderful. It was also my final project of a semester that had been weighed down by personal family stress. Finishing something, and feeling like I had done it well against the odds, was empowering.

What skill would you like to learn?

Maria: Detail-oriented. (is this a skill?) ha I’m terrible with details. I’m more of dreamer, big picture girl.

Meg: Calligraphy. I have all the stuff for it, but need to take a class or sit down and just do it

Kristen G.: I wish I could DANCE.

Emily Y.: Occlumency. But also getting better at altering clothing.

Kristen K.: A way to make money other than the peeing super power.

Hayley: Decision making. Keeping a damn rhythm.

Ashley L.: I can’t whistle, which makes me feel lame. So learning how to do that would make me feel more accomplished in my humanity. Oh, and winged eyeliner. Someone, please teach me.

Danee: I would like to learn to speak Spanish fluently. I feel a deep connection to my Mexican ancestry, and I wish I could understand more of the language.

Amber S.: What WOULDN’T I want to learn?! I’d love to become a better writer. I’d love to play with arts and crafts more frequently. As far as something I have nearly no knowledge about, I’d say something involving making music. An instrument like guitar, piano, etc. maybe.

Rebekah: Travel hacking

Emily L.: There is a lot I would like to be skilled at, but if organizing is a skill than I want it!

Alex: How to adult. Or I guess I would settle for carpentry

Laura: How to give constructive spoken feedback with seamless tact and gentle pleasantry. I always sound like I’m patronizing or trying desperately to say the right thing. (Which I am. I just don’t want to sound like I am)

Dana: Deep sea diving. I want to see and explore all the beauty of this wild earth!

Ashlee: My grandmother gave me her sewing machine. She got it in the sixties and my late-grandfather built the little stand that it is in. I want to learn to sew on that machine. I have no idea how to sew on a modern sewing machine, so hopefully there is hope for me. My grandma made her children clothes on the machine and my mom made her dolls clothes on the machine. It would mean a lot to me to be able to make really simple shit on that machine. I have no ambitious dreams, just pillows and minor alterations.

Jessica: I would like to learn how to quilt. Like those crazy ones that you have to get two inches away from it to take in all the details.

Amber F.: Does a foreign language count? I’d like to speak another language, and i really have no preference what language.

Erica: Driving a stick

Brett: I’ve always wanted to be a good singer. Sewing would also be a good one. I’m not crafty.

Allie: I’m trying to be handier. I’d like to understand basic car maintenance better and simple construction so that I don’t feel so dependent on other people to fix stuff. My husband naturally takes care of cars and things around our house because he was taught those skills growing up. I feel inadequate in those areas and find myself doubting my ability to learn physical skills, but I want to believe that I can. Also, I really want to learn how to speed-read.

What is your strongest personality trait?

Maria: Dreamer. Imaginative.

Meg: Oh gosh, this is hard … UMMM I am a perfectionist. It can be an equally bad trait as well though!

Kristen G.: Sense of humor? Positivity/optimism?

Emily Y.: My need for personal authenticity

Kristen K.: My ability to see the nonsense.

Hayley: My sense of nostalgia. That I can’t forget anything, good or bad. So I don’t let people go easily. They can move. They can leave, but it’s not until they hurt me or the people around me in a way without any remorse, that’s the time that I let them go. Otherwise, that sense of nostalgia comes with this loyalty that can be both good and bad.

Danee: I’m “optimistically persistent” (which could also be read as “naively stubborn”). I think most things are possible, and I often believe myself more capable of accomplishing things than I have any right to. This sometimes means I find myself in over my head, but it also means that I’m consistently testing myself, learning, growing, and finding out what is actually possible (and it’s usually more than people think).

Amber S.: Does it have to be positive? haha. I’d say I’m most strongly stubborn. Which has been good and bad. Strongest positive trait is probably the caring/maternal instincts I’ve been blessed/cursed with.

Rebekah: Analytical thinking

Emily L.: Loyalty

Alex: I’m perceptive. I also have a strong sense of integrity since learning the value of authenticity. I hold myself and those I surround myself with to a high standard.

Laura: Confidence

Dana: My listening ear, paired with my quiet mouth. It allows me to know people without presupposition.

Ashlee: I immediately wanted to ask my husband to answer this for me. Instead, I’m making myself answer on my own. People comment on my generosity a lot. Does that make it my strongest trait?

Jessica: I’m guessing not everyone will agree with me, but I think my strongest personality trait is that I’m relentless. I can’t stop working on something until it is done, I can’t stop worrying until Ive done all I can possibly do and more, I can’t end a fight until all the bugs are worked out and things feel normal, I can’t settle for a B, I need everyone to be happy, etc.

Amber F.: Emotional :) Does that count?

Erica: I’m emotional. My strongest and my worst trait.

Brett: I think I’m outgoing and make friends easily. I think people feel comfortable around me and sometimes that attracts weirdos (I am a weirdo magnet) but I like that about myself.

Allie: Kindness.

What do you love most about your body?

Maria: My smile

Meg: My cheekbones. They are from my dad :)

Kristen G.: My hair and my nose

Emily Y.: My hair. It feels pretty unique. And it’s fun to play with like little springs haha

Kristen K.: My monstrously large eyes.

Hayley: My hair. And the brown patch in my green eyes. Also, it’s durability. This machine has suffered a great deal, but the whole thing remains tenacious and soldiers on.

Ashley L.: Probably my smattering of freckles. There are some on my arms and torso that I’m particularly fond of.

Courtney: My eyes are my favorite part of my body. They always have been. Although it also feeds into my biggest insecurity – my eyebrows!! My eyes are so big, I always think if my eyebrows are bushy or not taken care of, it’s an instant turn off!! Every rose has it’s thorns, I suppose!

Danee: That I have one! And that it’s mostly capable of doing the things I want to do.

Amber S.: Default answer is my eyes. They’re pretty neat. Changes of late have made my bones something I’ve been able to know for the first time. I spend a little time every week watching in the mirror to see how my ribs look when I stretch different ways. I notice my hip bones reaching for the sky when I’m lying on the porch after a jog. I feel my spine against the rungs of the wooden rocking chair in my kitchen. I see how my necklaces shimmer off the shadows that surround my collarbone. It’s been a crazy experience.

Rebekah: It’s general shape: curvy and proportional

Emily L.: Right now my preggo belly, but can’t say I love the way it looks after, but I can say I live what it stands for-strength and miracles!

Alex: That it isn’t defined by whether my sex organs dangle or not.

Laura: My height. I’m 4’11” and I love being short.

Dana: I love that it tells a story about my heritage, my genetics. My dad’s face, my grandmother’s bone structure, my mother’s hands and feet. I love that it is so uniquely and purposefully pieced together. And I love how it feels after a good stretch.

Ashlee: I really love my hair. I love its natural color and texture. I really love that I feel like it looks great natural and I love that!

Jessica: The body question is hard. Loving your body after a baby (or two) is hard. I love that my body carried twins successfully full term. Right now I can be proud of it for growing this new life… but learning to embrace all the changes after delivery again sound daunting at the moment.

Amber F.: My hair- I hope that counts.

Erica: It’s ability to carry me around. On days when I’m the saddest, my heart still pumps, my legs still work, my fingers still do delicate jobs. It’s tough being a body that belongs to someone who suffers with the sads, but my body does a good job.

Brett: This is a great question. I love my whole body and love most that I feel comfortable with my body. I was just telling my husband that when I was in high school I actively shunned anything that could be considered girly like makeup and dresses, and I was VOCALLY anti-marriage. I think it was a defense mechanism because I was taught to feel shame about my body and was never comfortable in it. Since then I’ve learned a thing or two and have endeavored to come to know my own body. I started doing yoga and figuring out what having a body means, and I feel more comfortable being in my body now than I ever have, and I love that about my body. The whole thing is great. (I have the Regina Spektor song stuck in my head where she says “I have a perfect body cuz my eyelashes catch my sweat.” This.)

Allie: My husband and I joke that our kids will have excellent hand-eye coordination because it’s one of the few things we both possess (we’re very different, personality-wise). I like that I grew up playing sports and musical instruments because even if I don’t do those things actively now, I know that my body is capable and coordinated.

What, of all that you are, do you love most about yourself?

Maria: my deep desire to know truth, full truth.

Meg: I am incredibly social. I have no fear of walking into a room of strangers and making new friends. Its a fun challenge and an adrenaline rush.

Kristen G.: My intellgence and sense of humor

Emily Y.: My pursuit of the Truth.

Kristen K.: That no one is allowed in.

Hayley: My strength, despite everything, to endure

Ashley L.: My perseverance. I have wanted to throw in the towel so many times when the going gets rough, but I keep breathing.

Danee: That I’m thoughtful. I don’t mean that I do thoughtful things, like buy people gifts (although I do occasionally do thoughtful things). I mean that even if my choices do not make sense to others, I have probably thought long and hard about what I am doing and why I am doing it. I certainly make mistakes, but they are generally for good reasons… or at least what I believe to be good reasons at the time.

Amber S.: My ability to love and care. That instinct that even if I’ve never met someone, I can put my arm around them and give them comfort. Being able to give myself to someone else a million percent.

Rebekah: My ability to see/understand the underlying structure of things (the “forest for the trees” if you will

Emily L.: Tough one…I love that I love. I love my family, I love my friends and I love my God and nothing changes that for me.

Alex: I refuse to settle. I hate complacency and cannot stop learning or growing. I always want to learn life through someone else’s eyes.

Laura: (This feels weird to answer.) I love that I truly am trying to seek what God wants for my life. I know that He created me and that He knows how I best operate and that He has great things out there for me to do. I love that I have faith and confidence enough in His plan that I’m not worried about what the future will bring. Sometimes I’m a little sad at its prospects and sometimes I’m a little anxious about the very next task I have to tackle, but live or die, joy or pain, I’m all ready to serve for the good of His kingdom. He holds me and my family and although that doesn’t mean we’re safe, it means that whatever happens to us, He’ll use it for good.

Dana: That I can’t help but be vulnerable with those I love. This has been a long time coming, and this will continue to be even greater. Yes, it has led to hardship and heartache, but it is worth all the pain for the exquisite moments of spiritual connectedness and breakthrough–exposing vulnerabilities, knowing something greater is to be awakened behind these heavy curtains. Mmmm…so good.

Ashlee: Of all that I am? Is part of this blog going to be about how hard it is for women to love themselves? Because it is really, really hard. I probably gave a cop out answer with my hair in the previous question. I don’t say this for the whole, “Oh someone tell Ashlee how loved she is” type of response. Loving something about myself is different from actually writing it down and sharing with the internets what I love about myself. It makes me feel like I have to show it to everyone, or continue to be awesome in this way. I hate that I don’t even know what part of my childhood or media exposure made me feel like I need to be so ashamed, of everything, good or bad. After all that, I think I truly love how passionately I feel about everything. Sometimes it feels like a burden, but I feel so strongly about so many things. I think it helps me to love my students and my friends in a deep way.

Jessica: I think what I love most about myself now is how much I have been able to change. I didn’t want to get married, didn’t want kids, didn’t have any ambition for my future, and for a time was suicidal and cutting. To say the least I was pretty darn jacked up but somehow I got married to the guy of my dreams, graduated college with high honors, got a job right away, gave that job every ounce of life I had then was recognized for my achievements, carried and birthed twins, and now carrying I’m this new little one. And I know how to be genuinely happy. Thats a pretty big one for me.

Amber F.: That I am compassionate.

Erica: I love that I am a home to poetry, a safe place for words to hide and find the courage to step out the front door from time to time.

Brett: This is probably the hardest question because as women, I think we are or were taught not to love ourselves from a very young age (I hope this is changing), but I think that the thing I love the most about myself is my sense of humor, which can sometimes get me into trouble. But I still love it.

Allie: I try to see the best in people and give them the benefit of the doubt. I’m hopeful about people, sometimes to a fault.

Who are your top 3 lady heroes?

Maria: my mom, Kim Hatch, Beth Moore and and Esther from the Bible

Meg: 1. Artemisia Gentileschi. She was the first woman to be accepted into a well-known academy in Florence. Her work mostly consisted of paintings of women that were strong or suffering from myth or biblical origins. Also, she claimed rape and tried to prosecute her rapist … which was not really something women did then. Sadly it overshadowed her work, but now she is thought as one of the most progressive painters of her time.
2. JK Rowling. Duh!
3. would be … hrmm … I know it isn’t a woman, but can I pick the pope? I have been super intrigued by his courage to stand up against corruption. I really want to dine with him sometime

Kristen G.: My Aunt Kathy, and I am going to think of the other 2

Emily Y.: 1. Rosalind Franklin, lady scientist. She and her grad assistant took Photo 51, an X-ray crystallography image of DNA. This image led to the completion of Watson and Crick’s discovery of the 3D structure of DNA, which she never got credit for. She was unabashedly in love with science, to her extremely religious father’s dismay, and was authentically her when pressured by him to abandon her scientific pursuits
2. My sister. She is such a vision of endurance. Physically and emotionally. She runs more marathons than anyone I know, and she’s only 26. She has endured hateful language and actions against her person, and has become a bit more skeptical of humans because of it. But somehow, she retained an incredible ability to love people. I don’t think I could go through what she did and still have hope in people. Rachel doesn’t love a great number of people, but those she loves KNOW that she loves them. When she loves, she digs in deep and pours herself out for that person, emotionally, physically, financially. She loves with everything she’s got after being deeply scarred by this world. That is incredibly heroic to me.
3. My mom. May be cheesy, but she has faced more shit in her life than anyone I know and came out the other side as the most loving and self-sacrificial human I know. She would do absolutely anything for Rachel (my sister) and I. She teaches me how to love with actions. She actually helped me accomplish my dream of getting into and figuring out how to finance PA school (without her help, I would have to have used private loans for grad school, which would have given me so much more debt). Everyone should have someone like my mom in their corner, and I’m so glad and thankful that I do.

Kristen K.: JK (Rowling). Tina Fey. and Tina Belcher

Hayley: Gilda Radner/Madeline Kahn: For their comedic influence. If you listen to some of Gilda’s live work, she’s doing things women at the time just weren’t doing. (and ovarian cancer is pretty near to my heart) Neither one of them has ever been afraid to look disgusting. To do what’s needed for the joke, for the part. Which still exists as an issue. (See Inside Amy Schumer).
Tina Fey/Amy Poehler: First of all, I love a good duo. Gal pal or otherwise. But they’re work together and separately, has obviously and powerfully shaped so much of how women are perceived in comedy still. Writing and portraying characters who are both stereotypically feminine and still fantastically feminist, in the case of Leslie Knope. In the case of Liz Lemon, someone so apologetically herself. Then to see them interact, or to see other characters they write. The people they choose to work with.
Amy Schumer/Felicia Day: These aren’t even humans that interact, but if I keep wishing. Hecate help me, maybe it’ll happen. I don’t think I need to explain Amy Schumer. So I’ll be brief. Her brain is more profoundly and concisely doing the things my brain does. And Felicia Day (and many like her) are not just bringing light to female gamers and nerd culture, but making them a more relevant part.

Allison: My mother, my sister, and my grandmother.
My sister is an amazing human and mother. She is raising 3 kids and runs a daycare out of her home. She is incredibly giving and loving and makes people feel special. She gives her time without hesitation and lives a life that she is proud of.
My paternal grandmother has been my lady hero for a long time, since I was young. She was a dancer and has lived her life creatively and with passion and purpose. As a woman, she carved her own path and career in the arts and influenced many, many women and men with her talent, grace, confidence, and kindness. As a grandmother, she never judged me but always encouraged me and made sure to say and do things that cultivated my individuality. She has persevered through some very tough times, and still maintains her humor and poise. Certainly a very classy lady and one to look up to.

Danee: My mom
Frida Kahlo
Hillary Clinton
(And my answer would be the same if you removed the “lady” from the question.)

Rebekah: Dame Judi
Miranda Hart
Eddie Izzard (gender-ambiguous totally works, right?)

Emily L.: My momma, Corrie Ten Boom and my grandma Niccum

Alex: Kristin Beck- a retired Navy Seal, bronze star and Purple Heart recipient, Beck retired from the Seals to transition and live more authentically. Kristin is fighting daily to make our world more inclusive and just for all people.
Aung San Suu Kyi- the leader of the National League for Democracy in Burma. She rightfully won a democratic election but the military junta refused to relinquish power and attempted to assassinate her. When that didn’t work placed her under house arrest. She has been under house arrest on and off since 1990. She believes so much in democracy and Burma that she will not leave the country to visit her children (and grandchildren she has never had the opportunity to meet) for fear she will not be allowed back in to Burma as they have prevented her family from returning.
The 3rd was hard for me because there are so many women that are heroic in my eyes. My bias wanted to lean towards women in my direct life. Instead I will say: I just want to do a blanket trans women that have lost their lives or their agency over their body just because of their gender expression. And ALL women who have felt what it’s like to wake up in a cold sweat in a body that no longer belongs to you and continued to fight. All women who could fight no more. All women that claimed their right to fight for themselves. Women that spoke for others who hadn’t found the voice. Women that have found their voice and have never let it go. Women that haven’t found their voice yet but continue to push on. #yesallwomen

Laura: My mom, Nannette Knappenberger (my high school mentor and youth pastor from when I was growing up) and… I dunno. I guess that’s about it. I’m not one for making public figures into heroes because I don’t really know them. I appreciate their accomplishments but I balk at calling them heroes because I feel like there are heroes all around me- women who stand up to abusive boyfriends, or get married after being hurt in all kinds of ways, or go back to school after quitting, or stop using drugs if only for a day, or keep their babies when it’s the hardest decision ever, or work three jobs to try to bring their families out of debt, or lower their voice because they don’t want to lead the same kind of household they grew up in, or spend their days and nights cleaning and changing and talking to and loving the elderly for minimum wage, or ask crying people what’s wrong.

Dana: There are so many, but these are the first three that came to me.
Leslie Newton–she is daring. She walks with Jesus as only she can. She tries new things, new and daring adventures. She is the breath of beauty.
Hayley E. Johnson–No. This is not me putting jellybeans in your ear. You, Hayley, inspire me and pull things from me that I would just glance past. You take time. You show me how to savor. You are bold and loud, sweet and beautiful, broken and brave.
Rebekah Nimtz–the way she sees beauty is beautiful. Her mind’s eye is one that ponders, evaluates, takes it all in. She sees people. For who they are, even if they try to be something entirely different. She is a help. She loves differently than I have ever experienced. Like I said earlier, I know she was constructed from the Divine, specifically for friendship with me. I love her.

Ashlee: 1. Leslie Knope
2. Grandma Margie
3. Amy Poehler

Jessica: To be honest I’ve never had good relationships with women. Older, younger, friends my own age, it just hasn’t ever really worked out for me. I look up to my mom a lot, and have people that I respect, but I can’t say that I have lady heroes.

Amber F.: My mom, and professional mentors Janet Stephenson and Irene Walters.

Erica: My nena, grace and beauty all the time. Even among hardships
My mom, despite how hard she made my life, she’s a fucking fighter.
Jean Michelson, crazy and loving and crazy-loving

Brett: My mom, Harriet the Spy (yes, a fictional character), and Tina Fey.

Allie: Mary, the mother of Jesus
C.J. Cregg from The West Wing
Billie Jean King

Who is your greatest influence?

Maria: My Mom

Meg: My greatest influence was probably Connie, my godmother that just passed. She led life with acceptance in her heart and was the kind of person that you could ask any question and not be judged. Her view on the world was refreshing and I just loved it!
Kristen G.: My father, my husband, and my son – hmm – that is interesting

Emily Y.: My mom. For the above mentioned reasons and more.

Kristen K.: I really don’t think there is one.

Hayley: I think it’s my brother, whether he realizes it or not. I have always envied his talents, how stalwart he is. It’s stupid how talented he is. I didn’t just look up to my brother. I wanted to be just like him. I put my hands in every bit of art I could, just trying to find my place. I still haven’t found it.

Ashley L.: Currently, possibly the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Fiona Apple’s music. I realize that’s more of a what than a who. In terms of a who, I would say the people I interact with on a consistent basis are the people who truly shape me.

Allison: My mother is my greatest influence. She is many things to many people, but I am lucky enough to call her my mother. She too has persevered through some rough moments, especially early in her life and has emerged as the strongest person that I know. If I had to pick a flaw, I would say that she was too nice to me growing up and I had a hard time separating from her as I moved from adolescence and into adulthood. She has always been there for me. My mother gives selflessly all day long. She is incredibly kind, thoughtful, warm, and gracious. And she has an amazing laugh that could turn any cold heart. More recently, I have had the opportunity to work alongside her and learn some very important people skills from her, which I find invaluable. She has the ability to talk to people and listen to them in a way that makes them feel important and heard. People love her and want to be around her. That’s the kind of woman that I want to be.

Danee: My Grandpa Joe and Grandma Lucy. They were the kindest, most humble, hard-working, and generous people I know. I’m not saying I take after them, but I certainly try to.

Rebekah: My mom (cliche but totally true)

Emily L.: Christ-there can be no greater influence on my life.

Alex: As a child I would have said my grandmother. She was the one person outside of my parents that poured into me with all that she had. Since she wasn’t my parents her words spoke louder without the thought that they were obligatory or biased.
Today I say both my parents. They have shown me unconditional love. They have shown me that change is possible. They have shown me that dedication and integrity are different than obligation. They have asked the hard questions in their own lives. We have very different views of the world and don’t agree on everything, or in my dads case much really, however we sharpen each other and continue to learn from each other. The don’t always understand me or my life but they always respect me, encourage me, and love me.

Laura: I hope it’s Jesus. More realistically, though (as I don’t think Jesus would lead the life I’m leading, complete with house, car, and pet) probably my husband. On top of his creative genius, he is always striving to be patient and gentle and playful and humble- things that come hard to me. He is quick to apologize and slow to express anger. He makes it a point to invest time, energy, money, and love into those that others reject. He sees people as people and beloved creations of God, not as allies or resources. Having him speak into my life has pushed me and challenged me to be a kinder, gentler person and more humble follower of God.

Dana: Jesus. With all his multi-faceted presence–through friends, through moments, through music, through the Bible, through the trials and triumphs of everyday, through the questions that have no answers, through the bliss of moments undeserved. He spins me on my head. Can’t get enough.

Jessica: This sounds cheesy but my greatest influence is hands down my husband. If you haven’t caught the drift, investing in relationships of any kind hasn’t worked out for me. Alan showed me how that can be different and really helped me to soften my heart. I am who I am now because of him. He saw me at my worst and continues to love me on my very very very bad days where I revert back to my cynical “I hate everyone” self.
Amber F.: I would have said my parents when I was younger, and I guess that’s probably still true. Whoever my romantic partner is also has a big influence on me

Erica: I do not know. I can not think. This might be a better suited question to me by asking WHAT greatly influenced me. Because numerous people in different circumstances all played their part, you know?

Brett: Does beer count? (Just kidding!)

Allie: My husband Matt, and not just because we live together. He reminds me that it’s okay to be broken, that personal transformation is real, and that everybody matters. His encouragement to do things that scare me and to speak up for myself is a significant part of my journey toward wholeness.