Author: Kerensa

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Becoming Whole In a World of Fragments

Reading Sandy Stone’s “The Empire Strikes Back: A posttransexual manifesto” felt like stumbling upon a secret I didn’t know I needed. One quote stood out to me, almost as if it were waiting for me to see it:   “This paper…is about morality tales and origin myths, about telling the ‘truth’ of gender.”  Stone is talking about the stories society tells us,stories that claim to be the “truth” about who we are, even when those truths don’t fit us. For trans people, these stories are often used to deny their identities or paint them as something artificial. But the idea of being trapped in a story that isn’t your own? That resonated deeply with me.  I’ve lived my whole life caught in a story that I didn’t write. It’s the one that tells me I’m not enough. Not pretty enough, not confident enough, not “worthy” enough. I don’t even know when it started. Maybe it was growing up surrounded by images of perfection I could never reach, or hearing the subtle ways people praise others for what I always felt I lacked. Over time, I internalized it. It became my “truth.” Stone’s words reminded me that these stories aren’t real, they’re constructs, born from societal expectations, comparison, and insecurity. They’re myths, handed down to us as if they’re fact. And just like Stone argues for trans people to reclaim their narratives, I feel like I need to do the same for myself.   But that’s easier said than done. When I look at others, I see their beauty, their confidence, their ease. I convince myself they’re everything I’m not. I’ll scroll through social media, comparing myself to images of people who seem flawless, wondering why I can’t see myself that way. I’ve spent years trying to measure up to a standard I never set and every time I fall short, it reinforces the idea that I’m not enough.   What Stone helped me realize is that the only person who can rewrite my story is me. I don’t have to accept the idea that my worth depends on how closely I resemble someone else. My value doesn’t come from meeting some impossible standard, it comes from being me.  That’s not to say it’s easy. Some days, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection and think, “Maybe I’m not so bad after all.”  But other days, the old voices creep back in, whispering that I’ll never measure up. It’s a slow process, unlearning the lies I’ve believed for so long.   But Stone gives me hope. If it’s possible to challenge something as deeply rooted as society’s myths about gender, then it must also be possible to challenge the myths I’ve told myself about who I am. It’s not about becoming someone else, it’s about learning to see myself clearly, without the noise of comparison and doubt.  I’m not there yet, but I’m starting to believe I can get there. Little by little, I’m learning to let go of the story that says I’m not enough. And in its place, I’m beginning to write a new one: one where I see myself as whole, just as I am.  


Empowerment, Inspirering

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Looking Good and Surviving the Struggle

As a Black woman, I feel like I’m always pushing myself to do better whether it’s excelling in school, handling multiple jobs, or meeting life’s demands. But along with all of this, society expects me to stay strong, composed, and, above all, to “look good” no matter the circumstances. “Being Black and Looking Good While Chronically Ill” reminded me of how “looking good” often makes people overlook the emotional struggle behind the polished surface. While I don’t have a chronic illness, I can definitely relate to the pressure of presenting a flawless image for everyone else’s comfort. The burden of “looking good” isn’t just about appearance, it’s about hiding our real selves. We’re expected to show up as perfect versions of ourselves, and anything less risks being judged or dismissed. The emotional toll this takes is real. It’s draining to keep up a facade of strength when, inside, I’m just trying to survive like everyone else. I sometimes wonder: If I let my guard down and show my vulnerable side, will people still see me as capable? Or will they think I’m less valuable because I no longer fit the image they’re comfortable with?

The pressure to always be strong is exhausting. In “You Are Not Entitled to Our Deaths”, the author talks about how society demands marginalized people, especially Black women, to sacrifice their own needs for the comfort of others. This really resonated with me because I’ve felt that exact pressure to hold it all together, no matter how much it costs me. But through these readings, I’m starting to realize that real strength doesn’t mean hiding my true self. It’s about showing both my resilience and vulnerability. Let’s stop pretending to be perfect. True strength lies in embracing both our power and our humanity—because we are enough, exactly as we are. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop pretending for others and start living for ourselves.

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Work and Worth: A Journey

As a college student, I’m constantly juggling classes, assignments, and part-time jobs, and I often feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions. It’s exhausting, and I sometimes find it hard to keep up with everything. Beyond my studies, I want to be there for my friends and family, but it often feels like I’m barely keeping my head above water. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how work and health are connected, especially as I prepare to step into the workforce. The transition to independence is daunting, and one of the biggest challenges I face is figuring out how to take care of myself amid all the chaos. Unfortunately, essential topics like nutrition, stress management, and work-life balance are rarely taught, leaving me to navigate them on my own.Reflecting on the history of labor in the United States, I realize that the fight for workers rights has been long and difficult. Over the years, labor movements have battled for fair wages, reasonable hours, and safer working conditions, paving the way for healthier workplaces today. But after reading “Made by the Work: A Century of Laboring Bodies in the United States” by Ed Slavishak, my perspective on the human cost of labor has shifted profoundly. Slavishak dives deep into the harrowing experiences of early 20th-century workers. It’s hard to fathom that laborers in steel mills and coal mines faced daily dangers and grueling conditions, with their bodies treated like mere tools for productivity. One statistic that struck me was that over 25,000 workers died every year from workplace accidents. That number is staggering and heartbreaking. It hits close to home for me because it makes me think about how easy it is to overlook the sacrifices of those who came before us, who were seen as expendable and pushed to their physical limits until they broke.

Sitting in my cozy dorm room, surrounded by textbooks and my laptop, I feel a mix of privilege and guilt. I belong to a generation that, for the most part, doesn’t have to face such dire conditions. It’s easy to take that for granted, especially when I’m so consumed with my own struggles. While my working environment is much safer, I can’t help but feel frustrated by how companies historically handled safety or neglected it entirely. They placed the burden of safety on workers, insisting that “the best safety device was a careful worker” (p. 152). That mindset is infuriating because it shifts the blame onto the very people who had little control over their situations.As Slavishak points out, corporate safety campaigns “shifted responsibility to avoid the costs of updating machinery or improving ventilation” (p. 152). This is maddening. It reminds me of the pressures I face in college. I often feel that I’m expected to power through exhaustion or even illness just to meet deadlines. I think about how many workers today might still feel that same pressure to sacrifice their well-being for the sake of productivity.Learning about unions and workers’ compensation laws has given me a profound respect for those who fought for workers’ rights. They understood that workers deserved to be valued for more than just their output, advocating for crucial things like life insurance and compensation for injuries. Slavishak notes how the insurance department of the Amalgamated Association of Iron, Steel, and Tin Workers directly asked its members, “What are your chances of living twenty more years? Can you afford to tempt fate?” (p. 153). That question resonates with me. It makes me think about the importance of community and looking out for one another in college. We’re not just isolated individuals scrambling to succeed; we’re part of a network that can uplift and advocate for one another. As I navigate my college journey and prepare for the future, I’m reminded that the fight for dignity in the workplace is far from over. It’s not just about securing a job; it’s about creating a work culture that values us as whole people, not just for our productivity. Reflecting on the struggles of past workers fills me with a sense of responsibility to carry their lessons into my own life. Balancing everything can feel overwhelming at times, but I know that by supporting each other, we can work toward a future where every worker is treated with respect not just for their labor, but for their humanity.

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Breaking Free to Move Wild

I’ll admit it—I’ve heard “you throw like a girl” more times than I care to count. And every time I hear it, it hurts my pride at least. So it always made me want to prove them wrong. But then I came across “Throwing Like a Girl” by feminist philosopher Iris Marion Young, and it completely changed how I thought about that phrase. Young doesn’t just talk about throwing a ball; she dives deep into how society shapes the way women use their bodies. According to Young, the reason girls tend to throw without using their full bodies isn’t because they can’t—it’s because they’ve been conditioned to hold back. This social conditioning fosters self-doubt and a fear of judgment, leading to self-consciousness and unhealthy comparisons. In order to see this, we need to challenge these societal norms and encourage women to embrace their physicality and confidence. In defining this confidence it means embracing yourself, taking risks, and being bold about who you are. It’s about recognizing that your worth is not defined by how others see you, but by how you see yourself.”She writes, “Girls do not bring their whole bodies into motion… they tend to remain relatively immobile except for their arms” (p. 142). 

This really resonates with me. It’s not just about throwing; it’s evident in how we sit, walk, and carry ourselves. There’s this unspoken rule that women should take up less space, move carefully, and be less bold. We’re told not to be too smart or show too much emotion, and we constantly worry about our outfits being too revealing or not revealing enough. These expectations limit our authenticity and confidence. Recognizing these societal pressures is the first step toward embracing our true selves and challenging those constraints. Young argues that this isn’t about biology. It’s not that girls are naturally less powerful in their movements; it’s that society tells us, from a young age, that we should be. She states, “We reduce women’s condition simply to unintelligibility if we ‘explain’ it by appealing to some natural and ahistorical feminine essence” (p. 138). This highlights the danger of oversimplifying women’s experiences. It makes me reflect on how often society tries to define women through fixed, supposedly “natural” traits, ignoring the complex social and historical influences that shape our identities.

Reading this passage made me think about how I carry myself. I’ve always been told to sit neatly, cross my legs, and keep my arms tight. But why? Boys don’t get the same message. They’re taught to sprawl, take up space, and own their physical presence.  Young’s essay made me see that these differences are deeply rooted in the expectations placed on us. It’s not just about how we throw—it’s about how we’ve been taught to exist in the world. And maybe it’s time we start throwing like we mean it and being seen as we truly are and not what people see us as.