To be a woman is to perform, I believe this all while hating the idea of it. I don’t want to perform, I don’t want to be watched– I don’t want to be judged.

Before I turned 16, I refused to dance. This is difficult as a Latina with a big female-dominated family where the women are bodacious and in sync with their bodies especially at family parties– AKA your chance to show out and show these muthafuckers the kind of moves you got. Dance for me was uncomfortable as a fat girl. I felt judged, keep in mind I never danced but I had felt so uncomfortable with my own body shape, size, color– whatever, that I just refused to move my body for the majority of my life.

I grew up around a lot of white kids. Kids with complete families and what I deemed “normal bodies with more physical potential” whereas I had been told my whole childhood that I was overweight by doctors and that made me retreat back into my own little shell. Moving my body was always calculated, suck in stomach here, tip toe there, and don’t let people see you’re out of breath bc they’ll just think ur fat (I still struggle with this). My elementary school PE curriculum required students to choreograph a dance as a group, keep in mind this was every year approaching the last day of school. Every year I knew it was coming and each year I almost couldn’t handle the panic and sheer mortification that that stupid gym curriculum put me through. I had most of the same friends throughout elementary school: A fellow fat girl who was heavier and taller than me, Shelby, she always saw my beauty and although we aren’t friends anymore I think about her beauty and grace always. Then there was a girl with some kind of physical disability, Ellie, who the other students treated very differently, but she was my friend so I absolutely didn’t give a fuck that she was “different” I think it’s what brought us close together. Although she moved to Cali and we didn’t keep in touch I think of her every time I drive past her childhood home. It was us three against the other groups the class had formed based on who was friends with who. We were the odd ones out, the outcasts and I think everyone could feel it radiating off of us. Shelby was extroverted and took the role of group leader, together we choreographed probably the shittiest dance ever to the song Royals by Lorde. The best dance won and the original plan was for each group to perform in front of the whole class (MORTIFYING TO EVEN THINK ABOUT) but I think the PE teacher felt bad for us so he let us simply perform in front of him in a corner of the gymnasium (while the rest of the class could still watch from about 50 feet away LMFAOOO.) These dances were graded which I think was really unfair and I think this is where my “hatred” for dance began. The feeling of being watched and judged when you’re forced to move your body for the “health benefits”. I hated PE class, the world truly hates fat kids.

Anyway, I never danced at family parties, not even by myself in my room. It felt weird and unnatural “not meant for me.” My mom and sisters are amazing dancers, I was always the only one seated at parties just watching everyone else have a great time. There is nothing scarier than watching the people on the dance floor start pulling the people who are seated onto the dance floor. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tugged and so awkwardly, painstakingly freed myself from the grasp of someone trying to force me to dance. When avoiding eye contact or pretending to be distracted on my phone didn’t work I would simply run off into the bathroom until the picking was over. Moving my body unwillingly had planted an anxiety seed in my heart from a very early age. Not being a dancer for the majority of my life set me apart from my family. It felt like I didn’t know how to have fun and it’s a very lonely feeling to believe that you may be boring.

I can’t remember when exactly I started dancing, but it started in the room I used to share with my sister, she must’ve been 16 or 17 which meant I was helping her sneak out every other night, so I had the room to myself. That means I was 14 or 15. Around this time I was getting into more spanish music, merengue, cumbia, norteñas, bachate, etc.. These genres of music are the kinds we play at parties these are the ones that every latino “should” know how to dance. At least this is how it feels growing up a first gen American. Gotta stay hispanic enough to not be one of those white washed hispanics (no shade). I would get high off my sisters empty weed cartridges and just dance in our room until she texted me to let her back in the house. Dancing alone was the first step I took into getting in touch with my body. Don’t take it as a recommendation, but weed really helped crack me right open. I would practice for hours I would literally break sweats, if only my elementary school gym teacher Mr. B could see my fat dancing body now. It took a few parties to get comfortable enough to dance in front of other dancing people, I thank my older sister for being willing to embarrass herself next to my horrible inability to move my body fluidly or on beat for longer than 4 seconds.

I feel that my body is still thawing from all the years I spent so locked in fear of judgement and I still have a long way to go, but I try to be okay with being uncomfortable for a few songs because dancing, as I’ve found, is electric and so fun. Especially now that I have a boyfriend who loves to dance. He dances to make me laugh, he dances to have fun, and he’s ok if I lose the beat every couple of steps. He helped me realize that nobody else is really watching and if they are to not give a fuck because we’re not doing anything wrong. Dancing is better when you have a partner, romantic or not it’s fun to move together with someone and be in sync. I know that now and look forward to the moments I get to dance with people I love. I like being silly, I like moving my body and everyday I get closer to feeling secure in my fatness and how that affects the relationship I have with movement.

I am gonna write this post as if you’ve never heard of this lobotomization of a garbage reality TV show. I say that in the best way possible, but also coming from a place of heavy critique. Dr. Nassif and Dr. Dubrow are both A-list plastic surgeons and TV personalities straight out of Beverly Hills, they work, at least in this show, EXCLUSIVELY on people (oftentimes obnoxious) who come in looking for corrective surgery from previous procedures that left them “botched.” And it’s true, some people come in looking like a whole mess, but the extent to which they put plastic surgery on a pedestal is insane to watch.

LOL to this picture, it’s so heavily edited ☠️😭

There are a good amount of episodes of truly the sweetest people who got fucked over and are so desperately seeking care from these doctors so that they aren’t “freaks” or social rejects anymore. I lost track of how many episodes are centered around a timid, wimpy person with a low self esteem who truly wholeheartedly believes that getting surgery will allow them everything being “botched” denied them. Don’t get me wrong these are some DAMN GOOD surgeons and they’re really good with their patients BUTTTT my god the language around every corrective procedure kills me inside. So much talk about making this and that “normal.” Maybe I’m just sensitive and assume the patients would get hurt at comments like “change this to make it NORMAL.” I understand doctors can be cold and oftentimes very blunt, but why is that normalized??????? I get the need to be concise and clear in a field like theirs and patients really do love these doctors, so it’s not like they’re shitheads, but idk I feel bad. There was one episode in specific about a trans female sex worker coming in to get her boob job and vaginoplasty corrected. It’s episode called “Vagina bomb!” please watch it. Anyway, the doctor that initially did her sex changed fucked her UP. I’m talking her labia majora was way too meaty (lack of better word) and for the inner components all she had was a clit, no inner lips. Both doctors brought in another doctor who specializes in genitals and is also a man. This episode bothered me the most. I understand that the initial vaginoplasty was abnormal, but IT SITS WITH ME THE WRONG WAYYYY I CAN’T HELP IT. It hurts my feelings to hear these doctors keep reaffirming that her body is not NORMAL AND THEREFORE NEEDS TO BE MADE NORMAL TO BE ABLE TO BE A NORMAL ACCEPTABLE BODY. Ugh I hate and love this garbage show and I’m only writing this because I’ve been stuck in a weird rut and just need to babble about SOMETHING.

really craving pizza and panera mac, mmmmm…

for the past 3 weeks or so I have been attending a weekly catechism class to complete my confirmation, whatever that even is. I was raised Catholic so i know some of the basics, i mean i’m baptized and i did my first communion and i went to church every sunday and on holidays, but that was like 10 years ago i don’t go to church anymore and i rarely pray anymore. My personal beliefs, morals, and sexuality have been victims of the catholic church and it feels alienating to be back at the church I grew up in just so I can be my nephews godmother once he inevitably gets baptised and most likely gets put through sunday school just like i was. My mom has gotten way more religious in the last ten years, so she’s involved in everything catholicism. I am bisexual, fat, pierced, awkward, and my spanish has gotten worse and these are spanish catechism classes. A lot of the “students” are people my moms age or a few years older than me, I get a lot of stares and I feel like the teacher targets me and acts passive aggressive towards me because she somehow knows based on my embodiment that I am out of place.

Anyway that’s just some backstory, this past monday we ended up talking about children and how some people in the mass get annoyed when parents bring their loud kids to sit with them in the pews instead of staying in the blocked off “lobby” area where parents are encouraged to take their children when they start acting up. A young woman who has a son with autism spoke up and asked “what about parents who have children with autism? how do i get my son to become more involved with the church?” She also added that he is hard of hearing and they communicate through ASL. This mother seemed almost desperate for an answer, I felt sorry for her because I could tell that she struggles with her sons disabilities. The teacher said something along the lines of pray to god for guidance and teach your son how to properly behave in certain settings, in this case when attending sunday mass. This was not the answer the mother wanted because she then reiterated her question in hopes of getting a better more concise answer. The teacher, realizing maybe she came off in a bad said that she understands the struggle because she too has family members with autism who, by repetitive action/instruction, are “by the grace of god” able to participate in religion as would a “normal” person. Her response still rubbed me in the wrong way, she made it sound like you can pray autism away, that it’s just another thing to beg god to make better. There is a weird thing that happens in some hispanic households in which parents will either ignore or deny that there are certain behaviors in their child that raise certain flags. Usually due to pride, autism is seen as a punishment, extra work, and extra sacrifice. At least this is how i’ve come to understand autism from the perspective of people who oftentimes come from developing countries where ASD isn’t *diagnosed as often. Keyword diagnosed because it is definitely still prevalent, parents just don’t take their kids to the pediatrician as often like they do here in the U.S.

I can recognize that faith in whichever way plays a large role in people’s quality of life, but idk catholicism is strange and having been away from religion for so long, some of what is discussed and believed feels so extremist to me. We are all part of one body, we are the church of god, in order to be saved we must spread the “truth” whatever the fuck that fucking means. The other day this teacher woman said that yoga is bad!!!!!!! because the movements are based in prayer/meditation that is centered in the self and not in god which is SINFUL!!!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!?!?!?!? my nephew is lucky I love him enough to put myself through these weekly classes until literally NEXT SPRING!!!! I’m only doing it for the title of godmother and for the love of my nephew.

As a woman, growing up you were most likely taught to be careful with your body. Don’t be promiscuous, be weary around boys/men, don’t let anyone touch you, etc… Despite any precautions or teachings, lectures don’t keep us from whatever we will experience in life (good and bad). Sooner or later our bodies are experimented with, picked, prodded, poked.. if you will.

Now that the time has passed, I look back at times that I treated my body as if I did not occupy it. For the lack of a better way to say it, I fucked around and found out. Once I found out that my body could in fact reproduce, I was in such a bad mental state I laughed it off because I already knew what I was going to have to do. My recklessness had caught up to me and I didn’t care because duh, I was being stupid of course this would be the outcome…

Since no one knows who I littleham2 is I guess I can announce without shame or guilt that I had an abortion when I was 17. I was In an emotionally abusive relationship and he got me pregnant. Although I knew the logical thing was to get an abortion, going through with it was very hard because I had no support whatsoever. My mom is very catholic, so I did it behind her back and I knew my older sisters would be disappointed so I also kept it from them. I was ashamed and guilty, I still feel disgusted sometimes.

Regardless, it goes without saying that I do not regret the decision I was able to make on my own as a minor. Without my autonomy, without that 6 week and 2 day period of secrecy my life would not be what it is today. I wouldn’t have left my ex, I wouldn’t be in school right now, and I know for a fact I would not be happier than I am now. I would be a stereotype in society. A poor hispanic teen mom with a shitty baby daddy. Plus that baby probably would’ve been ug*y. I try to keep a lighthearted mindset about this experience– at least when I talk about it to others because I don’t want others to pity me or look at me differently. I am not proud of it either, but I will never regret it. I am in charge of my body, yes this is true, but I wish I didn’t have to worry about it in the degree that I do. It is so cruel to say that I wish I couldn’t have children. I would love to hand someone my perfectly working womb for free if it were possible.

I have been on two types of birth control since my abortion. First the pill, now I’ve had an IUD for almost a year. Despite all the stupid side effects, modern medicine is crazy. I’m like 99.99999% protected, but I am paranoid. I don’t get my period due to my IUD which is beautiful, but this also makes me worry. I think a lot of us have heard horror stories of IUD babies and cryptic pregnancies. I DO NOT NEED THAT!

I am scared of getting pregnant again because I know that I will have access to an abortion which is something I have the privilege to say. Not that there’s anything wrong with easy access to medical abortions, I simply don’t think I could handle the experience twice. Girls all around in underdeveloped countries don’t get to have the autonomy a lot of us in the U.S have. Did you know the youngest recorded mother was 5 years old? That makes me want to curl up in my moms arms and cry. How could a baby possibly want to be a mother?!

There are a lot of mother’s in society that wish to not be mothers anymore. There are also some shitty one’s that simply don’t deserve to be mothers. We cannot forget the ones that are taken advantage of and denied a choice. Motherhood terrifies me. I don’t think I’m strong enough, I am loving, but my patience is thin, and my anger burns bridges. I am not strong enough to do what my mom did for me and my sisters. I am not as strong as the mother’s in my family.

Full-blown autonomy is important. Societal, cultural, and religious pressures are all factors that affect the decisions we make or don’t make for our own bodies. It’s the reason most of us don’t openly talk about our sex-lives and the reason why we might feel shame for wanting pleasure. We’re not supposed to talk about what are bodies can do, it’s shameful and can make you look “easy.” Women are supposed to control their sexuality until it is requested and young girls are supposed to remain naïve, pure, and untouched.

Society is fucked, so today I will pray for the women and girls of the world. For their autonomy and bodily rights. For the moms trapped in abusive relationships. For the women and girls with intellectual disabilities that are treated as asexual beings. For the asexual women and girls who are over-sexualized For the women and girls with crippling anxiety about motherhood and pregnancy. Even for the crappy moms, so that they can find the resources they need to face their reality.

What is feminine essence? This phrase has lingered in my head for a couple of days and I would like to take the chance to say that femininity is something so unachievable and so insecure in terms of permanence. Especially in modern-day society where the female body is constantly being picked apart and forced to contort itself at every turn. Think cosmetic consumerism, the normalization of plastic surgery, and the sexualization of girls from a young age.

I do not bring these things into question as a means to invalidate the choices women make for their bodies, but there is such an expectation to look a certain way and to change with the times. What if I just want to feel normal with the nature of my body?

I have been a big girl all my life, this belly will probably follow me to hell. That being said, I have always been hyper aware of my appearance (probably started around 2nd grade) and how that is perceived by the world around me. I worried about the dark hair on my limbs, and the baby mustache that would create a shadow over my lip. I worried about not being girly enough, not being skinny enough to be popular like the white girls with their matching outfits and practically see-through body hair. I was always so jealous of their stupid see-through hair that only becomes so visible in the sun. If being fat and hairy wasn’t enough, god said “let there be chronic skin conditions that people will ask her about until they obtain social awareness in high school!” A simple “what’s that?” with a finger raised in my direction or “why is your skin like that?” It’s always the little comments that fuck you up the most. Why should I care what’s on my skin, bitch, we all used to be monkeys this should definitely be the least of anyone’s concerns. Since being taught to hate the way I look, I do my best to take care of myself on the surface. I can’t be fat with bad skin. I can’t be fat with crooked teeth. I can’t be fat and hairy. I can’t be fat and loud. I have to pick one struggle, cool. I remove my unwanted body hair on a schedule, I buy expensive skincare products, I fixed my teeth with braces a couple years ago, I even lost like 80lbs from– what I call short-lived pathetic ed (tw sorry) but I am still fat at this very moment because I gained every single pound and more back. There was a time I considered myself to have peak “female essence.” I was still a minor, severely depressed, and going through the brunt of my ed. Altogether my life was in shambles. I received so many compliments and male attention during this time, hell, I lost my damn virginity! Regardless, the hatred I had for myself was still very present and it comes back to bite me every now and then despite me being in a better place mentally and physically. Femininity is not my strongsuit because I just trick myself into thinking I don’t care about all these standards, I walk around in loose comfortable clothes that may not always be stylish, I let my body hair grow out to lengths longer than I care to admit, and I carry my stank face with me always. I preform and stun everyone with my laidback-ness and what appears to be an indifference to the moving and breathing world around me. Deep down I want to be a hairless mole rat, I wish my jean size wasn’t catching up to my age, I wish I had a smaller nose, plumper lips, a smaller jaw, bigger breasts, thicker hair (only on my head)– I want all the things society has so cruelly made me want. Nobody can tell me I don’t know how to be a woman nor can anyone define womanliness because I have done and am doing the things for societies sake. This is the female essence, hating yourself into a corner until you come back and reject it all. I am nothing if not a wounded child.