Content Warning: Mentions of nudity, genitals, and explicitly sexual content

My room is a mess.

Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor, my navy-blue comforter crumpled from where I have twisted it in and around my fingers from stress. In front of my mirror sits a make-up bag, unzipped and spilling products; mascara, blush, and eyeliner prepped and ready to highlight the “right” features of my face. Before that, though, I have to choose an outfit. And by God is it a puzzle, and I am merely piecing the corners together.

Crop-tops, skirts, lingerie, fishnets- there’s too much to choose from, and too many checkboxes to write off. Is my cleavage showing? Are my eyes wide and innocent, and can I peek up through my lashes with the mascara I’ll be putting on? If I turn around, do the bottoms of my butt cheeks show in the teasing way I want it to?

Modest clothes are always left behind in the closet. I wring my lip in worry, staring at the baggy jeans I have, before shutting the drawers again and turning back to the low-rise shorts that barely cover anything. A green floral lacy bra peeks out of the hoodie I throw on to avoid stares. In the end, I am forcing myself to hype myself up with courage, taking a deep breath and leaving my room to go and meet him.

Him has referred to too many people for my liking. People who leave too soon, for reasons unbeknownst to me. And in most of these cases, I’ve come back feeling like a shell of myself. My muscles are sore, I have bags under my eyes, and there’s this pit in my stomach that grows with each occurrence. It gnaws at me whenever I opt to wear a pretty white tank top and a brown miniskirt because he asked me to. It sits, heavy and festering, when I subconsciously raise the pitch in my voice to appear kinder, softer, more lovely, because he’d get hard to it. And it feeds on my insecurities, when I push myself more onto him, onto this image of me basking in the golden sunlight, with nothing on but my femininity. All for him.

If I showed up in sweatpants and a black compression shirt like the guys at the gym do, would they still want me? If, instead of a miniskirt and a lacy bra, I showed up in boxers and a binding sports bra, would they still kiss me as if I was the last person on Earth? What about if I had a dick? Would they be disgusted when they pulled down my pants and saw something else other than folds? When they ask to take off my top, what if instead of breasts they saw the smooth skin of my chest? Would it change anything?

I would grapple, and still struggle, with these thoughts constantly. As a gender-fluid person who is assigned female at birth, every time someone took me to bed, I couldn’t help but wonder if the presentation of my femininity was what drew people in. More importantly, I couldn’t help but wonder about the consequences that would result in me presenting anything other than feminine.

I hid these questions in pigtails and false eyelashes and lip gloss. I tried not to think about showing up to a date with him in cargo pants and an oversized graphic tee, with my hair falling into my eyes because its unkempt. He would not like that. I knew that from experience. He might feel weird about being seen with someone so non-feminine. Or even worse, feel threatened at my masculine presentation. And you know, as I would sit in his lap and let him run his hands through my hair, he would tell me that whatever was his, was mine. I didn’t know that sentiment also pertained to his view of my body shaping my view of my body. That his love for femininity would become my love for pleasing him.

Those days are recent. Passed and done and over with, but recent nonetheless. I still am coming to terms with regarding my body as a loved one I take care of, instead of property to rent and dispose of at someone’s leisure. And one day, I will find someone who understands what it means to be attracted to a person rather than a body. That there is more to me than my curves: there is also the messiness of my hair when I wake up, and the low register of my voice when I’m ordering coffee. No longer is my body theirs. The purposeful wall of separation I’ve created between my body and I will turn into a simple breath of air one day, and I am excited to experience it.

Sexy to Someone – Clairo

For as long as I can remember, every summer my large extended family migrates upstate to north country New York to spend time with each other at my grandmother’s house on Lake Champlain. The house itself is falling apart, and every year the men of the family take it upon themselves to fix up a new part of the cabin in order to occupy themselves while the women spend time shopping and cooking enough for twenty five people, while the kids spend the day exploring the area and playing in the lake.

Growing up, aside from playing mermaids at the beach and following my older cousins around, I was expected to help sweep the sandy house every day, set up the grown ups and kids tables for dinner, and to clean up afterwards while the adults got themselves something to drink. While my parents tried to get the boys of the household to do the same, they tended to get away with doing less than the girls of the family, using the excuse that they had spent the day helping (or watching, as some of my cousins argued) their dads with that year’s construction project. Nonetheless, that’s how summers were organized for my family, and as I grew older, cut my hair shorter, and started wearing more masculine clothes, I got into the swing of helping inside the house while my brother helped outside of it.

[Image: Lake Champlain as seen from a cove, a sailboat and island are seen off the coast, with mountains on the other side of the lake seen off in the distance]

The summer I was 20 years old, my family once more made the trek upstate. This summer was particularly notable because I hadn’t been able to make it the past few years, meaning this was the first time I spent my summer in New York after socially and medically transitioning. I was expecting to spend my first day back following my cousins around and gossiping before heading back to the house to help my mom and aunts cook dinner. But before I could run off, one of my uncles handed me an armful of plywood and told me to haul it over to my grandmother’s porch. I ended up spending the day with my uncles and cousins disassembling the porch while my grandma sat in her adirondack chair and filled out her crossword puzzle with the help of my mom. I didn’t mind, despite not knowing the details regarding how to disassemble a porch, this was my family’s way of accepting me as a man, and therefore expecting me to fulfill certain duties as a man.  

However, as the sun started to set, and my aunts began making food for the family, I was called into the kitchen to help out with dinner. I am not a confrontational man, and didn’t want to make a fuss, so despite my achy and bruised body, I made my way into the kitchen to help, while my uncles sat in the living room to talk, and my cousins ran off to the beach. I found it interesting that despite my family’s acceptance of me as a man, I was still expected to fulfill the responsibilities that came with being raised and socialized as a girl. 

While this is one of the more notable times I recognized this happening, it was far from the only time in my life I’d been expected to be a man, after having been raised a girl.

Growing up overweight in a culture that openly comments on people’s weight can be a challenging experience. In this blog post, I want to share my personal journey of self-discovery, body image struggles, and ultimately finding a place of happiness and health. My story is a testament to the importance of self-love and the impact of cultural influences on body perception.

The Weight of Self-Consciousness: As a young girl, I felt the weight of self-consciousness bearing down on me. In Ethiopian culture, adults often make comments about others’ weight without realizing the impact it can have. I found myself standing out, and the lack of representation of girls who looked like me only heightened my insecurities.

Turning Point in High School: High school marked a turning point in my life. Joining the field hockey team, a running sport, inadvertently led to a significant weight loss. Initially pleased with the changes, I took matters into my own hands and adopted unhealthy eating habits, surviving mainly on water. The pressure to conform to societal expectations and fit a certain mold had taken a toll on my mental and physical well-being.

Realization and Course Correction: Soon, I began to recognize the danger of the path I was on. Hiding my struggles from my family added another layer of stress, and I realized that true happiness could not be found through deprivation. It was time for a course correction. I started eating regularly and adopted a healthier approach to nutrition. This journey taught me the importance of nourishing my body and mind in a sustainable way.

Ongoing Struggles and Self-Image: While I have come a long way, the journey to self-love is ongoing. Struggling with self-image is a battle many face, but I am now at a place where I am not afraid to go out with friends or enjoy time at the pool. Accepting myself, flaws and all, has become a priority, and I continue to work on building a positive relationship with my body.

Embracing Happiness and Health: Today, I am proud to say that I am happy and healthy. I have learned to celebrate my body for what it is, acknowledging that beauty comes in various shapes and sizes. The cultural influences that once contributed to my self-consciousness are now viewed through a lens of understanding, and I strive to promote body positivity within my community.

My journey from self-consciousness to self-love has been filled with challenges and triumphs. It is essential to recognize the impact of cultural norms on body image and actively work towards changing unhealthy perceptions. By sharing our stories and fostering a culture of acceptance, we can create a world where everyone feels confident and valued in their unique bodies.

In a world that often struggles with acceptance and understanding, I am fortunate to have grown up with a cousin who has autism. From an early age, I learned valuable lessons about empathy, patience, and the beauty of embracing differences. In this blog post, I want to share my personal journey of understanding and appreciating autism, and how it has shaped my perspective on inclusivity.

Understanding Autism: Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a neurological condition that affects individuals in various ways, leading to differences in social communication and behavior. My cousin, whom I have known and loved since childhood, falls on the spectrum. Growing up with him provided me with a unique opportunity to witness the diversity of human experience firsthand.

Breaking Stereotypes: As a child, I never saw my cousin as “other” or defined by his autism. Instead, I saw a person with a unique set of strengths and challenges. Unfortunately, society often perpetuates stereotypes about autistic individuals, creating a barrier to understanding. Through my experiences with my cousin, I quickly realized the importance of looking beyond preconceived notions and recognizing the individual behind the label.

Developing Empathy and Patience: Living with someone on the autism spectrum requires a deep well of empathy and patience. I learned to appreciate the small victories and milestones, celebrating his achievements while understanding the challenges he faced. These experiences cultivated a sense of compassion that extends beyond my family and shapes the way I interact with the world.

Zero Tolerance for Bullying: Witnessing the challenges my cousin faced, I developed zero tolerance for bullying, especially towards autistic children. The ignorance and cruelty of bullying can have lasting effects on individuals with autism, reinforcing the importance of creating a safe and supportive environment for everyone. I actively stand against any form of discrimination and strive to educate others on the importance of acceptance.

Advocating for Understanding: Education is key to fostering understanding, and I have made it my mission to advocate for awareness about autism. Whether through conversations with friends, social media posts, or participating in community events, I aim to dispel myths and promote a more inclusive society. It is crucial to recognize that everyone, regardless of neurodiversity, deserves respect, acceptance, and equal opportunities.

Growing up with my cousin who has autism has been a profound and enriching experience. It has shaped the way I view the world, fostering a deep appreciation for diversity and a commitment to fostering inclusivity. By sharing our stories and advocating for understanding, we can contribute to a more compassionate and accepting society, one where everyone is embraced for who they are.

During class, we talked about dance, and one of the things that was brought up was that dance in other countries (specifically in Europe) is funded by the government. It made me wonder about the traditional (ballet) aspects of dance played a role into how dance is now as an artform. We could even look at societal standards and see how that plays out.

First off when ballet was created, only men could perform, which is so funny to me because ballet is so feminized now. But I believe that dance and hierarchies and such are exactly the same. Back then, women were expected to be modest and be elegant “garden fairies”, which is accurate to their expectations at the time. Think of Snow White, and that’s who women were expected to be like. Very “men save the princess”. Female dancers were only supposed to look graceful at the time in society, and men were supposed to be suit and armor knights. That is just gender roles alone.

Looking at the capitalist structure of our government, dance is also a pretty accurate mirror to corporate society. For example, the large companies are considered the representation of dance, such as Alvin Ailey, New York City Ballet, and some other bigger ones. Dancers fail to think about the smaller companies and projects that are more inclusive and overall better work environment. It’s the same as the government in that aspect. People think of the corporate organizations such as Starbucks first before considering local coffee shops. That is very much the exact same way it is in dance. Dance has it’s own little structure that matches exactly how corporate America is ran. That is crazy to me.

Because of that way of thinking, that makes a career in dance a lot more viable than what people originally thought. It is still going to be hell to find a stable job, but thinking about smaller dance companies makes things a lot easier as an adult.

Last year, I experienced for myself how black women are ignored and gaslit in health care. My grandmother and mother dealt with chronic illness for as long as I can remember, so I’ve always had a front seat to the treatment they have received. However, it was still shocking when I experienced it for myself.

December 2022, I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease. Hashimoto’s disease is an immune disorder where the body creates antibodies that attack the cells of the thyroid, which causes the thyroid not to be able to make enough thyroid hormone. Months before December, I had done the usual blood work after an annual exam and my Thyroid Stimulating Hormone (TSH) levels were two times higher than the normal range. I contacted my doctor and was told I had nothing to worry about. In the months following, I started to experience fatigue, no matter how much rest I got, severe depression, sensitivity to the cold, dryness of the skin and hair, pain in my neck, and symptoms I couldn’t articulate until now. It wasn’t until about September, that the depression and fatigue became so severe I could barely leave the bed. Finally, I started missing periods, which is not normal for me, and knew something was wrong. 

At first, I called my ob/gyn and told her I had missed 2 periods and was starting to worry. All I was told was to continue taking my birth control as prescribed and to schedule an appointment, which wouldn’t be until January. Since the symptoms were worsening by the day, I scheduled the appointment but also sought answers elsewhere– the primary care physician who had ordered my blood work. Like my ob/gyn, I wouldn’t be able to see my PCP in person until January, so I scheduled a virtual appointment, at this point I wanted answers now. 

On the call with my PCP, I told her all the symptoms I was experiencing, how they were getting worse, and that I was missing periods. I was told that I was stressing too much and that this is what was causing me to miss periods and to schedule an appointment with my ob/gyn. The symptoms continued and again I missed another period. At one point my body was feeling so tired and in pain, so I went to urgent care. Of course, they didn’t help either and just told me that I was pregnant, despite a negative pregnancy test, and that there was nothing they could do for any of my symptoms. 

I was becoming desperate for answers at this point. I was so depressed, my symptoms were getting worse, and my grades were tanking. After much googling and help from my mother and boyfriend, I took a look again at my blood work, my TSH levels being this high had to mean something, so I scheduled another virtual appointment with my PCP. At the visit, I told her about my blood work and she finally agreed that my symptoms were unusual and that the TSH levels could possibly lead us to answers for why I was having them and she ordered blood work for my thyroid hormones to be looked at. My TSH levels were two times the normal range and my Thyroperoxidase (TPO) antibodies were more than 5 times the usual range. 

At the next visit with my PCP, I was told that because my TSH and TPO antibody levels were high, I more than likely had an autoimmune disease level called Hashimoto’s disease and I was prescribed medication.

After being on the medication for a month my symptoms had already started to get better. At last, I was being listened to and getting answers and solutions, but after how long and how many times being told I was stressing out about my condition and that there was nothing that could be done. Why did I have to tell my doctor my blood work was off and that it should be looked into when she is the one who signed off on it? 

Looking back on this whole experience, it makes me think what if I had a condition that was life-threatening and was ignored that many times? It honestly hurts my heart how black women are treated in health care. We deserve to be listened to and for our issues to be taken seriously. I hope that one day it truly reaches a point in health care where black women and their health issues/concerns are listened to and taken seriously.

I have always been an athlete since the day I could walk.

Growing up, my dad got me to try out different sports. From gymnastics, track, swimming, soccer, you name it. It was something that my dad saw was important to grow up with. I ended up sticking to soccer and I used to HATE it. I was forced to play coed soccer (which always meant a team full of boys and one or two girls) and it always made me dislike the sport. I used to cry and never want to go to practice because it scared me. Being the only girl on the team, knowing I was never going to get the ball because I’m a girl, and having to play rough with the boys. Soccer was always something that I always hated as a kid. My dad ended up putting me in an a girls team after while and that is when I started to enjoy the sport.

I found love for the game and I never quit. It made me want to try out different sports in high school as well and it allowed me to pick up athletic skills super quick. Being an athlete was my life all through out middle and high school and I loved every second of it. Soccer is a sport that a lot of people start when they are super young so there were a lot of player in my high school varsity team that was really good. Since I had a huge gap in skills because of the time I stopped playing my dad really wanted to motivate me to do better. He was encouraging – in his own way. He made me practice on the field near my house on days I had no practice for my club team and tried to get me to exercise more. But it got to the point where the encouragement were comments that tried to get me motivated in different ways. Instead of just telling me to go on runs in the morning, it became “you look like you’re gaining weight” at the dinner table. Instead of “keep practicing, you’re going to get better”, it became “you’re getting fat.” It was really hurtful to hear sometimes, but I knew in his own weird way he thought it would encourage me to be more active. I grew to ignore the comments and I did my own thing and never lost sight of the things I love. I picked up a new sport in high school and I became really good in it super fast. Soccer was still a sport I enjoyed, but to me it will always hold a lot of pressure as well.

Thinking about my experiences with bodies and sports, it makes me sad to think that there are sports where body shaming is extra bad. Ballet, gymnastics, figure skating, etc. I have heard stories of girls who are so skinny to the point they are just skin and bones, are called overweight and fat. But now in everyday scenarios I am always very cautious with comments about appearances and I urge people to do the same. Words are so powerful and they hold so much weight. We all need to be mindful about the things we comment on or how we say things.