Britni de la Cretaz

It’s bad enough when I’m street harassed out by myself — I feel vulnerable and deciding how to respond can be hard. But it gets really complicated when I’m harassed and with my child.

So after years of feeling incredibly conflicted about the topic of my leg hair because FUCK YOUR PATRIARCHAL BEAUTY STANDARDS, it came to be winter.

My husband never, ever drives thru a fast food restaurant because it’s easier, and instead makes it back to the house and gives our daughter something that WILL grow mold if left out too long, unlike the McDonald’s hamburger I would have let her have.

While this is not about my or White people’s feelings, this is about White people’s violence. As White people in this country, it’s on us to dismantle White supremacy. Both the problem and the solution lie with us. This involves talking to other White people in our communities, having hard and uncomfortable conversations, examining and confronting our own privilege.

The first trimester is not normal. The first trimester is hell. The first trimester is vomiting in trash cans, falling asleep sitting up, sore breasts, perpetual nausea, hella strong food aversions, extreme mood swings, and crying because your partner ate your taco; all while not looking or feeling pregnant.

Bring something that makes you feel safe. I brought my blankie. It was so comforting to be able to go up to my room after a terrible day of being in immense emotional pain and curl up with my blanket.

There’s nothing wrong with moms who decide to go for a stereotypical “mom cut.” If they like it, or if it makes their lives easier, that’s fantastic. Personally, my hair after I had children remained just as important to me as it was before I had them. My hair has always been a huge part of my identity — candy-colored, funky, and so totally me.

I know you’re probably wondering how that happened, so I’m going to tell you. (You’re welcome.)

The first sign that something was wrong was the weirdly watery discharge. I'd never had vaginal discharge that looked like that before, and considering I'd just finished my period, the large-ish amount was confusing to me. But everything else felt fine. So I put a pantyliner on and went about my life, thinking it would stop soon.

I’m working on an essay about the time I was raped my freshman year of college. For the very first time, I’m naming my perpetrator. Even if it’s only his first name, there’s still so much power in it.

Making the decision to get sober is never easy. Actually getting sober is even harder. So much has to change about the way you live your life in order to maintain, and it can be overwhelming to think about.