Kelly Burch

Don’t talk politics. Do. Not. This old adage is more important than ever this year, with an election that started off bad and has gotten consistently worse.

Posting about my miscarriage on Facebook was the most cathartic thing I could have done for myself. It allowed me to validate my feelings.

A family's day of celebration became a nation's day of mourning.

No having a community rally in support, like it is supposed to during a crisis, can make a family in mental health crisis feel shamed and stigmatized.

Last week, I did something reckless. I went out for Mexican food, and drank a margarita. The server didn’t ask for my ID, and she didn’t even ask for proof that my ovaries were on lock down.

My mom and I are extremely close. Some would say we’re a little too close, but since she fills two roles in my life — mother and best friend — I think it’s fair that she get a double slice of my love and attention. I was completely devastated when she announced that she was moving to Dubai. But now, my mother has lived abroad for more than two years, and I can see that her move was a good thing.

I clearly remember the first time that I was forced to accept that something was wrong.

My toddler was twirling in her tutu bathing suit while I shimmied into my plus-sized polka dot bikini.

Can you name an elite female athlete? If you asked me to name someone other than Venus or Serena Williams I’d have a tough time.

“How many time have I asked you….” I say in frustration, and then it hits me. The real question I should be asking is how many times I’ve uttered that phrase.