Kelly Burch

“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.

While I would like to think that I paused for a minute or two to think about what it means to be American, I was mostly focused on looking forward to the fireworks show.
But all of that changed for me last year. Three weeks before the Fourth of July, my husband became a citizen of the United States.

I’m one of those bigger girls that confuses the medical community by being entirely healthy. My doctor body shamed me and lied to me about tests she ran.

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.

There’s something fascinating about a date that you only get during one-quarter of your years on the planet — an extra, bonus day, that’s a bit outside the norm. According to English tradition, Leap Day is the one day when women can propose to men, the idea being that a day that falls outside the normal social bounds is perfect for breaking convention. You don’t have to propose to your love today (although if you plan to, be sure to share the story with us!), but I challenge you to break with the tradition of self-sacrifice, and take some time on this bonus day to put yourself first.

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

Just like kids who kick the seat in front of them and middle-aged women who get drunk and chatty on long flights, crying babies are a fact of life.

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.

As we made our way to the back of the plane, the baby apologizing the whole way, passengers were giving us a certain look, one to which I had become accustomed to receiving when with my daughter. The one that says, How cute. I, however, was shaken. Had I really taught my daughter, all of 1½ years old, that she needs to apologize for herself? That because she was noticed — rather than slipping quietly through a space — she needed to say “I'm sorry”?