Kristi Pahr

These women are from all over the world. They are from different socioeconomic brackets. Their assaults took place during different times over the last 35 years. The victims are completely different, but the stories are all so similar. Victims of assault, rape, harassment, coming forward, being brave and telling the truth, and being stigmatized, ostracized, blamed, ignored, ridiculed. People they love, people they trust, people whose job it is to protect them, blaming them for their assault. It’s common. Almost expected. That women are assaulted, harassed by men, is a given in our culture. That women are blamed is standard procedure. Is it really any wonder that the majority of sexual assaults go unreported? Is it really shocking that a woman would want to save herself additional trauma?

When I got pregnant for the third time, I was determined to have an unmedicated VBAC. I had big plans. This VBAC was going to be my birth experience salvation. It was going to be empowering and amazing and heal all my hangups. I was going to be a mama goddess and everything was going to be perfect. I was wrong.

I’m frazzled, y’all; I’m a mess. I’m a basketcase of anxiety and stress and I need to chill.

I think we can all agree that there is some messed up stuff happening right now.

I’ve been pregnant three times, and I have two beautiful, amazing, awe-inspiri

Essential oils have become incredibly popular and can be found everywhere from your local farmer’s market and community festival to social media.

I’m not a TV person. I used to be, but not so much anymore.

Once your doctor or midwife has cleared you for sex and you’re feeling ready to get back in the saddle, so to speak, there are a few things you’ll need to mentally prep yourself for.

Things as simple as a missed call from an unknown number or someone knocking on your door put me into straight up fight or flight. I really do hide from people who come to my door. Real talk, I have gotten on my hands and knees below a window so they wouldn’t see me. I’ve even hidden in the closet. I know. Whacko.

When my oldest son was a baby, my husband and I used to talk about what sports he would play.