Taming: Part I

The other night, I was watching the episode of Friends where Rachel goes out on the town for the first time since giving birth. She’s wearing a dress that shows off her (frankly amazing) cleavage, and Ross (of course) takes issue with it. When she’s at the bar and a couple of guys come up to her to chat and eventually ask her for her number, she says she didn’t go out to meet guys, she just wanted to go hang out with her friend and get a drink. I found myself thinking Why did you dress like that if you didn’t want guys’ attention? That is my taming.

Taming is something Glennon Doyle defines in Untamed as the conditioning we receive starting in childhood to make us more acceptable in the eyes of society. She points out that at one point, when we were kids, we were wild, and dreamt of uninhibited futures and expressed emotions freely. But then, society began feeding us its messages that tamed us and put us in cages, and we learned that we were not supposed to be wild. Glennon (yeah, I’m using her first name, because I see her as part of my sisterhood more so than an untouchable author) has opened millions of readers’ eyes by calling bullshit on capitalism and the patriarchy, and teaches us in Untamed how to return to our wild.

I remember one of my first tamings. It involved the school dress code. Girls were not allowed to dress too “provocatively” (how can we dress provocatively at six fucking years old, I ask you?!) because it was too distracting to our male peers. And with no similar rules warning boys not to distract the girls in their class, us girls grew into women who were taught that men can’t help but objectify us. This leads to the body-shaming and blaming of women that I found myself (a 26 year old female feminist) doing to a television character.

This doesn’t mean I’m a bad feminist. This means that I’m still learning how to fight the toxic training and taming I’ve received for most of my life. When that training starts in childhood, unlearning it as an adult is hard work! What’s exciting is that I immediately recognized my Rachel-shaming thought as my taming. A year ago, I think I would have noticed myself making such a comment, but not been curious about it.

I’m equal parts excited and scared to rekindle the wild inside me. But I’m insanely curious what my life can look like outside of the cage I’ve been tamed into.

Some days can feel like I’ve abandoned my cage entirely, when the next feels like I’m right back inside with the door firmly closed. Other days I’m sitting on the edge, questioning whether to leave the cage that’s been my home for ~20 years, or leap into the wild unknown. Being wild is scary, especially in a world that does not accept or appreciate wilderness. But I do know that I’m curious about the wilderness enough to explore.

Today Was a Good Day

I feel like I can breathe again.

It didn’t sink in until about an hour ago that I actually have hope again. I haven’t felt hope like this in a long time. I can finally imagine a world in which I can safely leave my house, see my friends, run to the store, hug my parents. That is no small thing.

Not to mention, we have a woman of color as our Vice President. Honestly, this was the highlight of this win for me. Not so much Joe, but Kamala. I used to call her office when I lived in CA, when I was afraid of the then-newly elected administration. Hearing her speak tonight made me proud. I think the women of this country, and the parents of daughters across our nation shone a little brighter tonight. Representation is powerful. Hope is powerful.

This weekend, I am celebrating. On Monday, I get back to work to figure out how to be a better American, a better woman, a better human. But for now, I can relax. I can exhale. We did it.

“Too Much Feminism”

When Ruth Bader Ginsburg died, some of the first posts I saw on Twitter were telling women to hurry and get birth control now, before it gets taken away from us entirely. Other posts said to go purchase a few Plan B emergency contraceptives to keep stockpiled, just in case.

After I watched the film Enola Holmes this weekend—a movie about an intrepid teen defying the traditional path of a woman in order to make her own way in the world—one of the first things I was told about those already commenting and critiquing the film was “We get it…feminism!” There seemed to be eye-rolling about the creation of another film about female empowerment. This left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

It’s as if these critics are sick and tired of all the feminism they’re seeing on screen lately. As if women don’t need to see themselves represented as powerful, angry, ambitious, intelligent, career-driven, or any other characteristic that we are typically expected to stifle. As if women aren’t being denied the same basic human rights as our male counterparts. As if women detained at our borders aren’t being sterilized. As if the leaders of this country aren’t making it their mission to take away even more women’s rights.

Women need more movies and TV shows and video games and books and comics that represent us the way we deserve to be represented. Especially if what they’re saying on Twitter is true, and our rights will soon be flushed down the toilet. We need reminders to continue to fight. We need reminders that we are strong, and have accomplished change in the past, and we are capable of accomplishing more in the future. We need reminders that our emotions are not things to be ashamed of.

There are many reasons why I loved the feminism in Enola Holmes. Not only does the title character make a wonderful role model for all young girls growing up in this terrifying political climate, but the film also drives home the fact that feminism is about equality of all sexes. We see a male character who has embraced traditionally feminine characteristics, like having a passion for flowers and crying publically, while still being powerful and desirable. Additionally, our protagonist learns that she can forge her own path, create her own future, on her own, but that doesn’t mean she can’t have a companion by her side to be an independent woman.

Lately, I myself have struggled with balancing my need to be a strong, independent woman “who don’t need no man” with my relationship with my partner, who happens to be a man. As I embraced the power of the female, as I described in one of my last posts, I found myself doing some all-or-nothing thinking. I worried that standing up and speaking out as an independent woman would mean I had to hide the fact that I was, happily and completely, in love with a man.

Upon reflection of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s life, I remembered the example she set in her marriage with Marty Ginsburg, which proved that just because a woman stands tall and strong on her own, doesn’t mean that she can’t be holding the hand of another tall and strong person. Enola Holmes proved this, as well.

I don’t believe there can be “too much feminism.” I believe feminism will exist as long as human beings exist, and we should continue fighting for the rights of all humans, no matter their gender expression, skin color, or economic status, in order to be seen as equals on the same playing field.

I encourage everyone to go watch Millie Bobby Brown as Enola Holmes, on Netflix now. Feel free to share your opinions on the film in the comments below!

Her Legacy, A Revolution

Oh, RBG.

Devastating news tonight. The incomparable, powerful, notorious Ruth Bader Ginsburg is gone. Gone from this Earth, and gone from the Supreme Court.

What I felt tonight was reminiscent of what I felt when I heard Hillary lost the election. I felt the wails of women everywhere cry out in disbelief that this pioneer of gender equality was simply gone. I believe I said to my partner, “She was supposed to live forever!”

As I lit a candle for RBG, two thoughts kept vying for my attention:

1) The future seems scarier than ever with her absence on the Supreme Court, and I fear for the future of this country, its citizens (of all races and gender identities), and the immigrants who sought a better life within our borders.

2) I am so grateful for the strides Ginsburg took so that I may recognize the power in my gender, even when I am treated unfairly on the basis of sex. I am grateful to Ginsburg for setting an example of what a healthy relationship looks like between a man and a woman, and that I can stand on my own two feet while my partner stands on his and still be holding his hand. I am grateful for her legacy, which fan the flames of revolution for women in this country.

I’ve done a lot of reflecting in the last few hours, ever since I heard the news. Nearly two weeks ago I shared that I had finally accepted the feminine part of my identity, and that I’m ready to stand and fight against the dismissal of the feminine by our current culture. I wonder if I would have written that post had Ruth Bader Ginsburg not persisted? Would I even be writing on this blog at all? Would I have these thoughts of identity? Would I be as free?

I hope that we don’t gloss over our mourning period in favor of fear for the future of the Supreme Court. I hope that we take time to celebrate this incredible woman’s life, and steep in our gratitude for her existence in our country and in our hearts. I hope we pick up where she left off, and continue to dissent from those who work to ignore or silence us. She may be gone, but she will never be forgotten.

When asked if she ever reconsidered stepping down (after liberals urged her to, so that President Obama could name her replacement), Ginsburg said firmly, “I have said many times that I will do this job as long as I can do it full steam, and when I can’t, that will be the time that I will step down.”

May we all aim to keep going, full steam.

Rest in Peace, Rest in Power, Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Allowing Anger

Content Warning: self-harm

At the beginning of this global pandemic I noticed an uncomfortable feeling starting to grow within me. As my friends continued going to work or to the grocery store while I remained at home, petrified of catching this largely-unknown coronavirus, the feeling grew from a small flame into a roaring fire, until I could no longer ignore it. I was angry.

Since I was diagnosed with my autoimmune disease roughly 8 years ago—which was more than likely the result of the birth control pills I was taking at the time—I haven’t thought much about how different my life has become. Sure, I have to take daily medication for the rest of my life and I can’t unwind every night with a glass of wine, but generally things aren’t too different for me. It wasn’t until my life was threatened because of my compromised immune system that I began to think “Why the hell did this have to happen to me?!”

As I was wracked with fears of illness and death for weeks on end, this question grew louder and louder in my head. It suddenly didn’t seem fair that the pills I had been using to help regulate my menstrual cycle as a teenager had turned my immune system against me. And the longer I was stuck at home, the more anger I felt when I swallowed the meds that were lowering my immune system in order to keep my body safe.

Now, anger is not something I’m particularly familiar with. I’ve certainly experienced anger before, but, not knowing what to do with the feeling, it was often expressed through moodiness, passive aggression, or even self-harm. Or, like many other women who aren’t sure what to do when they feel anger starting to bubble under their skin, I suppressed it. Without knowing how to healthily let it out, or even that I can express it in healthy, safe ways, I stuff it down and close the lid as tight as I can.

This time around, however, I was having a hard time keeping it contained, and it certainly wasn’t going away. My anger was fierce, and desperately wanted out of the jar I had kept it stored in for all those years.

At first, the anger built into rage that exploded out of me in the form of self-harm. I didn’t know where to direct my anger, and I had enough shame lighting me up like a neon sign that I became an easy target. So when pacing and hand-flapping gave way, I released the pent-up energy the only way I knew how, at the only person in the room: me.

Of course, shortly after the energy had been expelled and the shame set in, I realized that this method of expression was not sustainable. Which is when I realized that I didn’t have a single solitary clue of how to safely express my anger. Nor could I recall any female role models who expressed their anger in healthy ways.

I started talking with a friend lately about this, and when I asked how she expressed anger, she had a hard time finding an answer, as well. She made the excellent point that systemically men are taught to be angry, but to stifle sadness because it’s a sign of weakness, and that women are taught to stifle anger because it’s not feminine. While I sat there wondering how I’ve managed to stifle anger all this time, she mentioned that these beliefs are so ingrained in us that we don’t even realize we do it.

It’s funny, because as I’ve learned more about the damage done by the patriarchy and capitalism in the last few classes I’ve taken in quarantine, the angrier I’ve become. How ironic that the notion of suppressed anger in women has caused me to become so angry that I don’t know how to express it because I’ve been taught to suppress it!

Naturally, I turned to my therapist for guidance. I knew there had to be ways of expressing anger that didn’t end up hurting myself or others, otherwise we’d all explode! She encouraged me that I can feel anger while controlling my behavior. In all those cases where anger has led to self-harm, there was always a moment where I could have chosen another option. I allowed those neuropathways to stay ingrained in my brain, until my therapist showed me how to flip that switch.

Now, I know to use my pillow at a punching bag, or throw some balled up socks or water balloons at the wall when I feel that anger grow into a big ball of energy that just wants to be uncaged. Even more important to remember: I’m allowed to be angry. It is a natural emotion, just like happiness, sadness, and even fear.

My anger has helped me clarify my values and beliefs. If I didn’t get so angry about the corporations who are making billions off of our insecurities, I wouldn’t know how much I cared about righting that wrong, of undoing the thoughts that they have implanted.

Anger can be liberating if we allow it. I’m not nearly done learning how to express it, or unlearning how not to suppress it. But I’d say it’s about time we free these gendered shackles of how women (or anyone!) are “supposed” to feel, look, or act, and use our anger as a compass to guide us towards empowerment, equality, and freedom.

Female Power

Content Warning: sexual assault (briefly mentioned, no details given)

I’ve told myself for a long time that I wasn’t cut out for female friendships. I never thought I’d have a Cristina Yang or a Lane Kim. I didn’t have the best track record with many of my relationships with women, so I didn’t see the point in trying to form new ones.

When I was in middle school I was bullied by other girls. My “best” [girl] friends turned on me, I don’t even remember why. In high school I was told I was selfish by a close girl friend. I felt as though I was competing or comparing myself with many of my female peers. In college I was raped by a woman, a friend of mine. I was called a liar when I asked for support from another close female friend. As an adult I had many female friendships end epically, awfully. I didn’t think I could maintain another close, healthy, happy friendship with another woman.

Recently I met a woman who changed that narrative for me. She allowed my vulnerability, and it brought us closer together, despite being an ocean apart. We became fast friends. I opened up to her about my history with women, and she recognized and acknowledged my fear. She saw me.

When I started feeling this fire in my belly about capitalism and the twisted narrative it feeds women in order to maintain its profits, I expressed my rage to this new friend. It unlocked something within me; sharing my frustration and anger about being a woman in 2020 with another woman was the key to embracing the female power within me, and feeling kinship and recognition in others. I suddenly saw all that I was missing by avoiding close relationships with women.

Don’t get me wrong, I love all of the friends in my life, regardless of gender. My partner and one of my closest friends are both men. And there is something to be said about sharing anger about an experience that is specifically female with another woman. My bestie and my partner both can empathize—and they do, quite well—but they will never truly understand my experiences without being a woman themselves.

I think I’ve subconsciously ignored aspects of my femininity for a long time. I spent most of my time with men, and never felt drawn to the interests of other women. I didn’t want to be like the women who hurt me. I didn’t want the feminine parts of myself that were judged or objectified to be seen by anyone, including myself.

I’m beginning to understand that hiding myself, any part of myself, is a disservice. Women have a history of being strong and powerful, and I am a contributor to that lineage. Now, instead of shying away from my feminine identity, I am choosing to step up and join hands with other strong and powerful women.

It’s time I step into my female power. It’s time I allow myself to share and listen and lean on women who are also aligned with my values and experiences. It’s time I channel my frustration and anger about the patriarchy and capitalism into passion, to enthusiastically lift up other powerful women and emphasize the strengths of being a woman that many in our dominant, patriarchal culture have ignored or dismissed for so long.

I’m proud to be a part of an amazing sisterhood of strong, beautiful, powerful women.


As I wrote this piece, I remembered a poem I once wrote about the women on staff at my eating disorder treatment center. Read it here.

I also want to recognize the amazing women I’ve met through Eat Breathe Thrive in the last few months. You all contributed to the inspiration for this post.

Authenticity over Approval

I’ve been experiencing a personal awakening lately. Some of which you read about in my Grey’s Anatomy post, and some you’ll read in future posts about emotions and activism. For now, however, I want to talk about authenticity.

I spent most of my life trying to be anyone but myself. In school, when I was bullied for the clothes I wore or the people I sat with at lunch, I spent years trying to fit into a more acceptable mold. I spent money I didn’t have on clothes that I thought would make me look cooler or more like “everyone else.” I spent time with people who didn’t share my values so that, if they accepted me, I could use them as a metric of my success or popularity. I posted content on social media that I told myself was authentic, but was really just a way to gain more likes, followers, or friends. I valued authenticity and independence above all else, but was too scared to actually live in accordance with those values. I was scared that if people saw the real me, they’d reject me.

After all those years of shoving myself into someone else’s ideal of what I “should” look, think, or act like, I still don’t have the things I craved since I was young. I could never find happiness in the clothes I bought, or friends in the amount of views I got on an Instagram story I had so carefully curated. Yet, I’ve discovered happiness and beautiful relationships despite those things…so I had to ask myself: Why do I waste precious time in my life trying to be someone else?! I will never fit into any mainstream ideal of what a woman should be, and I’m sick and tired of making myself smaller for anyone else’s benefit or comfort.

Being immunocompromised in this pandemic has forced me to spend a lot of uninterrupted time with myself. I’ve been blowing through journals, usually filling one within 3-4 weeks, which basically represents the amount of self-reflection and growth I’ve experienced in the last six months. The more I’ve gotten to know myself in quarantine, the more I’ve realized I want to become the person I want to be rather than the person I thought I should be.

After all of the self-reflection and journals I’ve gone through, I’ve decided to challenge myself to run towards the things that scare me. If I don’t, I will never truly know what I am capable of. Authenticity scares me. Showing people who I really am—including the parts of myself I want to hide away in deep, dark caves—absolutely terrifies me. But I’m done seeking approval from others, because their approval doesn’t matter. I matter. I choose me.