Reclaiming my body pt.1 : Instagram

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been grappling with a realization: no one cares what I post on Instagram. No one cares because I’m neither a renowned artist nor a talentless influencer hawking overly edited images of their “fascinating life.” And if no one cares about what I post, especially on a platform that feeds off of the constant absorption of the viewers precious time and attention, then why do I do it? 

At the beginning of the year, an old-but-still-kicking method of life improvement known as the Happiness Project helped transform my life. As recommended in the Happiness Project, I created a few personal commandments to live by and have been holding to them ever since. One such commandment (later added after it kept intercepting my progress) is to love myself more, by truly appreciating my body for what it is. And of course, the best way to begin is by weeding out the deeply anchored roots of the patriarchy. During one particularly eye opening and exciting bout of feminist literature and empowering discussions I asked myself why, after knowing how social constructs destroy my self confidence, do I still believe that my body was just not right? Why did I feel it was okay to perpetually critique my appearance, especially when others always saw me in a much better light? Loving one’s self, with all the cellulite, dark circles, stretch marks, lower belly fat, and every other thing society has consistently been telling me to hide, has proven to be a difficult feat. And that’s coming from me, a woman quick to bash the patriarchy and uplift my friends. So why can’t I uplift myself? I’ll save you the suspense and admit that I still don’t have an answer to that. In truth, it may take many years to find it, but at least the question has been asked and the process begun.

Continue reading “Reclaiming my body pt.1 : Instagram”
In light of the recent sexual assault victims bravely coming forth with their traumas, I have a little something for you men, who haven’t physically assaulted a woman but daily harass with your unwanted “compliments” or looks. 

I am a woman

The strongest being that withstands much more than any man could ever comprehend.  

On a daily basis. 

And my struggles are not imagined but rather imposed by a society that attempts to fit, in the newsstands, a variety of body shapes into one prototype:

a 26-inch size waist, voluptuous breasts and bums, with hair iridescently shiny. 


And what about the rest of us? 

When we are constantly pressured to believe these standards are the wanted ones and our bodies are the wrong puzzle pieces. 

How do we love ourselves then? 

Many of us have managed to slowly remove the gangrenous roots out of our pretty little heads, 

to begin accepting what a unique genetic composition we are.  

To go against all beauty lessons we were taught.

And it isn’t easy, there are fallbacks

There are moments where a slight frigid comment regresses our progress to our brainwashed state of mind.  

But for the sake of time, let’s say we’ve moved on.  Continue reading

Thought #9: Bush, no bush, your choice

f4edba6394a31118132668a6811697a6.jpgI received my first bikini wax when I was 16, when I was young, naive, and easily corrupted. My teenage-hood wasn’t one that caused my parents headaches or involved nightly escapades to drink beer acquired from bums outside the local 7/11. I was relatively calm, confused, and enthralled by things most teenagers paid no mind to (holler in classic rock, magical realism literature, and British TV shows). But I did get my first bikini wax when I was 16. 

I can’t remember the exact reasons why, but it probably had to do with the media molding me into looking a very unreachable idyllic way, one that I still fight with today (I’m winning the battle I promise!). Continue reading “Thought #9: Bush, no bush, your choice”