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Bulimic Bites Back

Nobody wants to hear about your miscarriage.

img_0118Recently, a few friends at work were sharing experiences of morning sickness from their pregnancies. Multiple women at my workplace had recently given birth, joining the club of women that seemed to simultaneously be the happiest and most stressed out. One coworker, whose daughter is approaching her first birthday, laughed about the constant vomiting she experienced for nearly four months. “It was terrible, but it’s all worth it in the end.” The other mothers in the group nodded in agreement when she listed the once-favorite foods that had made her nauseous.

I suppose the problems started when, instead of staying silent, I commiserated-the second month of my first pregnancy had been a living hell. Whilst in the middle of joking about how difficult it had been to hide my pregnancy from my mother when I was spending both morning and night in the bathroom, I glanced around at the strained looks on my friends’ faces. One nodded silently with a grim face, one looked away. Another played with her phone, casually avoiding eye contact.

Apparently, it’s uncomfortable for people to hear about a pregnancy when there’s no triumphant birth story at the end, or baby pictures to point to and exclaim, “It was all worth it.” The looks on my coworker’s faces said it all. “She’s not a mother,” seemed to hang in the air without even being said.

They’re right, to a point. I’m not a mother. My two pregnancies, one thirteen weeks and the other only nine, obviously didn’t make it to term. We were close enough coworkers for them to know my story-a 22 year old young woman, not a mother, that had miscarried. But we weren’t close enough to talk about it. The pregnancy stories I carried in my heart had obviously been ruled invalid by some unspoken rule. “Don’t talk about lost babies.” Women that have miscarried, which is actually a large majority of women, are meant to be sad by themselves, accept condolences when offered-if they’ve even told anyone about the pregnancy at all-and to never broach the subject in light-hearted conversations.

Losing a child makes people understandably uncomfortable. Many women can sympathize with you, but many women won’t admit that. Even in 2017, the 3 month rule, where women aren’t even supposed to announce their pregnancies until the second trimester for fear of having to explain a miscarriage to the world, seems to be as much of a law as the second amendment. Even the women in my workplace had announced their pregnancies once they’d reached the comfort zone of the fourth month.

Talking about miscarriage alone seems to be taboo. In some circles, it’s an open conversation, as many women have begun to realize that there are so many that share their story. But for most of the world, miscarriages are meant to be dealt with privately, secretly, almost shamefully. So the fact that I had been open about my miscarriages in the first place was enough of a discomfort to the ladies in the office that day. But to talk about the pregnancy leading up to them? You’re not even a mother, what would you know?

My baby, my motherhood, my sense of security in my body to do what it was, by evolution’s standards, made to do, all of those were stolen from me. Twice. But on top of that, my pregnancies and the experiences with them were taken as well. It’s difficult to speak about your pregnancy cravings or how much your back hurt, even in those first few months, when you can’t open your phone and say, “Look how big she is now.”

Thankfully, women are realizing that there is strength in numbers. There is a solidarity in the thousands of women that have suffered child loss, many multiple times throughout their lives. Women are becoming more comfortable in sharing their experiences, hoping to take miscarriage from a taboo subject to one that women can seek support for. Recently, when a friend shared with me that she was six weeks pregnant, we celebrated together, and she tearfully asked me if this was what it felt like when I found out I was pregnant. It was, from the tears to the celebratory screaming to the countless phone calls. Recalling the few good memories of such a tough time in my life gave me not only a sense of peace, but a sense of validity.

Erasing miscarriage isn’t going to make it hurt any less. Of course, every woman has a different way to cope, from telling nobody to telling anyone that will offer an ear and a hug. It may be “socially unacceptable” to speak of such a private matter but, for so many women, talking about the beautiful moments before the painful ones can be the best way to make peace with the situation.

Nobody wants to hear about your miscarriage. Nobody wants pregnancy advice from a woman that quite obviously has no living children. But nobody wants to hear about racism, or assault, or any other difficult topic either. Just like the other tragedies in this life, miscarriage cannot be pushed aside in favor of keeping people comfortable. When miscarriage is a part of your story, do not let the stress of secrecy hold you. Do not let it control you. Do what you need to cope, no matter what you have to say.

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What I Learned From Speaking Up

Over the past few days, I’ve sat down to write a blog post about five times. I could never figure out what I wanted to say, or where I wanted to begin. The whole situation seemed so complicated while it was happening and now, even with just a day’s hindsight, I can think more clearly about everything.

Some of you may have seen a story going around the news about an Illinois county board member using homophobic and fatphobic slurs on Facebook. The man, who grew up in the same small town that I did, had lost a local cutest couples contest to two lesbians, who he took to Facebook to shame using hashtags such as #realcoupleshavechildren and #gobegaytoyourself. He also stated that he and his girlfriend should’ve gained 150 pounds to win the contest.

A queer friend of mine called me to tell me about his status, reading it aloud as I walked to my car after class. It had already been taken down, but she knew that it would bother me. Not in the “I’m so offended” way, but more so in the “how could anyone be so publicly cruel in 2017?” way. I didn’t understand how a man I had known most of my life, a man that had spent time with me and multiple other queer women at a bar just a few short weeks ago, could be saying such hideous things. Especially as an elected official.

When you get mad, you act fast. Sometimes rage produces the best of actions and, more often, it produces the worst. I believe my actions were leaning toward the better as I took the screenshots of his status and posted them on my Facebook with three key points: 1. Homophobia has no place in 2017. 2. Fat shaming is disgusting. And 3. Some people can’t have children just because of how their body works, and not making biological children is no measure of how “real” a relationship is.

Being the outspoken person I am, I signed off with, “I may be a fat infertile bisexual, but at least I’m not a douchebag.”

And then came the fallout. Over 100 shares and thousands of comments later, the story had blown up. We’re from a small community and news traveled fast even before the internet and social media. I went to sleep that night still disgusted and woke up to hell.

I had received so many messages of hate, ranging from “shut up you fat dyke” to “lesbians rot in hell.” For every message of hate, I had at least 10 people telling me they were proud of my bravery. Those supportive people kept me sane, even when I came out of a store to find “DYKE” written on my car in red lipstick.

Because we’re from a small town, I received a call from the man’s mother, who’s known my family for longer than I’ve been alive. After a very emotional conversation, I took the post down, although I still don’t know if that was the right choice. But I had proved my point, and both sides had received various threats, so it seemed like this should be where it stopped.

And then the local news called. I agreed to speak with them only to reiterate my belief that no matter how hateful someone is, hate and cruelty aren’t good reactions. I just wanted everyone to be safe. The story aired and the news blew up even bigger. A U.K. women’s website even picked it up, at first accidentally claiming me to be a part of the couple that had won.

As with any big event in a person’s life, the past few days have obviously taught me a few things, both about myself and about other people, the most important of which being, “Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.” When someone sees such obvious displays of bigotry and hatred and merely sits by to allow it to continue, they become part of the problem that’s driving countless young people to suicide. People all over the country have lived their lives in fear of being judged for their appearance or who they love, and the past few days of threats have showed me that nobody ever deserves to live in fear.

Another thing I learned was how true the saying “be careful what you wish for,” really is. Ever since coming out after leaving my old fashioned hometown, I have wanted people to see me for who I am: a proud bisexual woman. Even while dating a man, I am proud of both sides of my sexuality. The visibility I’ve gotten from not only being open about my sexuality but taking a stand for it has been both negative and positive. I can admit I’ve always had the privilege of looking like a straight woman, and that privilege has been a blessing and a curse. With my “secret” out, threats and harassment came pouring in. Luckily, the support from loved ones has been overwhelming, and not everyone in this situation can say that.

My final thoughts on the subject are this, and they’re not even my thoughts. One of my heroes, Elizabeth Warren, was recently silenced in Congress with the words, “She was warned, she was given an explanation. Nevertheless, the persisted.” Through all the violence, all the fear, all the bigotry, please persist.

Fuck infertility.

Once upon a time, I wrote a blog about my need for recovery from bulimia and binge eating disorder stemming from my intense desire to have children one day. (You can read about that here). That blog focused around a meeting with my OB/GYN that had left me with more questions than answers. She had explained to me that it would be incredibly difficult for me to have children, although she’d been incredibly vague on why. I was too shell-shocked to ask.

My most recent OB/GYN visit was the opposite, giving me more answers than I had questions to. The most basic run down is this: one ovary doesn’t work, and the other has about as many eggs left as a forty year old woman. The conversation quickly turned from “you probably can’t have children,” to “here are some pamphlets on IVF and adoption.” Though medication is still an option in the future, it’s a dismal option at best. Long story short, if my mother wants more grandchildren, she should probably start bugging my older brother about it instead of me.

The emotions have been coming in waves. At first, I was in shock, and I honestly didn’t feel much of anything for two or three days. Then reality set in, and ever since, it’s been a roller coaster of anger and grief. Never had I imagined that a doctor’s visit would leave me feeling like someone had stolen something from me, something so taken for granted that I had hardly known it was mine to begin with. Though the doctor had been clear the first time when she said that having children would be difficult, the gravity of the situation had been lost on me until I’d been shown a clear ultrasound of just how hopeless my ovaries were.

I am 21 years old, nearly 22. Not once did I think that infertility would be on the list of things I had to worry about. Going back to college, sure. Getting a raise at work, most definitely. The last two months have been spent Googling words like “escrow” and “home appraisal” in anticipation to buy a house, but now my most recent history has turned into a long line of “in vitro fertilization,” “adoption in Illinois,” and “dealing with infertility.” It seems grossly unfair to have lost something so connected with my hopes and dreams for the future.

Throughout all of the upcoming appointments and surgery consults, I would love to remain optimistic. I would love to cling to the thought that maybe, just maybe, some form of medication will fix my broken womb and make me capable of being a mother. I don’t think there will ever be a time where I stop praying for a missed period of two little pink lines. But at the same time, with a heavy heart and a realistic outlook, I’ve come to realize that maybe not being able to have kids means I won’t have to lose any more.

Day 19: Binge Free and Testing Myself

For the past week and a half, every day has been a milestone. Every day has pulled me one step further away from the disorder that’s held a tight grip on my life since I was fifteen, and one step closer to the life I’ve been dreaming of since I was little. Undeniably, thanks goes to my new Prozac prescription more than to a renewed sense of self control. New medication made the first few days easy. It made the next week after that even easier.

Getting used to the new medication has made the past few days a little bit more of a challenge. Regardless, I have little to complain about. It’s been nearly three weeks without mindless trips to the store or quick runs through the McDonalds drive thru after work to cram as much food into my stretched stomach as I could. It’s been nearly three weeks of rest, because after you fight with yourself every day for years, you tend to get tired.

Sitting at nineteen days without disordered eating has put me a little on edge. The past few days, I’ve been getting the “too good to be true” feeling. There’s no way I’m recovered, I’ll tell myself at the end of every day without a relapse. It’s always been a waiting game, seeing how long I can go without a binge before I get dragged back down. Though I’ve always craved recovery, I could never wrap my head about what it would actually be like to wake up without an eating disorder.

The usual uncontrollable urge to binge, thanks to Prozac, has thankfully been replaced with occasional passing thoughts. A stressful moment will remind me that I could easily “deal with it” by shoveling down Ben and Jerrys or double cheeseburgers until I want to puke. A small food craving will make my stomach twinge with excitement before I remember why exactly I gave that life up. Every day, though I remain in control, I continue to be terrified that I might quickly lose it.

Today, I put that fear to the test. The day started like the past eighteen as I woke up with no urges to binge. Admittedly, I had a small craving for one of my favorite binge foods: ice cream. But it wasn’t necessarily an uncontrollable desire-more of a normal, non-disordered craving. So I thought, Why not indulge? Over the past few weeks, I’ve refused to restrict foods. I felt like if this shot at recovery was going to be different from any of the others, I had to stop trying to lose weight and completely cut out my favorite foods. So the past few weeks have been anything but sugar-free.

But the one thing I couldn’t bring myself to eat was ice cream. It was more of a fear that I would lose control than anything else. Out of all of the things I hated about a binge, I hated the loss of self control the most. It made me feel weak and vulnerable, and I couldn’t let myself risk my progress by eating something so tempting. I didn’t trust myself.

Today, I figured, was as good a day as any to learn to have a little faith. After my morning therapy session, I swung by the grocery store. I considered stopping by the gas station instead, out of fear of losing control and going on a shopping spree, but I figured that wouldn’t be realistic. Without hesitation, I waltzed into the grocery store, grabbed a pint of Ben and Jerrys, and headed for the check out. No last minute stops in the candy aisle, no staring down all the foods I used to binge on. In and out.

This is probably where you expect me to tell you that I took a few bites of ice cream and didn’t really want the rest. Hell no. I ate that entire damn pint of ice cream and felt proud, tossing the empty container in the trash and returning to my regularly scheduled programming. No guilt, no shame, and definitely no binge. The fear I’d harbored over a silly container of ice cream melted away pretty quickly.

I faced my fear, eating one of my most coveted binge foods without losing control. Even with my body getting accustomed to the medication, I had the power to say no. In recovery, it’s easy to live your life afraid of some foods. It’s so easy to give these foods more power over you than they’re meant to have. At the end of the day, it’s only food, and you still have choices.

Stop Fearing Recovery

Recovery may only be eight letters, but we all know that some of the shortest words can be the scariest, especially when they imply a lifetime as someone else. And that’s what recovery is—you’re giving up a large part of who you are, because you know that it no longer serves you. You’ll see countless motivational speakers trying to tell you that you’re not giving up anything, that the disorder isn’t a part of you.

We know they’re wrong. Bulimia, anorexia, binge eating disorder…they all become a part of us in some way. They become so engrained in our personalities that our disorder is a part of us, and because of that, recovery can sound terrifying. Recovery says that we’re going to be someone different, for the rest of our lives, forever. Recovery implies that we will never turn around, never look back.

That makes your disorder angry, doesn’t it? It makes it feel trapped, it makes it cling to you. A few days without a binge, sure, even your disorder knows that you can take a break for a few days and still come back. But going into recovery? Getting rid of the problem for good? That sends panic signals to your brain. Your disorder starts reminding you of all that you’re losing, like late night binges in your car that lead to hidden wrappers and a bloated stomach. A proud growling in your stomach until you give in for your first meal around 5pm.

Faced with being taken out with the trash, your disorder will fight tooth and nail to be able to keep its grip on you. It will always make it seem like you aren’t ready for such a big commitment. It will say, with the holidays coming, now is not the time. You’ve got too much going on in your life to give me up right now, but I promise we’ll go back to this next month. It will hold on to you until you’re 100% ready—and you will never be 100% ready.

Stop thinking of recovery as a lifetime process. Stop looking at this eight letter word like it’s going to change everything, and start looking at it like it really is: one day of change at a time. The thought of waking up one day and choosing to never be the same as you were every day before that is daunting, and it makes recovery seem nearly impossible. This thinking process also makes it seem like any step backwards means you have to restart your journey. When you plan to never ever binge/purge again in the history of forever, a slip up makes you feel like you failed majorly and have to completely begin anew.

Day by day. Every day, start new. Every day, focus on beating your disorder that day and only that day. Do not worry about tomorrow. Do not worry about being able to hold back from a binge on Christmas or next weekend or anytime but today.

When you only have today to worry about, recovery seems a little less terrifying.

11 Days Binge Free

Today is the last month of 2016, and it is the first month of the year that I have not binged in. I’m sitting in the middle of day 11 binge free, and the feeling associated with recovery have been coming and going pretty quickly.

One minute, I’m absolutely thrilled that I haven’t binged. It’s almost a disbelief. The longest I’ve gone without a binge this year, prior to the current stretch, was about a week. It was usually cyclical, starting with my promise to do better this time and quickly spiraling into an attempted cheat day turned full on binge. The next day, I’d be right back to trying to be better.

Every week. All year. For every year of my adult life. From hoarding food in my college dorm and eating it all while my roommates were in class to taking the long way home from work to be able to stop at two or three different fast food places. So you can imagine my surprise when I’ve gone an entire eleven days.

You can also imagine my fear. It seems too good to be true. Usually, when I start getting too confident or too comfortable, the disorder rears its head and I’m suddenly catapulted back to rock bottom. It always happens when I let my guard down, and I’m afraid that’s what I’m doing now. Being fully recovered and never binging again has always been my goal—but I’ve never been able to imagine what it actually feels like.

So far, it feels less guilty. To be fair, I haven’t had any strong, compulsive urges to binge yet. I believe my new prescription for Prozac has taken most of those urges away, along with a large portion of my appetite. But, in most instances, my binges start with a gnawing urge that almost immediately gives in to action, because I always seemed to give up so easily. I would stuff myself, and then the guilt would begin. The guilt, the disgust, the promises—I haven’t had to deal with any of those for eleven whole days.

The thought to binge has crossed my mind, but I don’t even think I can call it an urge. Once something becomes a habit for so long, your brain becomes stuck in those patterns of thinking. So many months of driving through Wendy’s on my way home from work has left me staring at the sign while I drive past it. I don’t want to binge, but I wonder if I’m capable.

The hardest thing to do was not to stop binging, but to stop dieting. I can remember dieting as far back as fifth grade, and it has always been a big part of my life. There have always been the foods I can’t have, and the foods I can have. But this past week and a half has been a pretty consistent mix of “good” and “bad” foods. I have not lost control. I have not thought, “How much more of this can I eat?” I have not eaten in secret.

I’m still wary of the whole recovery process. Some that I’ve spoken to say that I “cheated” by using medication, but I suppose I never really saw recovery as a competition to begin with. My goal is to take this process day by day, celebrating each new day without a binge. Already, I know the urges will come back at some point, and I think that’s a good thing. I’m expecting them, and I’m ready.

Maybe the best part of not thinking I’m fully recovered is that I won’t be caught off guard.

How little can I eat to save money?

Cutting down on spending takes on a whole new meaning when you already gave up on shopping trips, nights out to dinner, weekend getaways, and impulse buys when you first moved out of your parents house. Like most millennials, I’m already working far more than most baby boomers assume I am, and the overtime well at work just ran dry. So when my boyfriend and I decided to take the next step in securing our future and buy a house, we decided that some things just had to go.

Sadly, neither of us are big spenders as it is. We’ve had some good buys and fun nights out over our relationship, but between our natural inclination to be homebodies and our lower middle class salaries, cutting out spending turned into cutting out essentials.

I walked into the grocery store with two twenty dollar bills. My goal was to get enough food to last me the next two weeks. To some of you, this is a common goal. To me, it was a short term challenge. I knew that, soon after purchasing our home, our finances would level out again and I would be back to buying red raspberries and gluten free mac and cheese every time I went to the store.

I left the store with four apples, cans of tuna, some discounted Rice-a-roni, a bag of frozen chicken nuggets that would get me a great gas discount, some protein bars, and a stack of frozen meals that only cost 88 cents each. $38.72. I was proud.

Saving money quickly turned into a battle with my eating disorder. For the first time in months, I’m eight days binge-free. Being in recovery from an eating disorder that’s controlled your life for eight years is a beautiful, hopeful feeling. But as I began pinching pennies to save money for my sort-of dream house, I realized that the less I ate, the longer my food lasted, and the more money I saved.

Today, I ate an apple, a quest bar, and one of my frozen meals with 180 calories. Hardly an “anorexic relapse,” but I left work feeling accomplished. I started thinking that, maybe, saving money could make me lose weight too, because everything in my life eventually leads back to me hoping to lose weight.

The scariest part of this is that I’m not quite sure where this blog post goes. I don’t have some grand message for anyone because, like I said, this was today. I’m not sure tomorrow will be any different. All I’m hoping is that this continues to be what I thought it would: a short term challenge.

My Psych Hospital Forgot Me

About a year ago, my doctor accepted my desperate plea to be referred to a psychologist. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, exactly. Someone to talk to, medication, or even just someone to admit that I had a problem. Whatever it was, I didn’t get it.

I got wait listed. That’s when you sit in a small, warm office room and tell your secrets to someone you’ve just met that has a few letters behind their name to prove that they can be trusted. The stranger asks questions and listens, and you tell him about seven years with an eating disorder and the nights that you just lay on the floor and cry. You tell the stranger with the letters behind his name all of these things, and then he tells you that it’s not actually as bad as it seems. And then your name gets put on the bottom of a long list of people with problems much worse than yours.

And then they forget to call you. For six months. Concerned that I had been forgotten about, I called the doctor that had made the referral, who said he couldn’t do a thing. Then I called the hospital that I had been referred to, who promised that I was still on the list and they would get to me soon.

Nearly a year after my initial appointment, I wandered into the ER and, starting to cry, told them that I was “close to suicidal.” It wasn’t a lie. That led to a very long four hours. I told my story over and over, first to the receptionist, then the triage nurse. I repeated it to the security guard that escorted me back to their Crisis Stabilization Unit-it seemed like overkill, the whole “armed guard” situation-and then a CSU nurse and tech, ER Doc, and counselor. By time I got to the counselor, I was out of tears and sick of telling people why they should care when someone with paranoid schizophrenia was in the next room, screaming at the top of his lungs.

I was just a sad girl that couldn’t control herself around food.

As the counselor soon told me, I was a sad girl that had been forgotten about. He told me that I had been on the list, and I’d even been assigned to a psychiatrist. Said psychiatrist then left the hospital, and all of the patients on his list were just forgotten.

The long four hours ended with a prescription for Prozac and two appointments, one for a counselor and one for a psychiatrist. The tech also handed me a list of eating disorder treatment resources in my area as I walked out.

I work for a hospital system. I know how, even when your business is healing the sick and caring for people, you will do anything to cover your ass. So I smiled kindly when my counselor told me that he stuck his neck out for me, but I knew that, after being lost in the system for a year, they were obligated to fix their mistake.

Long story short, tomorrow starts treatment, for depression and anxiety and binge eating disorder; all the words that showed up on the top of my intake sheet became a prescription in less than a day. But maybe a month’s worth of Prozac isn’t enough to make me forget that I had told the kind man with letters behind his name that I was already so close to wanting to kill myself, and then he forgot about me.

My feminism is motherhood.

I had an interview for a new ambulance company last week. It was one of the first interviews I’ve done in quite awhile, and I’ve got to admit that I went in incredibly unprepared. There was no googling common interview questions and preparing answers, no scanning through Forbes’ website to see what the wealthy look for when they’re interviewing prospective employees.
There was, however, a two minute pause while I attempted to come up with my best strengths for the interviewer. I can’t even brag about myself well. The majority of the interview was spent pulling answers out of my ass and thinking about how much I needed to pee.
One question stuck out to me, though. I was interviewing for a paramedic position—nothing special or out of the ordinary. For those of you that don’t know, paramedics have a fairly high turnover rate due to rapid burnout and abysmal pay. For someone that functions somewhere between a glorified babysitter and a mobile nurse, we don’t get paid shit.
The interviewer asked me what my future plans were. This was one of the easier questions, and I immediately began rattling off the most socially accepted answer. I’m currently taking prerequisites for nursing school and hope to become an ER nurse. The interviewer smiled and congratulated me and we quickly moved on.
My cookie cutter answer is not what my future plans are. Can you even call them plans when they’re more of a pipe dream? A fire department would be lovely, PA school would be the best option if only I could find the time, money or patience. But even these aren’t my future plans. A career isn’t really in my plans, to be honest.
My plans involve little faces and swollen feet. Helping my oldest make toast for breakfast and kissing my husband goodbye as he goes to work. Teaching my babies to read, to grow carrots, to feed chickens and collect eggs. Learning how to make soap with a baby on my hip and bread in the oven.
My plans involve going on adventures with the little ones in the woods, collecting leaves and rocks and anything else they find exciting. My plans involve dogs, and chickens, and maybe goats if I can manage it. A few acres in the middle of nowhere with a few tiny foreheads to kiss at the end of each day before climbing into bed with the man of my dreams.
I’m 21, and none of my plans in my life are set in stone—save one. Family is my biggest plan, the only one I refuse to waiver on. My biggest dream in life is to be a mother to my husband’s children, and raise them in a way my own mother—a small business owner—never had the opportunity to. I dream of raising them on a small piece of land with trees to climb and lawns to run through. To be a mother sounds like the most exciting adventure.
Socially, this really isn’t acceptable. As the only girl in my extended family, I’ve been raised to believe that my only life choice is college, a career, and then a family when I have time. My parents always had big plans for me, and I love them for that. I’ve never even thought to share my life’s ambition with other women my age, who will most likely gasp at how “anti-feminist” I truly am. Sometimes, it almost feels embarrassing to admit that my biggest life goal is digging in a garden while my kids chase frogs.

To me, and for my life, there’s no greater ambition than to raise the next generation of thinkers. To have the power to teach my sons that they’re allowed to show emotion and be loving, to raise my daughters to know that they’re just as competent, intelligent, and worthy as any man. To teach all my children to love nature, take care of the earth, and to give to others as much as possible. Mothers and fathers are given a unique opportunity to teach little people what is right and wrong, and I look forward to that chance.
We’ve created a culture that’s gone from one extreme to another, and each extreme just keeps demanding women to fit into a certain box. Feminism means we get to break out of that box, but what if I’m perfectly comfortable sitting in my little box, as long as the door is open? Feminism doesn’t have to be about being a strong, independent woman—although there’s no reason I can’t be that even as a wife and mother. Being a feminist is completely about the right to choose whatever makes you happy in your life, and I’m lucky enough to know exactly what will make me happy.

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