reframing femininity
“The Woman in Red” can mean many things in our culture. She can be the woman that bears the shame of cultural stigmatization that comes with being female and feminine. The biologically associated monthly “red” cycle that reminds her that she is female. This cycle at various points in history was so stigmatized that some…
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*The following is posted in honor of National Slavery and Human Trafficking Prevention Month. This post includes words that may be triggering for some trauma survivors. What comes to your mind when you see a woman standing on a corner alone, under the glow of a street lamp? Close your eyes for a moment.
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You know you have an internal critic when your therapist tells you that you have an “Integrated Self” and a “Critical Self.”
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The world’s intoleranceTo bear witnessTo the great sufferingWithin her sphereIncreasingly weighs upon meFor I have much to tellAnd no one who will hear
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“Can I watch Joy’s movie, Mama?” “Joy’s movie?” “Yeah! The yellow lady with the blue hair!” Frantically searching my memory bank for the missing puzzle pieces, I stare confusedly into space until a bright light blinks into existence above my head. “Aha! Joy! You mean Inside Out.” My sweet boy, with swollen eyes and a…
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The truth is like a lion: let it loose and it will defend itself. —Saint Augustine Autumn leaves crunch under my feet like a forbidden Kit Kat bar. And yet I keep walking—far away from the noise of the day. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to feel. I want to heal. Scars on…
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“If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one.” – Spotlight “The vocal minority” is a common, troubling saying we have in America. I’d like to explore the other side of the coin: the silent majority. As a society, we’re unable to hold suffering or the reality of atrocities committed…
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The day was gray and the air was colder than expected for early November in Ohio. The rain was beginning to turn to snow, making the street and sidewalks slick. My great-great-great-grandmother Franny, her daughter Nettie, and her 23-year-old granddaughter Vivi (my great-grandma) stood side by side trying to keep warm as they waited in line…
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The wounded healer arrives on the scene not a moment too soon or too late. She is ready and anchored in the flow of love to lean into the other’s deep pain. She heals with her eyes, her heart, and her hands, using words of comfort and care. She knows how it feels to be…
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I stepped on the downtown pavement for the first time in months, surrounded by masked bodies holding make-shift cardboard signs with words written in paint or permanent marker, saying things like, “I CAN’T BREATHE,” or “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE,” or “SAY HIS NAME—GEORGE FLOYD.”
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