For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a writer. Not professionally, but in quiet moments in my room, on airplanes, and in birthday cards. I got a degree in English Lit, which for
Loving yourself is a challenge on the best of days, let alone in the midst of loss and grief. And let’s get real right quick—grief is fucking everywhere. It’s in the shitty stuff like death,
“Why can’t we just get wrinkles, have zits, and fucking live?”
I realized I’d been carrying around a heavy idea about my self-worth: I was not worthy or beautiful without makeup.
The most important thing I’ve learned is that you must not let anyone try to convince you that your mental illness isn’t valid. You are not alone.
Like any nutritionist would tell you, we can’t eat every food item we see and expect to feel awesome later.
I was 11 years old the first time I noticed my thighs. I fixated on their size, the way they squished together when I walked. I loathed them.
The moon and the woman’s cycle reflect one another, a powerful reminder than feminine energy is cyclical rather than linear…