For months, I told myself it was harmless. I followed the account because its posts were clever, aesthetically pleasing, and just personal enough to feelβ¦
Before I lived with a rabbit, I thought boundaries were mostly verbal. They were sentences I could rehearse, explain, and defend: βI need space,β βPlease donβtβ¦
The songs I listen to when depression tries to win are rarely the brightest or most polished tracks in my library. They are the ones that make space forβ¦
I did not discover feminism in a classroom or through a perfectly written manifesto. I found it in television bedrooms, pop songs, magazine interviews, movieβ¦
For years, I thought my reactions were evidence that something was wrong with my personality. I apologized too quickly, scanned rooms for changes in peopleβsβ¦
Some of my hardest days did not look dramatic from the outside. I answered messages with a heart emoji, showed up where I was expected, and made coffee whileβ¦
Sexual assault recovery rarely follows the clean sequence people imagine. There may be shock, anger, numbness, grief, relief, confusion, and long stretchesβ¦
For a long time, my body felt like a problem I was expected to solve. I treated every reflection, photograph, and item of clothing as evidence in a caseβ¦
For years, anxiety made me feel like an inconvenience before I had even said anything. I apologized for needing a quieter room, extra time, reassurance, or aβ¦
For a long time, I treated my bisexuality like a question I was supposed to answer correctly. I searched for certainty in old crushes, current relationships,β¦