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I have downloaded, deleted and redownloaded Hinge numerous times, as many of us have. I met a range of people there, and went on a fair number of dates. Towards the latter half of 2019, I matched with a boy who seemed to check all the boxes for me. He was a feminist—or at least called himself one—and was interested in learning about the wider debates surrounding being one. At the time, I didn’t mind the task of educative labor. He was a law student in the same building where I studied liberal arts. We met for coffee one day and he ended up coming over afterwards to unbox my new laptop with me. We met again whenever we could for dates at bookstores, cafes and the other usual cliché places. Since he stayed with his parents, most of the time he would come to my house if we weren’t going out.A few days after we had agreed to become a couple and had both uninstalled Hinge, he invited me over while his family was out. We ended up making out, and eventually we were both naked, which was normal for us. Suddenly, he penetrated my vagina with his fingers. It was not expected, not something he asked me about before doing and not something I had anticipated. He knew about my hypersensitivity and repulsion around the act. We had had extensive conversations, and I had made him aware of my history of abuse and my general discomfort with sexual contact—specifically my anxiety around intercourse, or broadly, about any contact with my vagina. The fact that this was the first time, or that I had consented to something else, didn’t matter. This was rape.When he inserted his fingers, I recoiled, closed my body and started crying. I did not know why, and the physical pain from being unprepared for his touch was only a part of the reason. I put on my clothes, he apologized and after some time, I left. I apologized profusely for the way I reacted and blamed myself for my hypersensitive nature.

He blocked me without responding.

How I Realized I Was Raped

We continued to date for around two months, until we broke up around New Year’s. He ended the relationship because he believed that my activism did not allow me to center around his presence. I believed that the relationship was only a part of my life. The instance of rape was only a part of the larger pattern of problematic behaviors that he took part in, all while claiming to be a feminist and having his every sexist action dismissed as a “mistake,” owing to a lack of awareness. There were several instances of such actions that made me uncomfortable, like when he flicked my nipple when we were just sitting around. All of these actions made me uncomfortable, and I constantly told him why they were wrong, or simply that they made me uncomfortable, and in a relationship between two people, that is not acceptable.After several months of processing, I began to understand the gaslighting within the relationship and understand what had happened to me. I wanted to speak out, and most importantly, I wanted to tell him that he was wrong. I had come to understand the rape as rape, and realized that it was not my fault for crying or reacting the way I did. I was only able to understand and process the rape because of friends around me who were willing to call a spade a spade and not sugarcoat it or allow me weaker defenses. They affirmed me and told me that I had been raped, which was in some ways empowering and better than the dismissive attitude with which I had been treating myself. I unblocked him and messaged him about to tell him that what had happened was rape—that he had raped me. He blocked me without responding.

I’m Not an Ideal Victim, but That Shouldn’t Matter

I had reinstalled Hinge at this point, but with the lockdown happening, I wasn’t really using it. Around this time, a new #MeToo wave began, and a student from his college was spearheading a campaign in which she was publicly naming aggressors from the law school. I spoke to friends and asked them to share screenshots in which I described in excruciating detail what I had gone through. A few friends questioned me for different reasons. What if he takes legal action for posting these stories? (He could not, given the laws of the country we were in. Action could only be taken against the primary author, which was me.) They told me that it didn’t sound like rape, or that the act wasn’t violent enough, and pointed out that he stopped when I pulled away. Of course, by legal definition, I was raped, because there was a lack of consent, and consent for one action does not imply consent for another. But suddenly I was put in an uncomfortable position of being asked to prove my abuse, which I could not do.I approached the activist student who had started the campaign and asked her to share the screenshots as well. She agreed to do that, expressed her sympathy, solidarity and called him out for being “pseudo-woke.” The screenshots in question contained details of most of what I had gone through with him, including the gaslighting and other sexist behaviors. Despite all of this, she messaged me after posting the stories and asked me what exactly happened. I was in a frenzy myself and did not really understand how this kind of calling out worked. I told her everything that happened and shared screenshots of my conversations with him from the day of the incident. The screenshots were of me apologizing profusely for the way I had reacted. He and I had spoken mostly in person about the rest of it.She immediately took back her unconditional support and told me that this made it seem like a completely different story, that I had not been completely up front. She told me that she was scared as well because he was threatening legal action. She took down the stories and posted something that was in his defense, basically stating that every story has two sides and the “facts must come out.”I was not an ideal victim, and therefore I was not worthy of support or being completely and unapologetically included in her campaign. She added the story to her Instagram highlights, where it stayed for about two months until I had her take it down in August.

I was blocked from the platform, and still do not have access to my account.

Hinge Kicked Me Off, but Let Him Stay

The “legal action” he chose to take against me was to report my account on Hinge, which I only realized much later because I wasn’t using the app. He publicly and privately threatened legal action in a desperate attempt to prove his own innocence, which fed into his “woke feminist” persona that people willingly accepted. I was blocked from the platform, and still do not have access to my account. I was removed from a public space for not keeping quiet about what I had to go through. A rapist is allowed to continue using the app, while I have been blocked.When I requested my account be restored, Hinge sent me an elaborate process to have the request further reviewed and maybe restore the account. A rape survivor has to jump through hurdles after a harrowing experience because dating apps lack any substantial or policy or actual mechanism of dealing with such instances. Simply put, for a space like Hinge, calling out rape seems to be worse than actual rape.

I write to explain the heartfelt reasons why I signed on to a recent bill that criminalizes abortion even in extreme cases such as rape and incest.Prior to delving into this polemic topic, I want to emphasize that this decision was not an easy one, and emotions run high on all sides of the discussion concerning abortion. It is a sensitive topic that requires the utmost respect and dignity, and I recognize that my decision is likely to cause some of my constituents to experience pain and distress. However, when faced with such a precarious decision as the right to life, sometimes we are forced to choose the lesser of two evils. In this case, I strongly feel that protecting life at all costs is the better option even if it means forcing women to give birth to babies conceived under horrific circumstances.

This decision was not easy.

Why Abortion Is Wrong

Initially, upon considering whether I would support this bill or not, I was called a murderer for even considering the other side of the argument. My fellow constituents and I really deliberated how we would vote, as we aimed to put aside any biases we may have in an effort to represent those who put us in office—as we are obliged to do so.Thus, when asked to write this piece, know that I’m now coming from a place where I have people writing me to exclaim how they will rape my daughter so that I too can understand what it means to “need” an abortion.When I sat down to consider my decision, I started out by asking two fundamental questions: “As We, the People of the United States of America, who are we and what values do we hold dear?” Immediately, my mind went to the words of our Founding Fathers who believed that all humans were entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The first of the three inalienable rights is none other than the right to life. The founders of our nation had a clear vision for its future, and they viewed the right to life as essential and undeniable.But, what does abortion do? Clearly, abortion serves to deny people the right to life. It is particularly problematic because it ends, prematurely, an innocent baby’s life while still forming in the mother’s womb. As a society that is built on the notion that life is sacred and each person is inherently awarded the right to it, it seems woefully unethical and downright anti-American to allow a procedure to continue to be legal which contradicts the most basic of human rights. If I were to support an abortion bill and not sign into law a mandate that makes the procedure illegal, what would I be saying about the basic rights guaranteed in our Constitution? In my humble opinion, I would be breaking my oath to uphold the Constitution and protect the most vulnerable among us had I not supported this bill. I would be culpable of being unfaithful to my nation, its people, and the values the Constitution represents.

I was called a murderer for even considering the other side.

Eugenics and Racism Are Two Reasons to Be Pro-Life

Next, I researched the groups that funded and supported the pro-abortion movement in the United States and organizations that make money from providing these procedures to vulnerable women. Sadly, Planned Parenthood, the number one provider of abortions in the United States, has despicable origins and a highly disturbing past (Primrose 167). Most notably, it was founded by Margaret Sanger who, among other unfavorable characteristics, was renowned for being a racist (Primrose 165). Particularly, she despised people of color and wanted to exterminate the Black population because she viewed its members as inferior to white people (Shimabukuro and Lewis 7).It is not surprising that a disproportionate number of Black women opt to have abortions through Planned Parenthood largely because they are targeted by the organization. It is not a coincidence that Planned Parenthood clinics are overwhelmingly located in poor, urban, Black neighborhoods (Tatalovich, Daynes, and Lowi 25). Part of the company’s business model is to target its services towards poor, urban women who are mostly of color, thereby fulfilling the agenda of its founder. The number of innocent Black lives that have been prematurely ended due to abortion is staggering.The highly controversial and downright disgusting history of abortion in America and Planned Parenthood raises many moral and ethical red flags and makes me uneasy to say the least. It seems that abortion in the United States is directly linked with eugenics and ethnic cleansing. Any time questions of ethnic cleansing or eugenics come into play, we must ask ourselves if this is a path we really want to go down. For me, the answer is clear: I do not want to support any organization or procedure that is grounded in racism and eugenics and, therefore, I cannot continue to support abortion or Planned Parenthood. I would hope my fellow colleagues would come to the same decision as well.

Abortion is a way for people to do what they want.

Abortion Simply Does Not Represent America

I also took into careful consideration the direction our nation is headed. It seems to me that we are no longer a nation of values and ethics; we are slipping away from our roots as a people who work hard and take ownership of our successes and failures. We, as the people of the United States, have lost our commitment to human decency and ethical, family-focused and community-minded behavior. These norms have been replaced with a lack of respect for the human body, unprecedented freedom of sex and sexuality, and an utter dismissal of personal responsibility. People no longer feel that they are responsible for their actions, and many people are unwilling to deal with the consequences of their decisions. This leaves single motherhood rates skyrocketing, sexual disease rates in the U.S. at an all-time high, and societal impacts that cannot be measured which damage our communities.Abortion is, in my estimation, a way for people to do what they want without recognizing the obligations and responsibilities that come with their choices. This is a terrible worldview, and the thought-process is not one that we should be proud to pass on to our children. If we allow this train to continue down the track it is headed, it will negatively impact all our decisions on the individual, community, societal, national and international levels, and make us a country without values and personal accountability. This is not the future I want for our children. And it is one that is doomed to fail.

I Didn’t Vote Pro-Life to Attack Women, I Did It to Protect Life

In response to my decision to sign this bill, my family and I have had threats against our lives. Again, I recognize this is a hard pill for many people to swallow and may seem like an attack on women, but I assure you it is anything but that. It is, actually, a way to honor and protect women—and men—from conception until their natural death. Despite the pushback my family and I have received, I would not change my decision even if I could. Instead, I want to help to create a future that values the fundamental rights of all people to include the unborn. I want to live in a nation that does not allow racist, eugenics-based policies, organizations and procedures to thrive. I want to raise my family in a world where people take ownership of their actions and are committed to personal responsibility.These visions for the future require me to make tough decisions that are likely not going to be popular with some of my constituents. Particularly, I am forced to take the right action and support my colleagues in ending the barbaric practice of abortions. I hope that, with time, society recognizes how wrong it has been to allow abortion to go on for as long as it has. It is my wish that we learn from our mistakes and view them as lessons for the future. It is my earnest dream that we become a nation that truly upholds the Founding Fathers’ ideal that all people, including the unborn, are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Works Cited

Primrose, Sarah. "The Attack on Planned Parenthood: A Historical Analysis." UCLA Women's LJ 19 (2012): 165-192.Shimabukuro, Jon O., and Karen J. Lewis. Abortion: Judicial History and Legislative Response. Congressional Research Service, 2015.Tatalovich, Raymond, Byron W. Daynes, and Theodore J. Lowi. Moral Controversies in American Politics. Routledge, 2014.U.S. Constitution. Preamble. 1776.

Digital nomads are all the rage these days, and many find their way to Cusco, Peru. It’s a beautiful, complicated city, and I love it. I don’t love how so many of us expats take advantage of the privilege we have as foreigners here and how little we integrate into the local community. Many of us move to Cusco speaking little, if any, Spanish. We certainly don’t speak Quechua, the first language of most people who live in Cusco. We make friends with other foreigners and patronize restaurants with English menus. We look down on tourists because we live here, even though we know as little about the local culture as the tourists who only visit for a few days.Language is not the only thing that separates us from integrating into local communities. We congregate in the bohemian and upscale, modern neighborhoods of Lima, Cusco and other cities. We live in some of the nicest apartments and homes but complain about how poorly they are built. Usually, our neighbors are other expats, and the only Peruvians we interact with in our homes are landlords, house cleaners and delivery people.I moved to Cusco three years ago but visited Peru several times as a tourist over 10 years before moving. I’ve romanticized the place as much as most foreigners—I’ve been swept up in the Andes' beauty and the Inca's mysteries. But after everything I’ve subsequently learned about Peru’s colonial history, I’m much more cynical about these “mysteries.” They are really just gaps in history where the Spanish conquistadors destroyed as much evidence of Inca civilization and culture as they could. Now I wonder how much my presence in Peru perpetuates the destruction of indigenous cultures and what responsibility I bear.

I wonder how much my presence in Peru perpetuates the destruction of indigenous cultures.

There Is a Lot of Hypocrisy About Authentic Indigenous Culture

If you have a job, Peru has a relatively easy path to becoming a permanent resident. The process can take as little as two months. Few of us work for Peruvian companies, though; we prefer to start our own companies and employ each other. Some of us even make up fake companies so we can sponsor ourselves. This usually takes longer than two months, sometimes up to a year. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heard an expat complain bitterly about how long the paperwork takes. It always makes me wonder how long it would take for a Peruvian to do the same in North America or Europe.Whether we have a real or a fake job, most expats come to Peru to escape the rat race. There are people from all walks of life in our home countries who move to Peru for inspiration and to be creative. We make art and teach yoga. We write books to publish back home and design clothing few Peruvians could afford to buy. We sell to tourists at outrageous prices while competing with Peruvians who can’t market their products at half the price because they don’t have the cachet of a degree in design from Europe or the language skills to do a smooth sales pitch in English.What irks me the most are our contradictory and hypocritical views on indigenous culture. Sure, a minority of us take the time to understand and appreciate Peru’s many indigenous cultures. Still, for the majority, connecting with indigenous culture happens in highly contrived ayahuasca ceremonies. Ayahuasca is a hallucinogenic potion made of plants from the Amazon, though, oddly, Cusco, high in the mountains, has been marketed most as the place to try ayahuasca.Ayahuasca ceremonies are led by Peruvian shamans for foreign clients, though I have also seen foreigners market themselves to lead the ceremonies. Regardless of the actual training or knowledge of the shaman, thousands of tourists every year naively pay hundreds of dollars for an “authentic” ayahuasca experience with a shaman. Those of us who are critical of ayahuasca shamans and ceremonies have our own kind of elitism to contend with. Who are we to say that a Peruvian who leads an ayahuasca ceremony isn’t authentic? Who are we to judge a Peruvian who is using the knowledge they have to sell an experience to tourists? Whether that’s an experience hiking in the Andes or taking ayahuasca in the Sacred Valley, who are we to judge what is and isn’t authentic for Peruvians in their country?The debate I hear from expats always frames indigenous practices around authenticity, which is problematic in so many ways. The word “authentic” itself is troublesome, according to Curiosity magazine. “The meaning of authentic is ‘of undisputed origin; genuine.’ But, like ‘real,’ anything can be authentic in a way. ‘Authentic’ can also come across as condescending.” Unfortunately, that condescending tone is what comes across the most when I hear expats decry ayahuasca ceremonies as inauthentic.

Many Expats Exploit Their Race and Status in Peru

So many of us move to Peru because we are inspired by the country, the history and the culture. We say we are in Peru to learn Andean spiritualism and connect with the Pachamama, a Quechua word that can be translated as “Mother Earth.” We claim to value Peruvian culture, but only if that culture fits our idealized image of indigeneity. As soon as people profess to be Catholic, we turn away and say that they aren’t authentic.I’m not trying to paint myself as innocent in all this. I scammed the immigration system with a fake business. I do ayahuasca ceremonies in the Sacred Valley, near Cusco, because I don’t like the heat and the bugs in the jungle. I visit Andean communities and feel disappointed when I see signs of the church. Of the other four apartments in my building, only one has a Peruvian living in it, and she’s married to a guy from Europe.I pat myself on the back because at least I speak Spanish. I have a few Peruvian friends, but my expat friends far outnumber the locals. I like to think that I’m less hypocritical than the average expat in Peru, but I know that the way I live still perpetuates a classist, racist society. Peru’s political and societal structures are still based on the colonial system set up to exploit the poor and extract wealth from the country to benefit foreign investors. Nothing I do in my daily life combats any of that. I rationalize that it’s not my country. Who am I to tell Peruvians how to change their government? At the same time, I’m benefiting from a system that was built for people like me to take advantage of indigenous people.

Am I just being a hypocrite like everybody else?

I’m Learning to Speak Out and Challenge Peru’s Racist Structures

If I were to return to North America, I would label myself progressive. I would say I was an anti-racist and look for ways to actually practice that. I would want to make a difference. In Peru, which also has a system built on racism, I shrug my shoulders and say that it’s not my place to change their society. I see police and security guards hassling indigenous women who come to Cusco to sell their textiles in the streets. I see light-skinned Peruvians barking orders at darker-skinned workers in restaurants and hotels. I know that there is much more abuse and racism that I don’t witness, simply because of how cut off I am from the local community.Is my privilege that different in Peru? Do I not bear some responsibility for using my privilege to be anti-racist and work towards equity, regardless of which country I happen to live in? Does being an expat give me any kind of pass, or am I just being a hypocrite like everybody else? I don’t have all the answers, but I know I’m not blameless in the face of inequality and racism. It’s time I step up and say something.

What is a woman? If it were up to me, society would spend less time trying to answer that question. But conservative pundits have recently turned the phrase into an inside joke on liberalism’s oversensitivity and radicalization. And although I am a woman first and foremost, I am also one who happens to be trans, so it’s my womanhood, in particular, that’s being called into question in public forums and private spaces when some troll smirkingly poses this question. Thankfully, other writers have already eloquently dismantled the transphobic arguments behind this trend, identifying why these pundits' simplistic answer to that question—“an adult female”—is not quite the common sense checkmate that they think it is. (TL;DR: Our knowledge of gender and language continues to evolve, and things are allowed to be complicated.) Therefore, I won’t take the time to dismantle what’s already a heap of junk. I’m here to argue that if we must spend time defining womanhood (so we can more effectively gatekeep it or whatever), then we should move away from the notion that such a construct is tied to physical or personal qualities. Because I’ve met dominant women and nurturing men—gals with shaved heads and raging libidos, and passive fellas with hair down to their calves. There are exceptions to all gendered qualities. But the only thing that every woman I know—trans and cis alike—has in common is being on the receiving end of misogyny.

When a stranger on the street wolf whistles at me, I can’t decide between flipping him the bird or flirtatiously winking back.

As a Trans Woman, Objectification and Sexualization Validates Me

An episode from season two of Netflix’s Sex Education poignantly illustrates this idea by throwing a gaggle of schoolgirls into detention and asking them to determine what binds them together as women. They bond over memories of sexual harassment and ultimately, soberingly, conclude that experiencing “nonconsensual penises” is the one thing they all have in common. As a trans woman who mostly passes, I understand this. I retain a certain privilege, in that I encounter less explicit transphobia from strangers in public, yet I simultaneously experience more of that specific flavor of misogyny that’s typically reserved for cis women. First comes objectification and sexualization. And then, when you fail to perform to their sexpectations, comes vitriol. But here’s where it gets confusing for me and other trans people. Because I (mostly) like being objectified and sexualized. Maybe it’s because Hollywood has only very recently begun to portray trans women as anything other than two-dimensional sex workers or the butt of jokes. Maybe it’s because I never thought of trans women as people who could be admired, romanced or lusted after. In fact, when I came out to one family member, she expressed worry that I may never find a husband. “I just don’t know any guys who would date a woman who…you know.” Yes, I did know. This was one of the many anxieties that I’d had to negotiate before deciding to transition. (Side note: Lots of guys date trans women—and even more fuck us.) So when a stranger on the street wolf whistles at me, I can’t decide between flipping him the bird or flirtatiously winking back. In a world that still devalues us, the fact is that trans women like me actually consider responding kindly to such dehumanizing objectification, because who else will ever want us? Most women will tell you that the safest thing to do is simply look down and walk fast, and so that’s what I’ve learned to do. It’s not the sexualization that vexes me—it’s the power dynamic, the “I can do anything I want to you because I’m a man and you’re a woman”-ness of the whole situation. Part of me celebrates when I’m treated like any other woman while another part bemoans the normalcy of such misogyny (*cough* society is a patriarchy *cough cough*).

Being Labeled as Emotional Seems to Be a Constant for Most Women, Trans or Not

Some trans people in online spaces have meme-ified this experience—“confusing euphoria,” they call it. It’s the same sensation that overwhelmed me last week when a stranger catcalled me. It’s the feeling that hits me nearly daily when a dude interrupts me to mansplain. And it’s that emotional cocktail that got my goat after a recent “Tinderaction.”I was texting with a Tinder Guy whom I hadn’t yet met. Big smile, big arms and big sarcasm to boot. Color me beguiled. Then, he asked if I was smooth. I furrowed my brow and typed, “Like my body? Yeah, I shave if that’s what you mean.” “Good,” he replied. “Cuz I’m only into women.” I restrained my anger and calmly informed him that many of my girlfriends had ditched their razors years ago, yet they remained (to my knowledge) women.He sent a vomiting emoji. I canceled our plans. In the misogynistic tirade that followed, he employed such classics as, “That’s childish,” “You’re so emotional,” and—my favorite—“I guess I know more than you.” (Don’t kids just say the darndest things?)I knew not to take any of these things to heart, yet two full days passed before my ire finally dissipated. This incident reminded me of fighting with my big brothers as a kid, and the way that any time my face betrayed emotion, my argument seemingly lost validity in their eyes. If I teared up or raised my voice, they discounted my words with stony expressions. To show emotion was to forfeit, and they had won. Every woman I know has dealt with this—a fact that complicated my frustration in the two days that followed, muddling it with discomfiting nuance. A man calling me hysterical was…kinda validating.

I’m exhausted from hiding the more unseemly phenomena of trans womanhood and now believe that remaining silent only enables patriarchy.

Trans Women Are Not Excluded From Misogyny

The fact that my big brothers and other men have played out this age-old dynamic with me since before I even came out as trans is particularly telling. The patriarchy tries to undermine women before they can come into their own. But I hesitated to even write about this. I believe the reason it’s not discussed more openly is that we trans women fear that some men will interpret this experience as added impetus to perpetuate misogynistic behavior. That’s really why I restrain myself from returning a catcall with a flirtatious wink: to protect my cis-ters.Hence the “confusing” in confusing euphoria. But I’m exhausted from hiding the more unseemly phenomena of trans womanhood and now believe that remaining silent only enables patriarchy. I should be able to say nuanced things without them being misinterpreted. As I said, things are allowed to be complicated.So when pundits point out my personal qualities as disqualifying me as a woman, I’ll simply shake my head and know that if anything makes someone a woman, it’s having to deal with this shit their whole life.

One day in early 2020, I asked the husky-voiced human resources manager at my final temp job if I could use the relaxation room, the one available to employees when they needed a break or to stop looking outside every 20 minutes.“Of course,” she told me before pulling the key out of a drawer in her desk. I followed her to a small, very empty room. She unlocked it and toggled the plastic light switch, illuminating the yellow and blue that decorated the space, along with a modest station to make tea, a small, cheap sofa and a recliner wrapped in plastic. A tissue box sat conspicuously by the recliner. The woman told me to take my time as she closed the door. I wondered for the tenth time how much older she was than me, how much farther she’d gotten in life despite only being maybe five years older, before I turned my attention to the chair.I sat down inside the plastic and almost immediately crumpled. I began to sob uncontrollably, the anxiety and despair overpowering my stomach, my body temperature, my senses. My grandmother had just died. My body was betraying me. Thanks to sleep apnea and racing thoughts, I hadn’t slept—or really rested—in weeks, if not months. I was often vomiting in the morning from the aftereffects of poor REM, and I still had no idea how to make any income beyond an endless string of temporary jobs since graduating in 2014. This nonprofit gig was more suited to my skills than a lot of assignments. Yet I couldn’t stand the tension and masking that came with any position in a cubicle: Doing bullshit busywork that made me feel like I was wasting my life, constantly modulating myself, masking to fit neurotypical standards.

I couldn’t stand the tension and masking that came with any position in a cubicle.

Many Work Environments Are Downright Hostile to People Who Are Neurodivergent

Neurodivergent individuals often have trouble with under- or unemployment and really with job satisfaction overall. It can be difficult to track the exact numbers, but one piece of data suggests 85 percent of autistic adults with degrees pre-pandemic were unemployed. Another from the University of Connecticut says the number of unemployed neurodivergent adults is 30 to 40 percent, which is incredibly high compared to neurotypicals. Neurodivergent and/or disabled people also tend to have trouble with job stability, good pay and work environments that are often unwittingly (or very intentionally) hostile and aren’t exactly accommodating. We often need more rest and time to recover from labor, conditions and spaces that are kind to our bodies and sensory inputs and time alone when we can’t really talk with other people. But most jobs are not exactly built to provide these needs.I can’t speak to the experience of all disabled humans. But as an autistic/ADHD person who was basically a factotum, constantly moving to various corporate skyscrapers, factories and warehouses just so I could grab a quick paycheck, I hated working in offices. I hated being away from my apartment and my comfort objects, hated pretending to work eight hours a day even when there was nothing to do (and hated actually working that much when it happened). I hated the dull, eerie drone of air conditioners and fluorescent lights hovering over beige walls and ceilings while I looked outside longingly. And I hated having to constantly mask around my co-workers, repressing anything controversial or weird in myself so I wouldn’t get strange looks or (gulp) get fired.None of the jobs I took required my English major, even as I wrote essays on the side. I knew I was smart, and secretly, arrogantly, I felt sometimes that I was too intelligent to be a temp forever. My interests meant I’d never care much about data entry or the more stressful administrative work I often picked up. I worked full time as an admin assistant at a prestigious dental school for a bit, but my then-undiagnosed ADHD meant I couldn’t get the exhaustive everyday tasks right, couldn’t stay organized. I quit after 10 months when I started having anxiety attacks at 6:30 a.m. and returned to temping.

I Was Able to Transition From an Office to Freelance Work

I didn’t know what to do. I felt I’d always be underpaid, always be dissatisfied, but I had no clue how to shift into a different career. When I turned 27, after years going back and forth between desperate inactivity and nine-to-five gigs, I began to feel a clock ticking inside of my chest cavity. It moved closer to some unknown due date with every new temp assignment, every job I didn’t fit into (I still have bitter feelings about the agency worker who sent me, an autistic with no experience in dealing with addicts, to a poorly managed rehab clinic), every panicky period of unemployment where I’d watch any money I’d made quickly dry up. I gained weight from an impulsive, poorly managed diet, which of course made the sleep apnea worse.Later, it felt as if my mind and body were trying to tell me something when I kept calling in sick at my final temporary role at a nonprofit. I’d puke uncontrollably in the morning, then go back to sleep, terrified about what was happening to me until my step-father’s sister, a nurse, suggested apnea. Sometimes, I’d just throw up and come into work anyway. I just knew something had to change.I can’t say the transition I made was exactly from hard work and gumption. Much of it was privilege. After years when my bank account was a joke, my grandfather sent my family and me some money, enough that I was able to quit my temp job and transition into freelance writing and editing full time. I got equipment to deal with sleep apnea, as well. I had to spend much of my savings to get through the pandemic, but I haven’t stepped into a cubicle since.

The pandemic revealed that working remotely from home was always an option, even when employers pretended it wasn’t.

Post-Pandemic, Working From Home Should Remain an Option for All Employees

Frankly, I don’t have words of wisdom to give other individuals on how to get out of the office. I was just lucky. But I can say from personal experience that working from home, for whatever disadvantages it has, simply suits my autistic/ADHD mind better than a nine-to-five office job. I can take breaks that don’t involve awkward chats with co-workers. I don’t have to pretend that I’m productive. I’m surrounded by a familiar space and can sit with my cat, and I can take a quick walk when I feel like I’m trapped inside. Best of all, I’m not in an environment that doesn’t stimulate me, and I can work according to my own limits. The pandemic revealed that working remotely from home was always an option, even when employers pretended it wasn’t, and this desperately needs to be part of our work habits from now on. Ultimately, the American office and American productivity standards don’t really fit with the needs of neurodivergent people, let alone disabled people. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to pay my bills or keep up my freelancing without another office gig, but I know I’m going to try and continue to work from a place where I feel safe, comfortable and uninhibited: home.

As an Irish Traveller, I have always been told to hide who I am—to hide a part of my life that people could, and would, judge me for. From a young age, my parents told my siblings and me that friends would treat us differently if they found out about our heritage. But why?When you’re 6 years old, you really don’t understand racism until it happens to you. As a white person, I’ve been protected my whole life by the color of my skin. Initially, when people meet me, they don’t harass me with racial abuse. It’s only when they learn of my heritage that their opinions begin to sway. I was heartbroken to read about two young Traveller boys who died after committing suicide due to racial bullying in Ireland this month. They were aged 9 and 13. Data from the Traveller Movement shows that Traveller individuals experienced a 6.6 times higher suicide rate when compared with non-Travellers. That statistic should worry anyone, but it is especially worrying to me, a Traveller.

The Decision About Whether to Hide Our Identity Is Painful

Despite being somewhat protected from direct racial discrimination, I know that my friends, colleagues and anyone I meet in life could judge me for my blood. Of course, I didn’t decide to be born into the family or world I was, yet I have to face the consequences of it. As individuals of a minority group, we have the challenge of understanding and protecting who we are. In our society, we should not have to fear that our identity will put ourselves or our children at risk. Until very recently, I hadn’t even considered if or how I would explain my heritage to my future children. That was, until I fell pregnant with my first child in December. They’re due to arrive in August, and I still have no idea how to approach the issue. I’ve been very fearful my whole pregnancy. With global increases in crime and an ongoing war crisis in Ukraine, it’s hard not to question the kind of world you’re bringing a baby into.On top of that, I know that my future children could potentially live under the same fear about who they are. How am I to raise them? Should I really be encouraging children to hide their identity in 2022? If I don’t, how do I keep them safe? Travellers and racial minority groups have a whole layer of questions to address purely because of bigoted, racist opinions.Again, I’d like to stress that I’m well aware of the rising and very public racial injustices all minority groups have felt in the past two years. But I can’t help but to highlight the difference when it comes to us Traveller and Romani people.

Until very recently, I hadn’t even considered if or how I would explain my heritage to my future children.

Travellers and Romani Are Vulnerable Minorities

I was probably around the age of 9 or 10 years old when I decided to tell my closest friend that I was a Traveller. That was the first time I ever felt different. I’m not sure whether it was because my parents had warned me about telling people for so long but it felt like this huge secret that no one knew about. Well, my parents had shielded me for a reason. From that moment onward, our friendship was never the same. She was distant. That hasn’t changed even as a 25-year-old adult. People are often shocked when I tell them that I’m a Traveller. Probably because I live in a house and don't have a big, fat wedding every month.In 2020, we saw public outcry across the globe as George Floyd was murdered while being detained by police. From that point, the Black Lives Matter movement saw a lot of support and coverage. The whole world seemed desperate for some kind of justice—and rightly so. Not just for Floyd’s murder but for the years and years of dehumanizing racism people of color have faced worldwide. Fast-forward to 2021. The British comedian Jimmy Carr released his newest comedy material on Netflix called Jimmy Carr: His Dark Material. Within the special, he makes a joke about finding the positives in the Holocaust. Don’t worry, though, his joke wasn’t attacking the Jews. No, he was only targeting the Gypsy, Traveller and Sinti community, which received laughs from the audience. I can only imagine how different the response would have been had he said the positive part of the Holocaust was the millions upon millions of Jewish victims who were slaughtered.Instead, he joked that it was brilliant news that over 500,000 Roma and Sinti victims were brutally murdered. Of course, there was total uproar from the community and external supporters. But our community received nothing. No apology or justice. In fact, we Travellers just had to face yet another round of racist comments online. I don’t believe any individuals are more or less deserving of support or assault based on their demographics alone. But society does. I can’t help but think, and know, that had Carr’s joke disregarded another minority group, he would have been called out. The show may have been canceled. He may have had to apologize. It would have been taken more seriously.

People are often shocked when I tell them that I’m a Traveller. Probably because I live in a house and don't have a big, fat wedding every month.

We Cannot Turn Our Backs on Anti-Traveller Racism

As Travellers, we should not fear for our children’s lives. We should not have to worry that they may be killed or harm themselves because of their race, heritage and identity. And as a society, we cannot be ignorant of the severity of racism that Travellers and Roma individuals face daily. You should be outraged when you hear discriminatory remarks made toward people of color, disabled individuals or LGBTQ+ people. But you should also feel the same anger when those remarks are made to a Traveller. You cannot accept racism toward some groups and not others. Racism is an issue that has been going on for far longer than we can imagine, and I don’t have all the answers. I cannot find the solution alone, unfortunately, to a very well-integrated part of our society. All I know is that I’m tired. I’m so tired of fighting for any kind of space in this world. We should not have to fight to be who we are—nobody should. Black lives matter. Asian lives matter. Queer lives matter. We all matter.

My father and his brother got married a week apart. Soon after, they both left North Africa with their new wives in search of a better life and new opportunities.While my uncle managed to win the green card lottery, my father managed to get a job in a Southern African country he knew nothing about. Still, after packing some bags filled with molokhia (mallow leaves used to make a traditional soup) and okra, my parents made their way to a new country with nothing but optimism. My mother had never been on an airplane, let alone left her hometown. She was nervous saying goodbye to her family, knowing she might not see them until a few years later, if ever again. But she was excited to see a new place and start afresh with her husband. In the years that followed, our family and my uncle’s family shared letters and infrequent long-distance phone calls to and from the United States. They had a child and my parents had me, and they would often talk of their dreams of us meeting and playing together. They never mentioned coming to visit us though. It was only ever, “When are you coming to America?” Although our country was filled with cleanliness and beautiful scenery, bursting with food and culture, they never considered returning to their African continent. And to be honest, growing up watching American TV in the ’90s, I couldn’t blame them. I was beyond excited to visit their home in a land that seemed so abundant.

We would repeatedly say what a great country we lived in, constantly explaining that we didn’t live in huts or have lions roaming around the streets.

As a Kid, the American Dream Felt Alive

When I turned 12, we finally planned to go to the U.S. around Christmas. I’d never seen snow or experienced a wintery Christmas—my holiday memories were filled with hot summer days playing at the beach, grilling outdoors, smelling mosquito repellant and eating a healthy stock of cut watermelon in the fridge. At the same time, pine trees with snow-frosted tips made up our Christmas decorations, even though we were more likely to have acacia or baobab trees outside. Carols like “White Christmas” always played in the supermarket because American imperialism was, and still is, so strong. All the songs made sense after arriving in the U.S. that December. Although I’d sadly come to find out it didn’t snow in L.A., being bundled up in wooly gloves and sweaters, drinking hot cocoa and seeing the epic decorations on people’s lawns was still really exciting. I also loved being able to drink bottomless sodas at restaurants and buy all the butterfly clips I wanted. My uncle’s family promised a fun time with their big American house, garden and basketball hoop outside, just like in the movies. We rode in a limousine for the first time that my uncle booked for us one night, and I thought it was the best day of my life. He wore designer clothing and drove fancy cars. I remember seeing about 15 credit cards spread out on the bed while he tried to find the one that worked. I thought he was the richest man I’d ever seen. He had a successful restaurant and was set to open another one soon. The American Dream was in full view, and he spent that holiday trying to convince us to move there. As much as we liked all the little things we saw on TV, we couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t that much better than our life—and to their surprise, we didn’t want to move there. When we’d meet other people there, they’d have pity in their eyes for us when finding out where we lived. “What made you go there?” That was the question we got the most. We would repeatedly say what a great country we lived in, constantly explaining that we didn’t live in huts or have lions roaming around the streets. We also had to explain that while there was poverty in our home country, that wasn’t the only way that people lived. When we saw all the homeless people on the streets of Los Angeles, I remember being puzzled as to why they thought our country was poorer.

During the Recession, My Uncle’s Family Required Our Financial Support

Years after our trip to the U.S., my uncle started falling on harder times, and eventually, when the 2008 recession hit, he lost his restaurants, their house and his cars. It was a tragic time for them, and my father often had to send them money just to keep them afloat. Being the family everyone pitied, sending money from Africa to America was quite the twist in circumstances.Humbled by that experience, my uncle’s family never petitioned us to come to America again, but other family members and friends in the U.S. who didn’t know their situation continued to nag us about it. Their condescension went from being an ironic private joke in our family (they had become ignorant Americans) to realizing they were being racist toward Africa (a continent they came from too). They truly felt sympathy for us, even though our family was doing just fine financially—we didn’t have major debt, we had a good education, access to some of the least-polluted air in the world and ate food that was more commonly grown organically than big industrial agriculture. To them, it was inconceivable that a life in Africa could be full of pleasures and comfort.For my uncle’s family, life was never the same. He went from owning restaurants to managing one, while my aunt started informally catering because they were living paycheck to paycheck. The flashbacks of the credit cards on the bed I’d seen as a child suddenly made sense: They had lived on massive lines of credit their whole lives, and when the bubble burst, they lost everything. Now our family was convincing them to live with us, promising to help them, but that would never be an option. Even if they were struggling, they still lived in America and that meant it was better, right?

We all knew we would never want to live anywhere else.

The American Dream Isn’t for Everyone, and It Isn’t Always a Dream

While I often compared my life with my cousin’s life, getting jealous when I heard stories about her trip to an Usher concert or spotting celebrities, when it came down to it, there wasn’t too much difference between living in America and living in Africa. Whenever I thought about the differences, I realized that those were what made our lives good. We may not have had access to as many products and conveniences, but that meant we were less focused on consumerism. Our consumerism was the glorious feeling of making it in time to get the huge avocados, mangos and watermelons on the side of the road before they sold out.The capital city and my hometown were immaculately clean and always easy to navigate—the longest we’d wait in traffic to get home was 15 minutes. And because we didn’t have skyscrapers, the tallest building was a hotel in the city center with 15 floors. The large boulevards in town were lined with jacaranda trees, and in the few months out of the year when they were in bloom, the flowers created not only a lavender-colored canopy over the street but also a purple carpet on the pavements. I often inhaled the sweet smell as I cycled to the park to meet up with my friends. While we lived in a part of the world that was lesser known globally, we knew so much about the world outside of ours—something our education emphasized. Most Americans we encountered didn’t know that Africa wasn’t a country. Though we would sometimes fantasize about all the places to which we’d travel, the concerts, festivals or theater shows we’d want to see, the pictures we’d take, the clothes we’d buy or the food we’d try, we all knew we would never want to live anywhere else. As we’d watch the magical sunset beyond the rolling hills, we all knew this was still the best place in the world.

Guns are not the problem. I speak from personal experience. I grew up in three countries outside of America with drastically different attitudes and laws on firearms—two where civilian gun ownership was banned, the other where it is encouraged.As the gun debate rages in the United States amid rampant school shootings, I can’t help but think back on my childhood and the ubiquity of firearms around me. The memories of these nations have stuck with me—for very different reasons.

Our Home Getting Burglarized Provided a Reality Check for the Family

When I was 4 years old, we moved from Florida to Mexico for my dad’s job. Even as a child, it was obvious to me that it was a very different place.I remember every single house having a wall around it, often topped with broken glass, barbed wire or even an electric fence. I had never seen anything like that in Florida, but these precautions were universal in our new home.When I asked my mom about it, she said that Mexico was not as safe as Florida, but we would be fine and Dad would keep us safe. She was right on both accords—but we did have a few close calls.We lived in Mexico City for seven years. One night, we came home from a family vacation in the beach town Mazatlán to find our house ransacked. At first, everything just looked like a giant mess, but as we took in the state of each room, we realized the mess was actually the result of burglars tearing through every inch of our home.As we continued to check the rooms upstairs, we found our own kitchen knives lying on each bed. We couldn’t be sure if they were left deliberately as a warning or if the burglars had intended to use the knives had any of us been in bed. It was terrifying.My dad promptly called his company’s lawyer as soon as he could find a phone, as the burglars had cut our lines. The lawyer instructed us not to report the burglary to the police; the presumption was they would simply come to check whether there was anything left to steal. Instead, it was up to my dad to deal with it.Dad immediately took defensive steps: He lodged a metal gate that looked like jail bars to the top of the staircase; he installed electric fencing on top of the wall surrounding our house; he hired a security company to patrol our home; and he bought an illegal firearm on the black market.Of course, my little brother and I didn’t know he purchased a firearm until we found it one day, years later, when we were snooping around in his closet. But as we got older, Dad told us that keeping his family safe was more important to him than following flawed laws.

Dad told us that keeping his family safe was more important to him than following flawed laws.

Stricter Gun Laws Don't Equate to Less Gun Violence

Seeing his reaction to the burglary left a clear impression on me: Good people need guns because bad people don’t care about laws—much less about gun regulations.Even the federales, the federal cops who ran wild in Mexico City, negated the laws and routinely harassed us. They once insisted my mom pay a fictitious fine on the spot—a bribe known as a mordida, or bite—to avoid being hauled to jail. They threatened to leave my little brother and me alone on the side of a busy road. She broke down crying before finally handing over the money.Our experience was not unique. The data on Mexico speaks for itself. Despite its strict gun laws, Mexico suffers a murder rate that is far higher than the United States. Cartels often control the government, and corruption levels are unimaginable to an average American.After seven years in Mexico, we moved to Brazil—another nation with strict gun control but plagued by crime and a then-climbing murder rate. Living there was wild: Many of my friends had armed bodyguards, and we all lived in communities and apartments protected by heavy security and huge walls.Under the new president, though, gun control has been significantly scaled back, allowing average citizens to acquire firearms more easily. According to a recent piece in the Wall Street Journal, homicide levels have dropped by 34 percent since the liberalization of gun laws.My time in Switzerland could not have been more different from Mexico and Brazil. In fact, Switzerland was almost the antithesis—especially when it came to gun laws, crime and corruption.Before arriving in Zurich, I had never seen a place where gun possession was not only legal but completely ubiquitous. In Switzerland, guns were everywhere. Whole towns would get together for shooting competitions and beer drinking. It was not unusual to see children on bikes or young men on trains openly carrying fully automatic weapons over their shoulders or to find guns in closets or above kitchen cupboards in family homes. Widespread gun ownership is considered a major part of Swiss culture, but the attitude toward possession and use are vastly different from what we see in the United States today.For many Swiss men, starting at adulthood, the government requires possession of a government-issued firearm, at least until the end of citizen militia service (around age 34 for most). Even after service is complete, men have long been encouraged to keep their firearms by acquiring a permit for use.It is hard to explain to people who have never experienced it—even to Americans who cherish the Second Amendment. In America, if somebody walks down the street with an assault rifle, the police department is deluged in calls. In Switzerland, the presence of these firearms is so ubiquitous that they aren’t immediately demonized.Despite the popularity of firearms in Switzerland, and contrary to the prognostications of so-called American experts, Switzerland remains an oasis of peace and tranquility. Murder and crime rates are among the lowest in the world. The president can often be found taking the train without hordes of security personnel. Gang violence and corruption are almost unheard of.Their nation is secure from outside threats too. In fact, in part due to widespread gun ownership and general proficiency with weapons, the Swiss have not fought a war in centuries.If gun control worked, and civilian gun ownership was truly problematic, nations like Mexico and Brazil would be peaceful utopias, and Switzerland would be a war zone. The reality is just the opposite.

If gun control worked, and civilian gun ownership was truly problematic, nations like Mexico and Brazil would be peaceful utopias, and Switzerland would be a war zone.

A Well-Armed Society Is a Safer Society

As a teacher for the past decade confronted with the growing incidence of school shootings, I’ve consistently noticed two things about them that seem to never be mentioned in the press. First, the shootings continue until other people with guns show up. Second, they always take place in gun-free zones—places where law-abiding citizens are disarmed and unable to protect themselves from those who ignore firearm regulations with impunity. We need to take a deep, comparative look at our gun violence rates and understand how the Swiss maintain their peace. We need to take a turn. This needs to stop.In my experience, widespread gun ownership keeps people safe from crime—and the far more deadly threat of government tyranny.

I knew something was wrong the second my (then) husband turned off his location in our iMessages. It was the day of my company’s Christmas party. I was walking back to my desk from the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee, checking my phone, when I saw the message.Chris stopped sharing his location.My heart dropped, joining the coffee in my stomach in location and acidity. We’d been together 10 years, married for about three months, and in all that time, we’d never stopped sharing our locations. My anxiety pulled a move in direct opposition to my heart and shot through the roof. My hands began to jitter. What on earth could have happened?Somewhere in my haze of panic, I realized there could only be one explanation—but this couldn’t be because of Roy. Could it?

My Husband Based His Entire Identity Around Servicing Me

Let’s back up. Throughout our marriage, Chris and I developed a codependent relationship, described in Psychology Today as “a dysfunctional relationship dynamic where one person assumes the role of ‘the giver,’ sacrificing their own needs and well-being for the sake of the other, ‘the taker.’” My ex-husband was the giver. I was the taker. He formulated his entire identity based on what he could do for me and—even more importantly—how he could show it to others.Chris would bring me (and my co-workers) coffee at my first retail job without us asking. He’d constantly post couples selfies of us on social media. He loved to brag to his friends about how great of a boyfriend, then fiance, then husband he was (both in the bedroom and outside of it). And I developed a big part of my identity around letting him do those things, reveling in the attentiveness and thoughtfulness this person gave me.Now, those actions on their own don’t immediately scream “codependent.” But that was the driving force of our relationship—it was performative and shallow, yet masquerading as deep, meaningful and “perfect.” After 10 years, little had changed.I’d been in therapy for most of my 20s, tackling my anxiety, anorexia and self-harm. I was making great strides, but I still believed deep down in my heart that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. You see, I’d fallen in love with Chris while I was still in love with my high school girlfriend. At the time, I thought that made me an unfaithful, permanently flawed human. I also thought it was influenced by my life being incredibly stressful (my girlfriend and I got outed to our parents, and neither family was what you could call supportive) and Chris was my escape.But I’d been getting better. I wasn’t quite “there” yet, wherever “there” was, but I felt very secure in my new marriage and was learning to feel better about myself. And I loved Chris, heart and soul. I thought he was “the one” for the rest of my life. We had our ups and downs like any couple: He cheated on me twice; I got drunk and kissed a girl at a club. But we always forgave each other because of that codependency.Then, I met Roy.

I loved two men at the same time.

I Realized I Was in Love With Another Man

It’s a cliche opening but it’s also the truth: I first saw Roy when our eyes met across a crowded bar, and it was electric.It was a mutual friend’s birthday party, and Chris had stayed home sick, so I was flying solo. I was chatting with a friend as I scanned the backyard bar, and zap—I locked eyes with the most gorgeous human I’d ever seen. I briefly forgot how to breathe. I felt lightning circulate from my head to my toes and back again. Startled, I reacted instinctively by flashing a quick smile and returned to my conversation.He came over to talk to me.The rest of the night is a blur of images—Roy and I playing flip cup, he and I sitting on the sofa talking about movies for what felt like hours, him showing me one of his favorite films at the end of the night—and by the time I Lyfted home, I knew one thing: That night was something I’d never experienced before.I’d like to say I knew instantly that I loved Roy, but I was a professional at denying and bottling my emotions, so it took me a few weeks. Once I finally realized it, I wrote about it in my diary. I loved two men at the same time. What did that mean? How was that possible? It baffled me as much as it excited me.Of course, that’s when Chris read my journal—without my permission—and everything exploded. Spectacularly. I hadn’t even kissed Roy, and yet Chris reacted like I’d already begun an affair based on feelings I wrote in a journal and nothing more. That’s when I saw he’d turned off his location as a tool to make me panic (and to pull a suicide scare I’d later learn he faked).Roy and I had only sat close beside each other on his purple living room sofa as we watched movies and drank mimosas on Sundays. I’d explicitly asked Chris if it was OK for me to hang out with a male friend, and he’d explicitly said he was fine with it. With 100 percent honesty, I can say Roy and I did nothing untoward—until Chris read my journal and gave me the first ultimatum of many soon to come: him or Roy.I broke off my friendship with Roy, unwilling to risk 10 years of a relationship for someone I’d only known for three months. Driving home from our mimosa brunch, where we confirmed we had feelings for each other and shared our first (and what I thought would be only) chaste kiss, I cried harder and longer than I could remember crying in a long, long time.

My Affair and His Control Triggered Our Separation

After nine days of no contact, Chris agreed I could text Roy again under the condition he could read what we said. Big mistake. That led to a huge fight and the next ultimatum. It made me so infuriated that I drove to Roy’s house under the guise of “explaining the situation,” when my actual purpose was to do exactly what I was being unjustly accused of and sleep with him.We spent the night in his bed, making love and talking and drinking red wine. I felt safe and exhausted and thrilled and in love, and Roy studied me like I was the most precious artifact in the world. I returned home, satisfied and a little guilty and once again fully intending to have no contact. I lasted exactly four days before unblocking Roy on Instagram. Some connections can’t be denied.The next five months were painful at best and traumatic at worst. I promised not to contact Roy yet unblocked him on Instagram every day when I left for work and re-blocked him every night when I got home. We messaged constantly. Chris promised to start therapy to try and understand this new desire of mine, but really, he was biding his time, hoping I’d just get over Roy and we could go back to the way we were.Promises made, promises broken. Chris existed in a cycle of neutrality, fury and victimhood on endless repeat. I existed in a limbo where I tried to be patient with him but was chafing at his pace, at his controlling, at his restrictions and emotions. Eventually, about a month and a half after Chris read my diary, I told him I wanted to do what our couples therapist recommended and separate. He moved in with a family member of mine; I stayed in our apartment.Roy and I grew closer and closer, seeing each other every second we could. Of course, eventually, we were found out. We came home one day to see Chris had smashed three of our wedding photos into the living room carpet. Roy helped me clean up the glass. I filed for divorce four months after Chris and I separated.

I moved away from codependency into a healthy relationship that doesn’t manipulate, shame or control me.

I’m Now Living a Fuller Life in a Healthy Relationship

Here’s why, even through all the trauma, I don’t regret having an affair: I moved away from codependency into a healthy relationship that doesn’t manipulate, shame or control me. What I learned was that I was capable of loving more than one human at a time, and it’s a perfectly acceptable way to live your life when done ethically, which I know I didn’t do.So no, I don’t regret having an affair. What I regret is not following my heart sooner and choosing Roy from the beginning.Oh, and locations? Roy and I don’t bother to share ours. We just trust each other to be where we say we will.

One night, while we were reading on opposite ends of the couch, my partner, let’s call him Isaac, said the words that ended our relationship of six and a half years: “I just can’t let it go.” “The kid thing?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.We’d talked about kids on our first date—he wanted them, and I didn’t. I told myself maybe one of us would change. Maybe once I had healed my trauma and established my writing career, I’d decide that I wanted to be a parent. Maybe once Isaac had a dog and a demanding work schedule, he’d decide that he didn’t. Instead, a couple of months shy of my 40th birthday, it finally broke us. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. It ran deeper than that—to our roles in the relationship, our autonomy, our conflicting ideas about gender—but neither of us had the language or framework to articulate that, so we fought about kids.

I wondered why I’d spent so much time and energy in pursuit of “the one.”

I Started Exploring Different Relationship Structures

Before I’d met Isaac, I’d been single for nearly a year, a year in which only one person had shown any romantic interest in me. I’d worried that my sexual and romantic life might be over, a prospect that, at the time, felt unbearable. I’d been raised to believe that love was the most important thing, that when I found “the one” they’d be my purpose, my center.When Isaac and I broke up, I again faced the possibility that I could be single for the foreseeable future, but this time, it felt fine, even a little exciting. Over the previous two decades, I’d dated five people for at least two years a piece, and I’d lived with each of them. I was tired of trying to mold myself to other people’s preferences. I found I enjoyed living alone, free from judgements or expectations. I wasn’t expected to take care of anyone but myself. It was wonderful. A friend who visited that summer said, “Single looks really good on you.”I began to imagine what new shapes my life might take. I wondered why I’d spent so much time and energy in pursuit of “the one.” I’d never really believed that we all have a perfect match, and yet I’d felt compelled to find a person to permanently and singularly attach myself to. I didn’t want that anymore, but I realized that permanent celibacy might not be for me either. I decided to explore other options. I looked into swinging but was disappointed to find that swingers tended to come in pairs, and besides, even the fantasy of sex with strangers was completely unerotic to me. I tried books and podcasts about group sex, kink and open relationships.One day, on a relationship advice podcast, the host described an arrangement Bill Gates had with one of his exes: Regardless of who they were currently dating, Gates and his ex met once a year for a weekend getaway. “People can do that?” I wondered.Before Isaac, my relationships had ended in betrayal or cruelty, and I moved on as quickly as possible. But Isaac had been kind and compassionate to the end—and in the months since. There was still deep love between us. I began to wonder if we could keep that love while also allowing each other to pursue the things we couldn’t give each other. Curious about what love could look like free from the confines of monogamy, I read The Ethical Slut and listened to the Multiamory podcast. I attended a local polyamory discussion group. I took time exploring my needs and desires. I began to think about my dating history differently. I’d built a life with five different people. It began to seem more like a technicality than a meaningful distinction that I’d loved and been intimate with people sequentially rather than simultaneously.Viewing myself through the lens of any one of my past relationships presented a skewed picture, one in which I looked gay or straight instead of queer, where certain parts of my personality were amplified and others receded. In friendships, I knew that I needed a variety of people to support me and share different aspects of my life, but I’d never previously thought of romantic relationships this way. It began to seem strange that I’d expressed love by trying to control someone’s connection to others.

I Kept in Contact With My Ex

During all of this, Isaac and I still hung out, but we never talked about getting back together, until one night about nine months after the breakup. I don’t remember the conversation leading up to it, but I found myself screaming at him that he was an idiot. I told him that he loved his independence, that he didn’t have the time or emotional energy for kids and that he’d thrown away what we had for a hypothetical. I watched him crumple under the weight of my words. He left in tears. After that, I avoided him for a few weeks until he texted me that he had “things to say” and wanted to say them soon. I asked him to meet me in the park. I was nervous. I wanted to be able to move while we talked. It was a warm, sunny day, and the trails were crowded, but it had also rained recently and they were studded with muddy pits. We kept having to pause to let people pass. Isaac started by telling me he’d decided he no longer wanted children. While I was still trying to absorb that, he said he wanted to get back together. I had expected criticism or an announcement that he’d met someone else. Instead, he said that he was refocusing on his writing and his relationships and that he was looking for a new job and hoping to move away by the end of the year—unless I wanted to get back together. I was confused. I still loved him, but I wanted all these other things, things I’d so far explored only in theory. For the next four weeks, we met up every few days to talk. I told Isaac about how much I liked living alone, how I was rediscovering my queerness, how I wanted to explore polyamory. He talked about how he’d realized he wasn’t making time for the things he cared about, how excited he was about the idea of living in a bigger city. He texted me inspiring quotes by Louise Gluck and Leonard Cohen.

I was confused. I still loved him, but I wanted all these other things, things I’d so far explored only in theory.

Our Relationship Looks Much Different Now, but It’s Better Than Ever

Excited by each other’s growth, we started dating again. Isaac was sweet and thoughtful. He respected my autonomy and didn’t push for too much of my time. We went ice skating and out for delicious meals. We talked with an intensity and mutual patience that were completely new to us. But despite all the communication, our relationship took on an uncomfortably familiar heteronormative shape. Isaac paid when we went out. I cooked for us when we stayed in. We didn’t see anyone else. We had conventional missionary position sex. We were talking about doing things differently, but what we were doing felt depressingly familiar.After a few months, I ended things again. I told him it was because I was “more queer than I’d thought.” I wanted to live in a way that didn’t align with gender norms or cultural expectations. I wanted to date women, but more than that, I wanted to love on my own terms. I thought he’d be angry. I thought he’d never want to talk to me again. Instead, over the next few weeks, he reached out consistently to ask how I was doing. He asked about my queer identity and my experience as a woman. He spoke to me openly about his grief over the loss of the relationship but also his hope that we’d be able to stay friends. When we were dating, he’d presented me with an upbeat, unfaltering optimism, but once we fell apart again, he let himself be vulnerable. I found that openness irresistible, and one night, about a month after the second breakup, he asked if he could kiss me goodnight, and I said yes. That was four months ago. In the time since, we’ve built a structure that is purely our own. When we’re physically together, we’re deeply engaged, and when we’re apart, we give each other lots of space. I’m dating two other people in addition to Isaac, and he’s actively looking for jobs in a city two hours away. We’ve agreed that we’ll never have kids and never live together again. Sometimes, it’s scary to love someone in a way that is so unentangled, but it’s also the best relationship I’ve ever had.

In December of 2005, I was still under 40 and proudly employed as an operations manager for a Fortune 500 shipping company. I felt as if I’d arrived—I had a good job, a secure future for me and my family, respect and self-esteem. Two years earlier, my father died of lung cancer at age 63. That same month, my mother passed from brain cancer, which caused me to think more deeply about what I really wanted out of life.I’d spent my working days in property management, banking, studio photography and then in corporate in one location. All the while, I wished there was more, and I secretly thought I’d missed out on something vital. Maybe the smartest thing I ever did was enter the following into Google’s search engine: “Job, Travel.” That led me to apply for the position of flight attendant with a major airline. Immediately after submitting that form, I was invited to complete a Caliper assessment, which led to an in-person interview in Chicago and then another over six weeks at a corporate training center.That’s turned into 16 years as a flight attendant, with trips all over the globe and stories to tell. I’ll get to that in a second.

Our job description and annual training doesn’t revolve around serving cocktails and making small talk.

Flight Attendants Do More Than Hand Out Drinks and Snacks

Historically, being a flight attendant was considered a glamorous job—not just because of the exotic world travel but because of the pay. Today, compensation for flight attendants is based on seniority, which means that starting out is tough, but over time, pay rates increase and the trips we get are better. As we move up in the standby list for personal flights, a sense of confidence takes over. The only time in my career where seniority didn’t play a substantial role was when I interviewed for—and subsequently received—a promotion to international purser.Pursers are flight attendants responsible for the directing activities during a flight. In the terminal, the title is meaningless, but pursers have additional training to direct activity in the air and are granted a higher stipend. That’s why you shouldn’t call your average flight attendant a stewardess. It has the wrong connotation these days. We hand out beverages and snacks to make your flight more comfortable, but our job description and annual training doesn’t revolve around serving cocktails and making small talk. Technically, we are safety and security professionals. About 95 percent of our training instills appropriate reactions to potentially horrific situations. Think back to US Airways flight 1549, when Captain Sully heroically dipped the plane into the Hudson. It was the flight attendants who safely evacuated that aircraft. That's one of the things for which we train, and we do so on multiple aircraft, each with different emergency procedures, as the FAA requires annual requalification.I've topped out on my airline's pay scale, and I can’t get another raise until the union and airline have ratified the next contract, hopefully within a year. But at this point in my career, I'm generously compensated and I love my job. I have traveled the globe and am living my dream. When I land in Paris, Singapore, Narita, London, Sydney or even Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I take a breath, explore, take pictures and enjoy local cuisine. Work for it, and gratitude will become an everyday experience. But it hasn’t always been easy. There are grueling periods and difficult people on nearly every flight these days. And over the last year or two, a form of orneriness has become the standard in the United States.

This is the only job I have ever had that mixes being a cheerful corporate ambassador with cracking the whip for the FAA.

We’ve Had to Enforce Mask Policies and Comply With FAA Regulations

As a flight attendant, I’m required to oversee—and in some cases enforce—federal regulations, making sure seat belts are fastened and passengers remain seated during critical times. Throughout the pandemic, the job has also meant insisting face masks be worn.This is the only job I have ever had that mixes being a cheerful corporate ambassador with cracking the whip for the FAA. Most passengers get it, but others resist authority at every turn, posturing that masks and civil behavior are political and optional. Fortunately, the cranky and ill-informed are still outnumbered by reasonable and compliant passengers, but here we go—I promised a story.The airline I work for was one of the first to implement mask mandates as COVID-19 spread across the globe and into the U.S. Soon, every airline implemented a mask mandate. The political environment exacerbated issues. The president downplayed the virus, while his opponents fought for mandatory protections—political division has since touched every aspect of our lives, including travel. Crews often found themselves politely requesting that a passenger wear a mask, and then again to wear it correctly, and then again because the passenger would remove it after walking 10 feet away. Masking up was a federal mandate supported by strict corporate policies. We, the crew, would get disciplined or fined by the FAA if we didn’t enforce that rule. If a passenger refused to wear a mask, the rules said to kick them off the plane. We’ve done that.But think about who has to deliver that initial message—the flight attendant. Give us a lot of trouble, dig your heels into the carpet and refuse to comply, and things eventually escalate. If the gate crew, or especially the captain, has to talk with you, pay attention. The rules don’t care if you are a thousand miles from your destination. Resist long enough and you’ll find yourself walking home, renting a car, taking a bus or worse. Some of the most headstrong passengers have sat in jails or been banned from flying on any commercial airline.I am still often confronted for doing my job. I’ve been called a “mask Nazi,” been cussed at, been spoken to loudly and with bad intentions. I have experienced huge men rage vitriol inches from my face, and many passengers presume to tell me how I must have voted. By the way, I don’t intimidate easily. Being tolerant of others is in my nature, but volatile situations in the confines of an aircraft? There’s a reason I was selected as a purser. My role relies on de-escalation—a smile, a joke, a warning followed by another. I politely ask twice, at least, but there are limits. Politics shouldn’t even be a factor, but it’s everywhere, even sometimes among crew members. When that happens, I take a breath and consider what the laws and corporate policies actually require. Fortunately, my airline has a low tolerance for noncompliance. We were one of the first airlines to require masks and later required all employees to be vaccinated. During the height of the pandemic, our corporate president confided in some of us that he was writing multiple condolence letters on a daily basis to the families of employees who had died from COVID-19. His job—and, by extension, my job—is to protect the crew and passengers.

What It’s Like Dealing With Confrontational Passengers

Of course, COVID hasn’t just affected the passengers. It’s put me on my back twice—once before we knew the virus’s name. I had been sick and missed work for a month after contracting it in December of 2019 from a passenger on a flight traveling from Cancun to San Francisco. The passenger was just passing through Northern California on her way home to Beijing, but within four days of having her onboard, I was sicker than I’d ever been. I thought I had bronchitis and treated the malady as such. Two and a half weeks later, my doctor informed me that my prediction was wrong.On a flight a few short months ago, before the mask mandate was lifted, a family got on board—father, mother and two young children. They’d removed their masks on the jet bridge, ignored the greeter’s request to put them on and took their seats. (By the way, most people are not aware of the fact that flight attendants aren’t paid during boarding and deplaning, arguably the hardest phases of our day. The only time we’re on the clock is when the aircraft door is closed and the brakes aren’t engaged.)Soon, a second request was made, along with a warning. If they wanted to travel on this flight, they had to comply. The father said no. In his mind, wearing a mask wasn’t required—his governor had said so. I think you can see where this was heading. By the time I got involved, both parents were speaking loudly, holding up passengers trying to reach their seats, convinced they were right. They weren’t. Entering a commercial aircraft puts you into federal territory.Eventually, the second warning was given, detailing what would happen if the family, especially the father, remained noncompliant. But he was resolute. Boarding had been delayed; other passengers were frustrated; and the situation had to be reported. Within minutes, gate agents were on the plane, followed by security, followed by the father being unceremoniously escorted away. When the mother then started yelling that we couldn’t separate the family like that, she was given the option to remain seated and compliant or join her husband in the terminal. She chose to remain seated. In the aftermath, numerous passengers sent complimentary messages to the airline about how we handled the situation. That’s something many noncompliant people don’t realize. Those standing nearby are not impressed. They may not come to the aid of a flight attendant being attacked—though that has happened to me on more than one occasion—but oftentimes, there is a wink, a nod, a touch on the arm as we pass by that says, “Yes. We see how you handled that difficulty. Thank you.”

I understand that people need to travel, but please. The simple act of putting on a mask can make a world of difference for fellow passengers and crews.

Everyone on a Plane Has the Chance to Be Considerate to the Crew and Other Passengers

I managed to make it through the pandemic without getting sick again until the federal mask mandate was lifted. I still wear a mask everywhere I go, and I’m triple vaccinated, but when infected passengers choose, sometimes unwittingly, to fly ill and without a mask, they put even vaccinated individuals at risk. My experience tells me that masks work if people wear them and that vaccines are a necessary form of defense against hospitalization.Last month, I again contracted COVID-19. The virus hit me hard, and I missed three weeks of work. My underlying condition is asthma. The passenger who likely transmitted the virus had a distinctive cough, glassy eyes and a feverish look—they weren’t wearing a mask. I was masked and practiced good personal hygiene but still caught the virus. Other passengers may have also become infected. Risk comes with the job. Sadly, COVID-19 is not the only virus out there. I understand that people need to travel, but please. The simple act of putting on a mask can make a world of difference for fellow passengers and crews.Consider an experience I had last year, when a mother boarded first class with her family. The family was wearing masks below the nose, or not at all, so I requested they all wear them properly. A few minutes later, a flight attendant told me about an issue between the mother and a male passenger seated next to her, yelling about her mask. I could see that her young daughter was shaken up, so I politely reminded her of the federal mandate and assured her that I would speak to the man. He angrily informed me that he had just come home to bury his mother, who he had lost to COVID-19. I allowed him to vent, extended my sincere condolences and told him that the masks would not be a problem.As I returned to the mother tending to her young daughter, I took her aside and explained the man’s situation, which had made him a bit raw when it came to mask compliance. She quickly agreed to keep her mask on properly. Her daughter was still upset, so I made it my mission to make sure she had a great flight. About midway through the trip, the man apologized to mother and daughter for yelling, and by the end of the flight, we were all friends. These are trying times for everyone. I find that taking a moment to understand someone's personal story can make or break the mood of any flight.

“It’ll grow one day.” That’s what I told myself throughout my childhood and teenage years when I reflected upon my very small manhood.For a long time, having a small dick didn’t bother me. In elementary school, I just assumed all guys my age were equally tiny. I was also much too busy enduring obesity, mental illness and a turbulent home life to worry about anything else. So I shrugged it off. “It’ll grow one day.”Then came high school. I had discovered porn and witnessed many of my male classmates let it all hang out in changing rooms. It dawned on me that I was uniquely small down there compared to others. I wasn’t thrilled about it, and I certainly never partook in changing room showboating, but I was still confident that eventually my little friend would catch up to his peers. “It’ll grow one day.”But that day never came. I was in my 20s when the horrible truth finally hit me. There’s no more growing for me. I’m…complete. A grown man with a two-inch penis that barely even gets hard.

I figured that since sex was off the table for me, I should go all in and deny myself any sexual gratification at all.

My Micropenis Wasn't an Issue Until University

When I got to university, I was immersed in a sexualized environment full of lovely ladies. Glances and smiles were coming my way like they never had before. That was when my micropenis started to bother me. I became acutely aware of what I was missing. The knowledge that my minuscule fella couldn’t rise to the occasion precluded me from pursuing anything remotely romantic. During my time at university, I’d started to read a lot about celibacy, about great celibate men—like Isaac Newton and Leonardo da Vinci—who preserved every drop of life force and achieved amazing things. I was also reading a ton about brahmacharya, which is a concept, rooted in Hinduism, that generally means to live a life of self-control and sexual abstinence. I figured that since sex was off the table for me, I should go all in and deny myself any sexual gratification at all. I began to embrace hardcore celibacy: no masturbation, pushing away any sexual thoughts that entered my mind and punishing myself for any impure thoughts or accidental emissions. It’s a trap that many sexless young men fall into, I’m sorry to say. We’re so sore about our lack of sex that we choose to renounce the whole thing and join a cause which we feel will elevate us above the poor mortals obsessed with bodily pleasure. For me, this phase lasted for about two years. To say that I morphed into a twisted madman during this period would be a massive understatement. The level of frustration that comes with depriving oneself of lustful thoughts and actions is unbelievable. It wasn’t long before the mere sight of an amorous couple or a sexual reference would drive me into an intense rage. I had a salacious novel in my book collection that I threw into a nearby river so I wouldn’t be tempted to read it and be titillated. There were many times when my frustration exploded in the form of inappropriate comments directed at women. I deeply regret those. Bizarre and obsessive rituals emerged. I needed to rectify accidental emissions by dousing myself in cold water, eating fruit, doing meditation and exercising. If not, I would be punished by higher forces and my creative powers would be damaged. There was one instance when I hit myself with a belt as punishment for watching R-rated videos—a transgression against my celibacy, as I saw it.My negative behavior, mostly fueled by that sexual repression and frustration, eventually bought me a direct ticket to rock bottom. I lost my job and many friends. I fell into a paralyzing depression that lasted a long time. But I did eventually start receiving professional help, and from there, I began to rebuild my life.It was then that I recommenced, well, doing the deed with myself every day. I realize now that a guy simply must release his sexual energy. The body wants him to, and things can go very wrong if he refrains. And if that guy is unable to do so through consensual intercourse with another person, the only option is to, as Alan Harper in Two and a Half Men said, “yank it like a monkey in a mango tree.” Vulgar but true.

I Was a Micropenised Romantic

It's like there are two parts of myself constantly at war: the hormonal male who craves physical intimacy and the gloomy realist who knows I'm not equipped for it and shouldn't even try. Sometimes, the former wins. I have dated quite a lot and have been on all the apps. I enjoy flirting with women, connecting with them, making out, as well as touching and exploring their bodies. I have been in bed with a girl on five separate occasions. (Five different girls, high five!) But kissing and touching is as far as I’ve gone. I’ve never done the deed and would just invent flimsy excuses as to why my pants needed to stay on. (I’ve used “erectile dysfunction” a couple of times and “crotch injury” once.) I just couldn’t admit to having a micropenis. Why? For one thing, I couldn’t bear to hear their laughs or expressions of disappointment (or both). I also didn’t know or trust any of them completely and was petrified that they would tell others about my situation. I walked away from each encounter feeling empty and unfulfilled. I also feel awful for the girls who were kind enough to invite me into their beds. I’d lied to them and left them unfulfilled too. For me, the hardest part of micropenisism is accepting the fact that I will never be able to have normal and uncomplicated sex with whomever I want. I need to find someone who’s OK with it. We’ll need to do special positions or techniques designed to suit someone like me. And I will probably always compare unfavorably to guys she’s had before. To the men out there who have functional and decent-sized wangs, cherish them.

The hardest part of micropenisism is accepting the fact that I will never be able to have normal and uncomplicated sex.

I've Come to Terms With My Manhood

When my optimistic wish of “it’ll grow one day” died, a new one took its place: “I can get surgery to make it big!” Surely that was possible, I thought. Why else would there be so many emails and pop-ups about it?A couple of years ago, I trekked to a sexual health clinic and asked about penis enlargement. I was supremely confident that this would be the end of my micropenis woes. I mean, medicine has cured diseases and made artificial hearts. Surely they can give me a bigger dong! But I was crushed to learn that the only procedure available was very expensive and painful and would only actually increase my size by less than an inch. The movies had lied to me! As of today, I have no optimistic delusions. No “it’ll grow one day” or “I can get surgery to make it big.” I accept that I’m a man with a micropenis and no hope of ever dropping the “micro.”There are times when I’m not OK with it. I do feel a constant underlying depression that I'm not experiencing one of life's great pleasures. I feel an unpleasant pang just about every time I see a couple holding hands or anything that alludes to sex or true love. But I’m very thankful that I do have creative outlets, hobbies and multiple jobs that I can throw myself into. They are all-encompassing when I’m in the thick of them. When I’m occupied this way, I have no capacity to lament my lack of sex. I’m quietly optimistic that I can live a pleasurable and fulfilling life and just maybe I will find that special person. Someone who I’m able to share my shortcomings with and who won’t mind them at all. If there are any interested ladies reading this, here is my promise: I will never, ever send you a dick pic!

I’ve always labeled myself as a worrier, like my mother before me. But after a minor car accident a few years ago caused me to worry so much that I stopped eating properly for weeks—eventually passing out in front of my children—I realized I had to do something about my worrying ways.The accident wasn't much, but my brain wouldn’t leave it alone, prodding and poking and suggesting all the ways in which things could have been worse or might still be worse (perhaps the other party involved had internal bleeding, perhaps they’d die, and it would be all my fault). None of these things were true, yet my brain was causing my body to live as if they were.I spent weeks smoking too much, drinking too much, eating and sleeping too little, until one Friday night after a couple of glasses of wine consumed too quickly on an empty stomach, my body finally gave up. I passed out on the kitchen floor. My children, aged 6 and 7, poked their heads around the door to see what had happened to Mummy. My husband was able to usher them away with assurances that “Mummy wasn’t feeling well,” but the damage was done. The shame that followed burned so hot there was no question: I had to do something about my rumination.

The shame that followed burned so hot there was no question: I had to do something about my rumination.

I Rediscovered the Type of Meditation That Works for Me

I started off with cognitive behavioral exercises I got from podcasts. I read all the self-help books I could get my hands on. I did some guided meditations in a haphazard way, but it wasn’t until the first lockdown that I discovered the meditation for me.I should say rediscovered because meditation has always been present in my life even though I haven’t practiced it. My parents have been doing transcendental meditation (TM) for over 40 years, and it was their friend, a long-term practitioner and teacher of TM, whom I reached out to. He couldn’t teach me TM—a mantra-based meditation—during a lockdown because learning this particular technique requires in-person instruction, so he started me off with a simple meditation exercise. We Zoomed once a day over a few days to practice the technique, then I joined some online group meditation sessions he ran every evening. I hate Zoom; I can never get the angle right or the lighting, but at least no one was looking for most of these ones, and I attended them regularly for about a year until I was able to learn the TM technique properly. Our culture has a way of taking something simple and making it complicated. There are so many apps, YouTube videos and different ways to meditate. Yet at its core, meditation is a simple, natural process. The technique I use is so simple that at first, I was left wondering, “Is this it?!” I searched for ways I was doing it wrong because surely, it must be more complicated than this? Yet after some regular practice, the benefits were undeniable. Turns out, it really was that simple.A quiet room is preferable but not always possible, so I fit meditation in wherever I am. I get myself comfortable, close my eyes and then silently repeat the mantra given to me by my teacher in my head. My favorite place is an armchair, but I can do it in bed, on the train, on a bench, in a tent, in a car (don’t worry, I pull over first) and, most recently, on the floor of a crowded airport departure hall while waiting for a flight. My commitment to daily meditation has meant I can’t afford to take myself too seriously, which has also worked wonders for my worrying ways.

My commitment to daily meditation has meant I can’t afford to take myself too seriously.

I Can’t Deny the Benefits of Transcendental Meditation

Whilst meditation is becoming more acceptable in mainstream culture, it still feels closely associated with new-age spirituality. The very word “meditation” conjures images of incense-filled rooms, cross-legged-postures and chants of “om.” Yet what attracted me initially to TM as a type of meditation (apart from being familiar with it through my parents) was its scientific basis. The brains of long-term meditators have been studied and the benefits well-documented: increased gray matter and a reduction in the size of the amygdala can reduce stress and lead to more positive ways of thinking. The research made sense to me: Surely finding some quiet time every day to calm the mind would help to reduce stress, which must have all sorts of positive impacts on the state of body and mind? Some skepticism remained initially, but the more I practice, the less I can deny the results. The benefits seem to accumulate the longer I practice. I don’t tend to ruminate or catastrophize much anymore. When I do, I’m more aware that I’m doing it, and I’m able to pull myself out of my spiraling thoughts much quicker. My fuse is longer (I used to bottle my emotions then blow my top and shout at my kids; now I barely raise my voice), and I’m more accepting of life. Meditation has allowed me easier access to the best parts of myself. I can feel that my nervous system is more regulated. It’s a running joke in my family now: I need regular food, water, sleep and meditation to stave off “grumpy Mum.”Looking at life through a meditator’s lens, I can see that there’s no magic bullet that can solve all my problems. Problems are part of life, but I’m learning they don’t have to overwhelm me, and I don’t have to make things worse by catastrophizing or making up problems that exist only in the realms of my imagination.For me, regular meditation doesn’t banish thoughts; it processes them. I think of it as a tool to effortlessly clear out all the rubbish that’s floating around up there (believe me, that’s one steep waste pile). My thoughts no longer run away with me like an overloaded freight train. When I feel them gathering speed for a circular trip, it’s within my power to put the brakes on.I have found that I’ve developed an interest in spirituality over the past year. Perhaps it’s a side effect of my meditation practice; perhaps I’m uncovering an aspect of myself that has always been there. But the benefits were just as apparent in my early days of meditating when I had no interest in spirituality. To me, meditation is a simple technique to tame the brain, incense and lotus pose optional.

Everyone Should Take the Time to Meditate

It’s so easy, and it’s worked so well for me that I want to shout about it from the rooftops. I want to petition for its inclusion in all school curriculums. I want a world full of meditators! Yet when I try to talk to others about it, I’m often met with resistance. It can be cloaked in compliments and interest, but I know what most people are thinking: “I haven’t got time to sit down and meditate every day; I’m too busy!”Yet even with the world turning at full speed again, meditation has become a core component of the daily practices that help keep me feeling like me. I make a little time for it and the rest takes care of itself (a bit like life). When I think of all the time and energy I used to waste on the thoughts that chased themselves around my head, if I consider the stress my runaway thoughts used to subject my body to, the amount of time it takes me to meditate each day feels like a small price to pay. There’s an old zen proverb that says, “You should sit in meditation for 20 minutes every day, unless you’re very busy, then you should sit for an hour.”The question for me isn’t how can I afford the time to meditate, it’s how can I afford not to?

September 11, 2001, was merely 31 days before my fifth birthday, yet it was one of the most impactful days of my life. Though I spent America's most tragic day innocently playing with dolls in my backyard, the days that followed left me, the daughter of a white mother and a Pakistani father, with an incredible burden that I carried for nearly two decades: the fear that my heritage symbolized terrorism. I don't remember the exact moment I came to this understanding or how it all unfolded, but I soon realized that many Americans, including those in my own family, were afraid of people who looked like me and came from the same part of the world as my dad. Soon after, I began to fear that simply my existence as the daughter of a Pakistani immigrant was somehow shameful and dangerous. My last name was feared as much as the crumbling of the Twin Towers, and my olive complexion, dark hair and the religion my dad practiced personified the word “terror.” I suddenly believed as though my innocence had been marked with an indelible black stain and that my presence was something for which I had to apologize.

I soon realized that many Americans, including those in my own family, were afraid of people who looked like me and came from the same part of the world as my dad.

I Was a Kid Struggling With Very Grown-Up Issues

I spent much of the next two decades trying to find a way to remove that stain. While much of this was done through striving to be responsible, kind and accommodating, I also wound up othering my own heritage and family in hopes that I could distance myself from the shame. Because my parents had divorced two years earlier and I lived with my mother, this wasn’t hard. Society viewed my dad's family, our name and our physical traits as the enemy, so in the great us-versus-them battle, I often chose the fearful, white “us” over the scary, brown, Muslim “them.” To protect myself from feeling the sharp pangs of racism, the first person I had to lie to was myself. At the time, my preschool teachers had nicknamed me Princess Jasmine, but I feared that no one would accept me until I could be seen as Snow White. Thus, the erasure and whitewashing of my identity began. As I grew up over those next few years, I began telling myself untruths: “It's only my dad who is Pakistani. My mom is white, so I'm not that bad.”“My skin only gets dark in the summer, so maybe people won't notice that much.” “At least I was baptized in a Catholic Church, and I even made my First Communion. I've never even set foot in a mosque!”“I don't see my dad that often, so my friends and teachers don't even know him. They could easily assume that I'm my step-dad's daughter.”

My Shame Led to Alienation

Eventually, the lies I told myself became lies that I told others too. For almost 20 years, I thought if I clung to only half of my identity, the “favorable” half, I would be accepted instead of feared. And it largely seemed to work. I mostly felt like I fit in and that I wasn't the enemy. Of course, there were the first days of school when I'd shrink up inside when teachers asked me to pronounce my last name or times in random public places when a stranger would look me up and down and ask me where I came from (and then eye me suspiciously when I answered that I was born in the United States). Those were the times when I was reminded of my otherness and how shameful it felt. Mostly, I felt safe, though. While my dad, like many South Asian Americans, was questioned by neighbors and stopped at airports, I battled racism in the form of smiling through the uncomfortable microaggressions uttered at me. Racism and shame were still present in my life, but as a lighter-skinned person of color, I was able to protect myself from a lot of that pain by silencing my true identity.But then there were times when I realized that I had guilt for concealing my true self. For example, when my dad learned I was going to have a First Communion, he asked me if he could enroll me in classes to learn about Islam as well. I refused. (Although in retrospect, I now realize that was too big of a decision for an 8-year-old to make.) Then, there was the time in middle school when we had to write about how our parents chose our names and if we were named after anyone. I lied, saying I didn't have anything to write about, because I knew that my first name had special meaning in my father's native language of Urdu, and it was a derivative of my paternal grandmother's name. And then, every year on my birthday, a wave of guilt would wash over me when my dad's family called to wish me a happy birthday, and I would remember that I barely knew them.

I am no longer ashamed of who I am, but I am ashamed for denying it.

Reconnecting With My Pakistani Family Helped Me Reconnect With Myself

It wasn't until my college years that I truly began to grieve the weight of all I had lost. My dad asked me to come with him to my cousin's wedding in Canada, and reluctantly, I agreed to go. Because I hadn’t seen my cousin or anyone on my dad's side of the family in 10 years, I assumed they probably wouldn’t even care that I came. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was greeted with smiles, hugs, the best food and friendly conversation. It was then that the striking grief and loneliness set in, for I realized I had isolated myself from a very loving half of my family and had distanced myself from a beautiful culture. At home, I was accepted by a white community, but I realized that although they loved me, they only loved the half that I presented. This side of my family loved me—all of me—and I had shut them out for so long. I finally realized that while writing this narrative that I was only "half" Abbas, I erased the parts of myself that made me feel truly whole. In the past several years, I have developed new feelings of guilt as I now recognize the prejudice I harbored for many years. I am no longer ashamed of who I am, but I am ashamed for denying it. I now know that in an effort to minimize oppression for myself, I allied myself with the oppressor. I no longer want a stain remover to erase who I am, but I wish I could erase what I did for so long. However, where shame and prejudice once lived, new seeds of curiosity and courage have been planted. I now have the curiosity to learn and the courage to unlearn the beliefs that rooted me in fear, ignorance and loneliness for so long. While I will always live with regret about how I lived for two decades, I am also determined to rediscover the half of myself that I once silenced.

Like with most things in life, if you’ve not personally lived through an experience, you really don’t know much about it. I know this well from living a life of secrecy. The most difficult part of identifying as anything other than a straight person in Nigeria is the energy it requires to conceal this vital aspect of yourself. In other words, I live with the constant fear of not doing anything contrary to the norm, behaving like a straight person would, with little to no room for being anything else. We all just try to conform so no one can ever suspect anything is amiss in our chase of conventionality.Coming from a typical Nigerian family, it’s difficult to be liberal with your thoughts. It’s believed that the father speaks on behalf of the family—other members are simply meant to fall in line or they risk getting cast out. It may seem very hard to understand for most, but I guess when your life and reputation depend on it, we all do things we never thought we were capable of doing. In this case, it’s the act of being inconspicuous.

In our country, being gay is synonymous with being allied with the devil.

My Girlfriend Vanished After the Church Attempted Her Deliverance

I always knew there was something quite different about me. While my friends in high school were busy trying to catch the attention of boys, I was busy forcing myself into thinking about them too. But catching the attention of a boy just felt wrong to me. Even then, I did it to seem normal.I wasn’t really aware of much after that. I had a boyfriend, and I only really cared about graduating, so the thought of dating went away—and so did the boyfriend. Fast-track a couple of years later: I was in love with my friend of the same sex, let’s call her S, and we both felt an effortless attraction. Although we had to be really sneaky about it, no one really paid us much attention, so we carried on for years. Reality interrupted when S was taken in for a deliverance at our church for being possessed by a demon. That’s when I knew her parents had found out about her being gay. In our country, being gay is synonymous with being allied with the devil, but S became unapologetic and fierce about it. “Haven’t you heard I’m the spawn of the devil himself?” she would yell, seeming insane to anyone who had just met her. I knew she was cracking under the pressure of being conventional and perfect. S was a gentle, sweet soul, but not long after the deliverance, she simply vanished. I think she was sent somewhere—I never really found out where. I was brokenhearted and had to move on in silence without telling anyone about S and our time together. If anyone noticed my sadness, they must have felt I was just missing my best friend.

Gays or cross-dressers who are caught on the streets here are often either stripped naked or beaten, sometimes to death.

We Need Influential Allies to Speak Out Against Nigeria’s Crimes

At 20, I began to understand the bigger picture, realizing my childhood struggle with being gay was just a drop in a bucket. The biggest shock was realizing that almost everyone I met who identified as gay in Nigeria had a similar story as mine. Eight years ago, the government passed a law in which anyone who identified as gay or who was caught in the act with someone of the same sex was to be sentenced to a 14-year jail term. Knowing this law existed, a few gay friends came together and moved our scene underground to keep us hidden. Still, we encountered so many problems with the law or with blackmailers, and at some point, we all agreed the whole trouble was too much and it was best to stay secretive. During that time, our biggest issue came from people who infiltrated our scene under the pretenses of being gay or bisexual. Then, they simply vanished a week or two later, and almost immediately, the place would get raided or shut down. It was deeply upsetting to know some people think being gay is a fun, one-day choice.Of course, it’s not. But in Nigeria, we have to be more subtle and careful to avoid suspicion; otherwise, our careers or families could be gone forever. We’ve had some really famous gay Nigerians speak up, but they still get to leave the country. Their brief and very privileged stays, along with their wealth, make them untouchable in Nigeria—effectively, being openly gay or bi is dependent on how much money or influence you have. As I often say, Nigeria is not so much anti-gay as it is anti-poor. Just a couple of months ago another law was passed, which can impose those found guilty with fines of up to $1,200 or six months in jail. Yet the rich and famous are not affected by this—just the average Nigerians. In what we often call “jungle justice,” gays or cross-dressers who are caught on the streets here are often either stripped naked or beaten, sometimes to death. The only ray of hope is if influential gay Nigerians speak up. It seems almost impossible. Everyone is trying to preserve their reputation or status, and we can only look to the Western countries as a beam of sunlight into how to live, clinging on to the hope that one day soon, worldwide, LGBTQ communities will find a solution.

It’s a tale as old as time: man meets woman, man wants to get woman’s attention, woman spends months jumping on nearby shelves and hissing, wondering why this person she doesn’t know is attempting to converse with her. (OK, so it was more like exchanging basic pleasantries, but still, why is he talking to her?) Finally, man asks about her dog, and conversation ensues. Then, they get married.Let’s take it back a step. The man has adult attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, first diagnosed as a child, then again as an adult. He’s funny and always game for anything. When he was growing up, he may not have been great at turning in assignments on time, but it was the 1990s—there were no Individualized Education Programs, and children with ADHD were just “disruptive” and overmedicated into zombie-like compliance. Now he’s mastered the art of getting people to open up. “I feel like I’ve known you forever” is a common refrain among new acquaintances. He’s kind, engaging and a social architect who can take a group of shy strangers, find common interests and facilitate what ends up being a great conversation. The woman has autism spectrum disorder and made it to her 30s before being diagnosed. From a young age, she’s studied her peers to know how to behave in almost every situation. Faster than you can blink, her quick brain can pull up a stack of suitable words and facial expressions from its Rolodex of human behavior for her to select from in different social situations. This is called masking, and autistic women are typically socialized to do it more than autistic men. While masking correlates with mental health conditions like depression and anxiety, it’s also helped her survive socially for decades—that and rules.

I’m a serene lake. My husband is more of a geyser.

My Husband and I Approach Parenting Situations With a Different Lens

As you might’ve guessed, I’m the woman on the spectrum, and the ADHD man is my beloved husband. We’ve always complemented each other, but nothing has challenged us or brought our life experiences to the fore like raising a child. We have the world’s most stunning 3-year-old son. “Three and a half,” he would correct me. He’s radiant, far too bright for our good and so gorgeous that people stop us on the street to tell us, like we don’t already know. Like all parents, we want our son’s childhood to be better than ours. My husband desperately wants him to have an accepting learning environment, especially if he has ADHD, and not have an eponymous corner in school because he’s “trouble.” I want him to mesh easily with his peers. Recently, he participated in toddler sports exploration. The eventual recipient of the “Mr. Independent” award, our child frequently would do things like sprint across the field while the other kids lined up for an activity or kick a basketball around instead of practicing chest passes. I fret about social disasters, especially since the pandemic stunted his social development. So there I am, chasing him, encouraging him to join the group and getting frustrated when he wants to sit across the court and watch while the other kids engage in an adorable, chaotic frenzy our coaches generously term a “scrimmage.” Alarm bells ring in my head. I recognize my social anxiety is my issue to manage, not my son’s, but I can’t shake my lifetime of training that tells me that following rules is a way to stay safe—not just physically (although listening and not running off is a thing we’re working on) but socially safe. You know that Rolodex in my brain that covers most situations? When it comes up empty, and I don’t even have a loose script to follow, I panic internally. Then, who goes dashing across the court kicking a basketball (wrong!) but my husband. He whoops as he kicks the ball to our child, and it goes wide left. Our son gets up and runs after it, laughing. They run around and are goofy together, and I’m in mental anguish over the non-script-following of it all. We discuss it later as our son gathers dandelions. Where my angst blinded me, my husband saw our son needed someone to meet him where he was. I’d forgotten what I’d told our child is the number one rule of any sport: to have fun. My spouse was anguished as a child because his executive functioning challenges made it difficult to learn and behave like his peers, and he wishes he’d had someone who engaged him in activities in different ways. He can be that figure for our son, and I could learn a thing or two from him.Now, you might guess I have low emotional intelligence. You’d be wrong. I’m painfully aware of others’ feelings and entirely in tune with my own. My husband says he’s never known someone who can articulate their feelings as well as I do. I credit my excessive calmness, logic and an overthinking brain. While my Socratic method of drawing out his thoughts irritates him sometimes, it also comes in handy.I’m a serene lake. My husband is more of a geyser. His emotions flare and vanish before he can identify, much less articulate them. Emotional dysregulation and low frustration tolerance are hallmarks of both adult ADHD and toddlerhood. Can you see how this might be an issue in our house?

We bring our lessons learned, challenges and life baggage to the parenting table just like everyone else.

Our Disordered Quirks Complement Our Parenting Styles

The other night, our helpful toddler bounces into the kitchen to help dad cook, not wanting to hear that dad wants space in his cooking realm so he can hyperfocus without distraction. They both get frustrated and upset, and the situation devolves. I step in, sensing the pressure building beneath the surface before my spouse pulls out the first and middle name. I call a time-out and hold our kid, asking questions to help him say what he wants and why he’s upset. I do the same with my spouse, who’s calmed down. I help them hear each other and find a solution. My excessive calmness and logic save the moment.It’s an opportunity to teach empathy to a growing mind and help my spouse step back to see the whole picture. I help our son express his feelings and remind my husband that what our son really wants is to spend time with us. If that means dinner isn’t ready as quickly or the kitchen gets messier, OK. In fact, that’s great because spending time with our son and helping him learn how to be human and how to cook is more important. I get to be the lighthouse I wish I’d had more of as a child, a safe place to be and feel anything and a guide for navigating Great Big Feelings. My spouse could learn a thing or two from me too.Our unique skills are strong opposites of each other’s, shall we say, “quirks”—though we see ourselves as deficient, we both refute the notion there’s anything wrong with the other. We bring our lessons learned, challenges and life baggage to the parenting table just like everyone else. It’s tough for my husband, having ADHD, and for me, having ASD. But maybe in each other, we’ve found our perfect partner in parenting, with a person who turns our quirks into superpowers.

When I moved to New York City with a $20 bill in my pocket to become an actress, I knew that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.I had no connections in the industry and no savings, and I knew that I would need a day job to acquire the bare necessities. I eventually worked long hours doing overnight shifts as a cocktail waitress and bartender. I would work until almost 6 in the morning, which would become exhausting. Financially, I wasn’t able to take off a shift at the bar to work an acting job, because I made more money behind the bar than I did on set. As I sometimes rushed between bars and gigs, I hated that other actors could sleep well because their parents fronted their rent. Still, I’m proud of pursuing the American Dream with a family of blue-collar workers who didn’t coddle me but taught me life skills, values and work ethic. Eating out meant going to the gas station with only a $5 bill as a kid, and the concept of dressing in formal attire for a restaurant was foreign to me. I cherish that.Everyone would prefer to move from a shitty town in America to the greatest one of all. Or so I thought. I came to realize that I didn’t come from a shitty town and New York wasn’t the greatest after all.

Pain and struggle weren’t new to me.

Moving to NYC From the South Was a Culture Shock

One of my first jobs in the city was dubbing commercial tapes in Times Square for $10 an hour. It was a family-owned business whose purpose was to clean up commercial spots before they went to air. It was a few blocks away from the acting conservatory I went to and a quick train ride back to Queens, where I was living at the time.The company owner’s son showed me a taste of some of the characters I would be running into over the next decade. Not only did he tell me that if a girl got raped, it was because she “dressed like a slut,” but he also wrongly assumed that the Dolce & Gabbana purse that I bought with tip money from my waitressing shifts was “a gift from Daddy.” Even if I was aware of the many laws intact to extricate us from this type of workplace abuse, I was always one to fight my own battles.“Oh, yeah? Is that how the girls in New York are raised?” I would snidely respond. He would look dumbfounded, like he wasn’t expecting my 19-year-old self to react with ease.“Where are your parents from?” he barked back.“The South.”“Grandparents?”“America.”“People in New York City are usually first- or second-generation American,” he said in disbelief before he stopped harassing me for the day.I always felt like I wasn’t allowed to be patriotic. New Yorkers genuinely thought Americans in the Southern States were racist. This was an eye roll. I went to an equally distributed mixed-race high school, and my best friend and first kiss were from a different race than me. We never spoke about it. Obviously, we looked different, but everyone does. It turned out that New York was more segregated than my hometown, so their projection onto places they’d never visited wasn’t surprising to me.

I Quickly Learned You Can't Please Everyone in the Acting Business

It had always been a dream of mine to explore the vast country that I called home. Many people in my hometown were content with never leaving, and even in New York City, there were some who never left the block they grew up on. I couldn’t imagine thinking that the rural South was America, but in contrast, it was even wilder imagining that some thought there was nothing outside of New York County’s lines. I was mocked for wearing cowboy boots in acting class, and I was told that my Southern drawl needed to be pocketed. As an actor, this made sense to me. I needed to transform into a character, and I couldn’t just portray myself on stage. We would do exercises in class that would require us to repeat each other’s words by starting with an observation.I boiled with anger when my scene partner started with, “You have pimples on your face.” I was told by a friend in the industry that I needed Proactiv and to dye my hair blonder if I wanted to get cast; then, I was told by an agent that I was “too pretty and too white” to make it far. I felt like no one would ever be pleased, so I just tried to focus on the craft rather than changing myself completely for people who would always try to find something wrong.The mockery didn’t stop outside of the conservatory’s doors. Oftentimes, I would run into someone who would try to negatively impact my drive toward success. “If you don’t come from money or know someone in the industry, it’s going to be hard for you,” some would say. “If you don’t sleep with someone, you’re going nowhere.” I was told that a few times. But I was determined.

My Upbringing Ingrained a Strong Work Ethic in Me

Pain and struggle weren’t new to me. I didn’t grow up dirt poor, but my family was frugal. We were the typical blue-collar, middle-class family that makes up most of America. I was taught to work and save at a young age, and regardless of my upbringing, I knew that I would be my only limit. No one in America is forced to work, but it’s obvious that if you want to live a comfortable lifestyle, you have to. It was absurd to me to overhear fellow classmates complaining about having to work when I was juggling multiple jobs by choice. I wanted to make enough money to focus on my craft. And when I had a job that I felt didn’t suit me anymore, I would leave. We all have the freedom of choice. On the contrary, I met many who would milk the system. They would make sure they made under a certain amount of money so they could get the benefits of welfare. Instead, I just worked more so that I could take home more. I will never forget the security guard at a lounge where I once waited. “When I get tired of this, I’m going to try something new,” she told me. You are not married to a job unless you choose to be.

No one owed me an explanation about why I didn’t get the job.

Opportunity Still Exists in America if You’re Willing to Work for It

I won’t give in to the idea of being oppressed in America in 2022. Everything is within arm’s reach. My ancestors worked in coal mines, and the concept of pursuing a career in the arts seemed like more of a vacation than a career to my family. Yet I persevered. “Making it big” is a distorted idea that is set to crush our heart’s desires. For me, living comfortably in an artistic career and having a flexible schedule to be with those who I love is more than enough. I never wanted to be a millionaire. But in America, that’s possible.It’s possible to be self-made through drive and talent alone. A friend of mine from Europe once remarked that in her home country, she wouldn’t be able to get a job without a degree. In America, there are many jobs that take experience into greater consideration. It’s easy for bitter people to knock the idea of an American Dream, but the idea of it is dependent on where our spirit lies. I could believe that I was doomed to fail because I didn’t grow up in privilege. Failure is also a concept that we create through romanticizing how we wish to exist. Some think the idea of not failing means not worrying about money, and some think that it means a collection of awards. Others see it as a spiritual concept that is between God and us. A life of ease without growth can actually be more destructible. The route we take in life is based on how far we all want to go. There will be roadblocks, but no one owes us directions to a detour. And as I learned after many auditions, no one owed me an explanation about why I didn’t get the job. It is not until we give up the idea that we should never have to struggle that we will finally be free.

Several months ago, I was dining with an Italian friend when he told me he appreciated L.A. the most for its floating quality. “It’s a climate primed for dreamers,” he mused as he sipped his martini. A platitude, but I couldn’t help but agree with him. We were seated outside Figaro Bistrot, picking at burnt escargot, watching people stroll by the narrow Los Feliz street. It was nosebleed season, and any perspiration immediately wicked off the body into the dry air. He said the pedestrians walk differently in his hometown. “In Milan, there’s a constant bustle. People move with a destination in mind. They don’t seem to do so here.” Once again, I agreed with him. There was an impracticality to their pace. They sauntered by, often with earbuds in, and took up the entire middle of the street. As someone who moved back to California after a stint in New York, this happened to be my biggest peeve with the city; the pedestrian culture here was infuriating at times. But that day, watching my friend watch the street with detached curiosity, it felt novel again. Later that afternoon, we drove to Echo Park to ride the swan boats. He steered, I peddled, struggling to spark a joint I found crumpled at the bottom of my briefcase. After several hits, the harsh edges of the heat were dulled. “How often do you smoke?” he asked as I passed him the joint. “Twice a day usually. Sometimes more.”

There wasn’t much to do in the inland desert outside L.A. besides getting stoned off your ass.

Smoking Weed Is a Big Part of California Culture

I used to be proud of the weed tolerance I’ve developed over the past four years in L.A. As a burgeoning adult, it’s become more of a guilty habit. The respite of weed is also the crux of my problem: It provides a cloud to drift on, away from the body and out of the present. I’ve become aware of long stretches of time lost to the cloud. We stopped pedaling and floated lazily along the lake. Yes, I thought to myself, L.A. floats. Fun fact: The history of weed in California predates its admission to the Union. In 1810, 220,000 pounds of hemp were grown in the state. The Mexican Revolution would eventually disrupt marijuana production, and subsidiaries were dissolved shortly thereafter. Following prohibitionist sentiments in 1907, California passed the Poison and Pharmacy Act and six years later became the first state to prohibit weed. In the 1930s, the infamous Reefer Madness campaign swept the nation. Weed had become inherent to the state before its boundaries were even drawn. The culture seeps into the disposition of Angelenos. To be honest, I was psychologically dependent long before my move. I started smoking in eighth grade. There wasn’t much to do in the inland desert outside L.A. besides getting stoned off your ass, especially on days when the thermometer reached the 110s. I lived in a three-bedroom home with my mom and five siblings. Weed gave me a mental headspace I could disappear into from the perpetual claustrophobia. And at that time, it truly served a utility. When I moved to New York for college, I was introduced to a whole new side of the culture. In California, you can get a gram for the price of several avocados (which also happen to be significantly more expensive in New York). We passed bongs around freely, regardless of anyone’s contribution. New Yorkers weren’t keen on sharing. They smoked spliffs and measured out their weed on scales before matching on joints, just to ensure no one was skimping. Then, I fell in love with a skater boy who taught me to roll my own joints. His hands were rough and scabbed from eating the pavement on many failed kickflips, but when he rolled, I’d watch his hands move gracefully, almost tenderly. When he licked the sides, it drove me out of my mind. I moved back to California the next year. The city was expensive and, unlike most of my peers, I didn’t have a trust fund. For two years, I associated my broken heart with the nostalgic ritual of rolling a joint. It was practically ceremonial. First, I’d wash my hands and either put on Lana Del Rey or pick from one of my many melancholy jazz playlists. Then, I’d roll up. I liked blowing dramatic circles and glamorizing my own loneliness. At that point, weed was so entrenched in my life, that it seemed difficult to imagine a future without it. For those two years, I was lost in the limbo of Los Angeles. The weather was so temperamental, I could drift through the seasons, suspended in a floating state without the bitter cold to bring me back to the body. I tried to keep in touch with the boy, but I was living on an island in the land.

Cannabis Got Me Through Quarantine (and So Much More)

When the pandemic began, I justified veggie-frying my brain as a way to lose track of quarantine time. Sometimes, this worked. Other times, it made the hours pass more slowly. Time rolled on and the pandemic happened, and I smoked to make time pass quicker. When I’m high, I’m more vulnerable to intrusive thoughts, which can often spiral into an anxiety attack. I refused to admit pandemic-related panic because I am a stoner, and therefore, I am chill and impervious to the hysteria of normies. So instead, my thoughts turned inward. I rehashed embarrassing and shameful moments, which I viewed as generalized pandemic fatigue. But there’s also a sense of nostalgia. Rolling a joint was often a communal act, sharing stories and spit in close proximity, something that had been lost in the isolation of quarantine. I associate smoking with the many communities I was lucky enough to have been accepted into. Like the time I lived in Haiti for a year, working for an art center in a coastal beach town. During power outages, which occurred every other day, my co-workers and I would take to the roof. My Haitian friends would bring tobacco leaves, and together, under a vast canopy of brilliant stars, we’d pick out the seeds and branches of scraggly brown weed that smelled like dog. We’d tell stories and play cards under candlelight sieged by moths the size of a child’s fist. Or when I stayed in Cambodia for a summer. I’d drink a beer at the waterfront in Phnom Penh and order happy pizza—pizza baked with weed on top of the cheese. Maybe I was too blasted to fully remember all these moments, but the fragments I have are precious to me. Smoking weed is a social act that breaches past language and cultural barriers. You don’t need to wholly understand a person to smoke with them, but even so, sometimes, you can tell a person by the way they roll. Do they add tobacco or prefer it vegan? Are their hands nimble as they pack the weed down, or do they smoosh it and tuck the paper in broad, swift movements? Do they hold the joint hostage during a rotation and tell long-winded stories? In the circle, who brings the lighter, who rolls, who plays the music, who’s the resident comedian? The stoned philosopher? The paranoid friend? This is all to say, my happy moments with weed were never really about the weed to begin with. The memories of the people I shared it with are the ones that stick out. It was an excuse to gather and share. It’s no wonder the best storytellers I know are massive stoners.

Rolling a joint was often a communal act, sharing stories and spit in close proximity, something that had been lost in the isolation of quarantine.

I’m Changing My Relationship With Getting High

In the past six months, after 10 years of daily smoking, I’ve finally started to reconfigure my relationship with the plant. I know now that it’s the people I cherish, not the high. L.A. has proven itself a sort of existential reckoning. There’s the endless cornucopia of herbs, tinctures, dabs, extracts, ointments, edibles—all an app away and comparatively affordable. But the problem isn’t the weed itself. L.A. provides a lot of indulgences to numb away the constant droll of a seasonless Alexandria. I understand the desire to lose time, especially these days. Without discipline, it’s easy to lose yourself to the vast indulgences offered by the city. Earlier this year, something shifted. Throughout the years, I attempted little breaks from weed but never succeeded for more than three days. But one day, fraught with generalized existential pandemic despair, I sat on my floor and lit a candle and prayed. Not specifically about weed but for change. We lost so much these past two years, and I didn’t want to lose anymore. So I prayed. Three days passed, and I had no cravings—then a week, then a month. I pick up the habit again every now and then, but my relationship with weed has been fundamentally altered. No longer a daily supplement, I treat the plant as I should—a positive and occasional relief, like a glass of wine at the end of a work week.

There are two definitions for the word “church”: It can mean a building that serves as the house of worship for a community of Christians, or the actual community itself. The former doesn’t hold much value in the grand scheme of things. Church buildings are useful and can be apogees of religious architecture. But Saint Paul doesn’t advise the early Christians that they should have a mandatory house of worship. But the community? Absolutely. A place of worship sounds like something of true spiritual beauty, and I had been longing for this feeling for many years.

I believed in God—it was the people who nearly ruined it.

I Grew Up in a Church That Was Stuck in Another Time

My family is of a particular Christian denomination that is culturally and ethnically exclusive to South India. But it is also of a lineage tracing back to the first century A.D., during the early spread of Christianity. As a child, being raised in a specific denomination can either make or break you. The younger me had no autonomy, so I could only rely on my parents to take us all to church every Sunday. Remembering the 16 years of attending this church makes me wonder how I tolerated it at all. I had to follow the dress code for women because anything else was deemed inappropriate. Women must cover their hair with a scarf or a similar garment. Our liturgy and doctrine were rather strict and structured too. Sunday school was no different to being at regular school, with tests and exams and scolding when we didn't memorize our Bible verses. I also ended up traumatized while in a vulnerable position. As a growing adolescent, I would come across individuals on the internet sharing their experiences as Christians in our church. The majority of the stories were sadly horrific, about the way they were made to feel uncomfortable and unsafe. That’s why many young people decide to leave the church once it is possible for them to do so.I’m quite surprised that my faith itself never wavered. Given how frequently people abandon their religion due to oppression, it would’ve made sense. But I sought out faith. I believed in God—it was the people who nearly ruined it. Churches can also hold conservative views on subjects like LGBTQIA+ rights, abortion and perspectives on other religions and atheism. The judgmental manner in which these topics are discussed leaves no room for dialogue and has caused a decrease in church attendance. I fully support the LGBTQIA+ community; they are all loved by God and deserve to be happy. Everyone has free will and one can’t decide for others, so being pro-choice makes more sense to me as a Christian. I take no issue with others following other religions or those who are atheist or agnostic. I’m not trying to say, “I’m better than the hateful Christians.” I just want to practice Christianity as Christ taught and to have a space to worship where that’s encouraged. The church is described as the body of Christ, and the teachings of Christ are that of love. We are also called to treat others as we would like to be treated. We are called to be welcoming and humble in our faith. When church bodies represent exclusion and moral superiority, they shouldn’t feel surprised that many people turn away from God altogether.

Churches Need to Give Us the Freedom to Love

I needed a church that takes the Lord seriously while also ensuring the congregation is accommodated so anyone can participate in worship. Sure, church isn’t supposed to be a place to party and do as one pleases—that would render the church as a community redundant and make the church just another building. Routine and ritual can greatly aid in ensuring that God remains the sole focus. At the same time, there is no one way to construct a church doctrine and liturgy. Each denomination has its own way of practicing its Christian faith, and individuals have a preference. Some may find the strict structures appropriate; others may prefer a relaxed approach.I knew that the church I was raised in was not the right one for me. I value its history because it is closely connected to Christ himself. Given the whitewashed image of Christianity in the West, this is something I still hold on to, as it’s also part of my heritage, alongside being a person of color. But I find it a real shame that the church's practices overshadow this heritage and that they kept me from feeling like it was my home.The blessing of becoming an independent adult meant that I was able to make my own decisions for once. As lockdown began in 2020, church moved to Zoom, and some Sunday mornings, we would watch live streams of the service. Even then, it was irritating to sit through. As restrictions were lifted and churches could accommodate people again, I decided to attend a different local church near our home. As a family, we had attended the services very rarely, perhaps three times in total. It was a real turning point when I walked into this local church for the first time in years.Although the church congregation is predominantly white and older, I was immediately welcomed into their little community. I had worries that I would stick out because of my skin color, my youth and my shyness, but there were zero issues. Many members even came up to me and started conversations.

I remain excited to worship the Lord with this new family.

I Moved Away From Tradition and Found a New Family

I’ve been a part of the church for nine months now. I’m friendly with many members. We converse after the service and occasionally meet up at events. They hug me. The latter especially surprised me because physical acts of affection were almost nonexistent at my previous church. Back there, conversations were centered on people who tried to measure everyone’s success through academic and professional success. Other times, there would be no conversation at all as I stood amongst other kids my age, staying silent or contributing very little. To experience this love I’ve been shown at my new church has been a huge relief, to the point where I get emotional. Circumstances may change in the future, but I remain excited to worship the Lord with this new family. I pray that others who wish to leave their church, whatever their beliefs, can find a home the way I have.The church should be a welcoming and safe space for believers and nonbelievers alike. It doesn’t matter the denomination, unless it strays far from the teachings of Christ. When the doors of a church are ignorantly shut, it cannot become a safe space for those who seek a relationship or an understanding of Christ.

Everyone remembers the best sex they ever had. It stays in the memory forever—the powerful physical and emotional sensations are unforgettable.The best sex I ever had was six months into my last relationship, with a man I had fallen completely in love with and who went on to become my fiance. A man I was with for seven years. It was the first time I understood sex could be more than a physical release and the chasing of pleasure. That specific evening, it was as if our minds and bodies were in harmony. We climaxed together, whispering our love in each other’s ears, a moment that now makes me cringe writing about but that, at the time, felt entirely natural.I think about that experience a lot because it completely changed my perception of love and sex. I think about it because I’ve been chasing those feelings ever since but have never managed to get back there. Even with that same man, I have never since felt quite as perfectly connected with another human being, either physically or emotionally.I’m certain that day is at least part of the reason why, when I split up with that man five years ago, I stopped having sex. That wasn’t the plan at the time; initially, I did what most people do and decided to take a break from intimacy while I recovered from the trauma of my breakup.But weeks became months, became years, and here I am, five years later—37 and not having sex.

When I split up with that man five years ago, I stopped having sex.

Relationships Only Last if They’re Built on Love

To put it simply, I don’t see the point. I had my fair share of casual sex during my late teens and 20s—one-night stands, hookups and a long-term friends-with-benefits situation during which sex was physically fulfilling but completely devoid of emotion and connection. On top of that, when I became single again in late 2017, I discovered that the nature of dating had changed in the preceding decade, driven by the emergence of dating apps.The statistics surrounding dating apps are staggering—323 million people use them worldwide, and by 2021, revenues stood at $5.61 billion. Tinder, Grindr, Bumble and the vast array of other apps have transformed the way we meet romantic and sexual partners. Sex is more accessible than ever before—it’s become transactional, quite often anonymous, without emotion, and I find myself instinctively rebelling against it.Whenever a friend disappears off to a different house or meeting place during the evening, returning later to find themselves blocked or ghosted by the man or woman they had been intimate with only hours before, I find it depressing. Can you really find love through a Grindr hookup?Many of my friends are now in open relationships, more than happy, they insist, to satisfy their physical needs with a handsome stranger before returning home to the one they (say they) love.I have the same debate endlessly with friends, many of whom believe monogamy is unnatural, impossible even. Eventually, they reason, every couple will face three choices: stop having sex altogether, open up the relationship to other people or break up.I counter that point with my own belief that if a relationship is built on love, it will last—even become stronger—regardless of whether sex is part of the dynamic.

It’s become transactional, quite often anonymous, without emotion, and I find myself instinctively rebelling against it.

Intimacy With a Stranger Feels Like a Waste

The trade-off here is that I am waiting for love—and if I don’t find love, will I ever have sex again? I know how this all sounds. I am routinely and relentlessly mocked by friends for my views on sex, and I understand that completely. To be honest, I’m surprised myself. Sex is, after all, the ultimate pleasure. Why deny yourself that pleasure? Am I just overthinking it?As Joe Orton, the famous playwright, once said: “Get yourself fucked if you want to. Get anything you like. Reject all the values of society and enjoy sex. When you’re dead, you’ll regret not having fun with your genital organs.”It may be one of life’s most pleasurable experiences, but it is also one of the most intimate. To waste that intimacy with a stranger seems futile. Sex is best when it is an expression of love. Until I fall in love again, my abstinence will continue. And I’m happy with that.