The Doe’s Latest Stories

I’m Autistic, but I Hate 'Neurodiversity'

I grew up as an undiagnosed autistic child; retrospectively, it should have been obvious, given the signs I showed. I was the lonely child always failing to make friends or to reach other social milestones, unable to communicate “adequately,” struggling to understand the theory of mind in others, failing to be organized (like when it came to basic tasks such as how to organize information on a page), obsessively seeming "older" in not having interests that aligned with that of my age group. Having an intense interest in a world outside the limited classroom confines of conformity wins no favors when you are a child or a teenager. I was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome almost a decade ago, just as it was being taken out of the diagnostic criteria, at the end of a three-and-a-half-year wait. The country I live in has poor provisions for diagnostic services, despite official government guidelines and bias against autistic females. Some territories still use the term; other places now use it as a shorthand for an area on the autism spectrum; others use it not at all. Such a descriptor apparently describes my neurological profile better, determining my level of functioning (ugh) in a “normal society” into one compact and understandable box. This is more than just me being awkward, shy, anxious—this is a neurological difference that I will always have. My disability, as defined by law, invariably shapes my life, and it will never not. Around the time I was diagnosed, the concept of “neurodiversity” started to take off, and it was seemingly everywhere. Landmark books and memoirs like NeuroTribes by Steve Silberman and Odd Girl Out by Laura James were reaching a mainstream audience. Yet nobody acknowledged that this was a disability that people like me have, lasting until the day we die.Many of the accommodations recommended before my diagnosis and during weren’t put in place either. I didn’t get the help I needed until almost five years after my diagnosis. While I struggled in trying to get to grips with my brain, phrases describing me as “the next stage in human evolution” and having a “superpower” just like Rain Man were everywhere. There is a cognitive dissonance in that—to toe the line of being enough while not being enough elsewhere, too much or too little. I was “too much” for help from some organizations because I can speak, but not enough for help elsewhere, like my employment needs. Neurodiversity has been used to deny me the help, support or accommodations I need and am legally entitled to, on numerous occasions.

I struggle so much, and this is not something you can just train away.

I Don’t Need "Superpowers"—I Need People to Take My Condition Seriously

I hate “neurodiversity.” And I detest it for the negative impact it has had on my life. By law, I am disabled. Medically, I am disabled. And yet as far as society is concerned, I have yet to be “disabled enough” to be counted as such. Why? Granted, the neurodiversity movement began with good intentions, such as taking pride in being different, ensuring healthcare professionals are held to standards of accountability, that we have access to education and so much more. Here were autistic individuals doing it for themselves—not parents co-opting their child’s diagnosis to play into tragedy tropes while making it all about them. In theory, that is a beautiful thing and one to be celebrated. In my professional and private life, I have been attacked on numerous occasions. Other autistic people have often said I am not “autistic enough”; I present as being “normal” due to being able to speak, for example. I have sometimes been accused of “faking”—while such individuals try to blanket enforce the idea of “community.” In other words, a group of people who subscribe to an echo chamber of neurodiversity advocacy, who try to enforce such a thing on every other person. I have never been a part of a group, let alone a community—because, ironically enough, that is a part of my diagnosis—and yet I have never been made to feel less a part of anywhere than the community I belong to by proxy of a label. Why do we have to conform to expectations we cannot see to? Online, I have seen advocates engaging in bullying, petty squabbles, trolling, “cancel culture.” That is not a community I want to be a part of. There are bigger issues. Even my work colleague recently admitted they don’t see me as autistic, as if that was some sort of compliment—before implying that my communication issues made me weird. They’d previously suggested—and still do—that I was part of the neurodiversity demographic that tries to enforce its view on everybody else, lacking in nuance, all the while acting in a very militant manner. While that’s unfair, the behavior of others can so often unfairly blight others.

Denying the reason why that could help tackle their problems, in order to aid a celebratory narrative, is terrible.

I’m Supposed to Celebrate My Condition, but What I Really Want Is Help

Earlier this year, I underwent testing related to another condition that is now recognized as being under the neurodiversity umbrella. This is all over my medical history—enough so teachers, doctors and others had said it was blindingly obvious, they just decided not to test me at the time. I struggle daily with numbers—using them, understanding them, translating them—more so than the norm. When the follow-up to review my results took place, I was sent away on the basis that this was a neurodivergent condition to celebrate, with my different wiring, and no diagnosis. A condition that impacts me was brushed aside, with no real consideration for its impact. You need a diagnosis for any support in the U.K., and that had been denied, despite the inordinate amount of testing, because this was something to be “celebrated,” and I’d ostensibly overcompensated for my issues anyway (which is not the case). I struggle so much, and this is not something you can just train away. It’s serious enough that other people, through observation, consider it to be disabling. Why can’t we just admit to ourselves that it is OK to be disabled, there is no shame in that and that we just need some support sometimes? I know of other people not being diagnosed as autistic, usually women, because neurodiversity is something to be “celebrated.” They are in need of support, when they’d usually mask their challenges, as part of the diagnosis. You need a diagnosis to access support you are legally entitled to, however; that is your right. Autistic individuals have a higher rate of suffering from mental health issues. Denying the reason why that could help tackle their problems, in order to aid a celebratory narrative, is terrible. Neurodiversity has become factional and is lacking in nuance. Not every autistic person is the same. But we are human beings, too—and ones who need support.

Anna Stevenson

December 20, 2023

Aversion Therapy Still Exists

As I read the poem I’d written about my trans sister, I didn’t realize it would start a chain reaction of events that would lead me to losing marks on my creative writing M.A. dissertation and my overall grade. But I discovered something more important.A member of the poetry group suggested I listen to a recent interview about aversion therapy that had been on the radio. A few days later, I tracked down the interview, listening to the guest talk about their experiences of being trans and how their mother coerced them into aversion therapy. It sounded awful, and I wondered why anyone would think it was a good idea to put someone through that ordeal just to make them fit into their rigid idea of being normal.I delved into websites, books and other recordings to learn more, but nearing the end of my creative writing M.A., I had to decide what to write about for my dissertation. This had to be a 15,000-word story, an extract of a work-in-progress or a collection of shorter fiction. I decided I could combine wanting to learn more about aversion therapy into it.

It’s not just happening in the U.K. but in the U.S. and other countries around the world.

None of My Peers or Evaluators Thought Aversion Therapy Was Still Happening

I kept the idea of a man being coerced into therapy by his mother, but I chose my character to be gay instead of trans. I created two timelines. One followed this character set in the modern-day. The other followed a doctor who married a woman, despite being gay, in the 1980s. He wanted to hide his sexuality and took a job at a private clinic, standing by for years as he witnessed the barbaric way gay men under his care were treated. Eventually, the two characters met.Although aversion therapy doesn’t take place in hospitals, I came across several articles to confirm it did still happen in the U.K., where the story was set and where I lived. So I set my story in a place that the characters referred to as a private clinic; it didn’t follow any of the conduct you would expect at a reputable place.I sent the first draft to other students to critique while I read and critiqued their work. Several of them said the recent timeline was unrealistic because aversion therapy doesn’t happen anymore. I doubted myself enough to reread the articles, which confirmed it did and quelled my concerns. After that, I explained the research I had done and the sources I had found, receiving great feedback from my tutor on the summary and easing any more worry. After submitting my dissertation, I waited patiently, eventually opening the fateful email and seeing the mark, a few points away from getting a 2.2. (Here in the U.K., nobody cares about a grade lower than 2.2, even though 2.1 or better is the preferred grade.) Then, I read the feedback. My first thought was how unfair it was. The brief comments stated I should have set the whole story in the ’80s because aversion therapy doesn’t exist anymore. It was impossible to know exactly how many marks this wrong assumption had lost me, but it was likely I would have gotten a 2.2 if they hadn’t deducted them for it.

Why Weren’t People Aware of This Ignorant Practice?

The disappointment of studying part-time for two years only to see my hard work wasted quickly turned to something else. I kept thinking about the fact that several educated people thought aversion therapy no longer happened in the U.K. I had lots of news articles saved on my computer saying otherwise, and I’d read about people being raped in an attempt to “turn them straight.”I heard stories of acts that could only be described as torture and would be inhumane if they were being done to an animal. In fact, when animals are treated badly, campaigners often fight to get the perpetrators to stop, and it usually gets featured in the media. So why weren’t more people talking about this? Why weren’t they protesting? Why wasn’t it dominating the news? It’s difficult to know exactly how many people have been forced into aversion therapy because not everyone talks about it. But even a small number is too many.That’s when I realized that outside of the LGBTQ+ community, most people weren’t aware of aversion therapy—either at all or, just like the students and tutors in my course, they assumed it no longer happened. If this were true, it would explain why there wasn’t more attention and outrage around it.

Why weren’t they protesting? Why wasn’t it dominating the news?

Those Outside the LGBTQ+ Community Must Be Made Aware of Aversion Therapy

As aversion therapy was debated in Parliament, I closely followed the news, which was difficult to find unless you knew where to look. Though the government has now agreed to ban it, it doesn’t mean it will end instantly. I believe there is still a lot of campaigning that needs to be done, and people need to be made aware that it still goes on today. For that to happen, people need to come forward with their own personal stories, and the media needs to stop gatekeeping and open up the floodgates to give them a platform to inform the wider public. It’s not just happening in the U.K. but in the U.S. and other countries around the world.When I look at it that way, the grade for my creative writing M.A. doesn’t seem as important as it did in those first moments of disappointment. The qualification still helped me gain a couple of opportunities, like the regular freelance work I picked up last year (and still do now), and no matter the grade, I still have the knowledge from studying. I just tell people I have the qualification and passed, but hardly anyone ever asks about the degree classification anyway. If it does come up, it gives me an opening to start a conversation about aversion therapy.The important takeaway is that I learned more about people who are mistreated for being anything other than straight. It’s made me want to share this knowledge with other people and help to make a positive change. The more people outside of LGBTQ+ community are made aware of aversion therapy—and that it still happens—the more they can do to amplify the voices of those who have been (and are still being) subjected to it.

Panda Girl

December 20, 2023

I Left My Family Group Chat for My Mental Health

Recently, I spent an entire Friday drafting an email to my dad. In it, I described what I saw as our eternal conflict—we don’t share the same values, and my dad has never given up trying to enforce his on me. Which is to say, my dad, a lawyer who wanted to be a writer, feels entitled to tell me what I am allowed to write about. I am a memoirist and comedian, and he is insulted by anything less than sycophantic praise, invalidating my emotional experience any time it threatens his very fragile ego, which is often. As I began writing the email, it felt terrifying to explain, “This does not mean that my values are wrong.” He’d been successful, after all, indoctrinating both my sister and stepsister, much in the way that it appears his parents were successful with him. And beyond that, the things they valued—financial security, image, etc.—are similarly valued by the rest of Western society.His response to my message was revolting. He was insulted that I said he valued image and told me I was never allowed to write anything negative about him. He ridiculed my desire to enforce conditions for our relationship. He was my father, and he was almost 70. He went on to enforce his own conditions. My father is a smart man—he went to Yale and wanted me to go to Yale too. After being born a highly sensitive person and raised in an invalidating and emotionally abusive family (he did hit me once, but that, of course, was “my fault”), I eventually got into Yale too. Their psych ward. But he cannot see anything beyond the stories he tells himself to keep his false self safe. He told me that I could not write anything that was insulting about “the family” and to bring any conflict directly to them. Ha! If the family was a safe place to bring a conflict, I never would have become a writer. Why did I want to talk about his divorce? That was “in the past.” Or about the time he told my mom he’d hired a hitman to murder us—and then she pulled me and my sister out of school in the middle of the day during a whiteout blizzard, drove us to Vermont, hid her car in a barn and we sat huddled in my aunt’s house for days? How dare I believe my own experience. When I made my ninth-step amends to him, he brought up unresolved issues from when I was a child, including the divorce and the night he hit me. I just sat there and took it. I am stronger than him. All scapegoats are. I can take it. But I don’t have to.

I eventually got into Yale too. Their psych ward.

No One Confronted Me Until I Took It to Social Media

It’s a misconception that those who are called to write about their own lives want to get revenge or be the main character. We are simply trying to figure out what the hell happened. My dad decided once I had begun doing those things at a professional level that he would like to do those things too. So I offered him a paid comedy show—$20 and 20 minutes from his house. “Too far,” he said. “Not enough money.” Instead, he chose to use my grandmother’s eulogy to shit on her for 10 minutes while everyone laughed in shock and discomfort. She was the only one on his side of the family who was nice to me because she had dementia.Then, he decided he was ready to write his memoirs. You get it. If I can do it, anyone can. I sent him The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr, a Moleskine and my favorite pens (Pilot G-2 Gel). “I’m going to wait until I retire.” Then, he retired. A few months later, he announced he was no longer getting me anything for Hanukkah. Why? “You never get me anything I want.” What do you get for the man who has everything except self-awareness? I left the family group chat last winter in an effort to reduce my experience of invalidating environments, and no one said a word to me. Until I posted a tweet that got all of five likes: “I left my family group chat in an effort to leave invalidating environments behind, and, in confirmation, nobody even noticed.” First came my sister, who I was able to talk down fairly quickly, ignoring the gaslight of her explanation (“Sometimes texts get missed”). Then came my stepsister, with the same foundational idea but worse. She began swearing and accusing me of not caring about my family. She said she thought I was better than this, that I was judging her, that the problem in the family was that I always had a problem. I attempted to carry on the conversation as if I was dealing with someone not in an activated state of emotion and finally gave up. All her words were my father’s. As Philip Levine says in his poem "I Was Born In Lucerne," “All the rest of the cliches I could have lived by.” They were all the lies I had lived by.

Becoming the Family Scapegoat Had Its Upside

It’s not uncommon for an emotionally sensitive child born into an emotionally immature family to become the scapegoat, to develop borderline personality disorder or to turn to drugs and alcohol for a sense of community that reinforced that “bad” identity. I did all three. When I came out on the other side, I’d lived through some wild shit. I’d become uniquely qualified to help others in various predicaments. I’d learned to validate my own emotions, discover what my values are and how to let them drive my effort. I’d also found stand-up comedy and, in it, the ability to get on stage and talk about the worst things I’d ever done and get laughs instead of abandonment. My stepmother coddled my stepsister. My mother coddled my sister. My dad was generally cold, distant and self-involved but occasionally emerged to say “good job” if one of us did something he wanted us to. Both sisters live the way my dad tells them to, expressing to me at different times that they couldn’t pursue other interests because of his bullying. For example, my stepsister has a successful Etsy store that may remain nothing more than a hobby. Apparently, the risks of jumping into a job without benefits are not acceptable to my dad and stepmom. Being the golden child in a dysfunctional family system sucks in that way. There’s still the inability to mirror or validate emotional experiences—there’s a rigidity of conformity, and, as told to me by a friend raised that way, there’s the feeling that you have to be what they want you to be or you will lose their conditional esteem.But as the scapegoat of the family, at least I get to figure out what I want. There’s less to lose. Being outside of any system allows you the space and freedom to look more objectively at all systems and to think critically about what you see there. For years, as I struggled to get sober, I had this idea that one day, I would achieve sobriety and be lovable. Somehow, my family would match up with the carefully curated Facebook images I’d watched from exile. In sobriety, I learned they aren’t very close—they don’t see each other very often. They just never get together without capturing a group photo.Then, I found other scapegoats—an aunt of mine now functions as the mother I always wanted. Like me, she likes to talk about things we both consider real. And like me, some family members don’t talk to her at all because of this.

I will no longer try to repair things that I didn’t break.

I Gave Up on Remedying Our Family Dynamic for My Mental Health

If I received just a little more acceptance, I don’t know that I would have figured out who I was. My self-concept is colored by fear and conformity. I have a friend whose mother regularly body and food shames her. It’s hard for her to set a boundary—she knows her mother does it out of misguided love. I would never tweet about my sisters to hurt them (I would put that on Facebook), but part of the work is knowing that others get to have their feelings about things. To write to my dad and tell him, finally, that any attempt to police the content of my work is a request for me to compromise my values (and that I’m also not willing to have him weigh in unsolicited on relationships or conversations I have with others unless it is to offer support) was scary. Thanks to that one stupid tweet that only got five likes, I set out on a course that provided me the impetus to require that happen without me abandoning myself as well. I will no longer try to repair things that I didn’t break.For decades, I wanted my family to take my needs seriously, to recognize that I was a sovereign being whose desires were no less valid than theirs. I could do it for my animals—why couldn’t they do it for me? And then, I got out of the “why” and did it myself. In that way, I finally got what I always needed. I left my dad “on read.” A few days later, he said that he (a millionaire) was unable to log in to my Hulu account. I wrote back that until he got help for his narcissistic behavior, we weren't talking. And after a lifetime of holding my breath, waiting for the next onslaught, I finally let it go.

Aviva

December 20, 2023

I Support the Right to Have an Abortion, but I Deeply Regret My Own

I stood staring at the stick, re-reading the instructions as if they might suddenly have changed since the last three times I read them. It didn’t matter which way I squinted.“I’m pregnant,” I said out loud in my small bedsit. I looked around at the single bed, the armchair, then the sink where the tap didn’t produce hot water (the landlord had given me a kettle to boil water). My eyes stopped at the door leading to a toilet, which was the same size as those you find on trains or coaches.I would have to move out, find a better place. How? I didn’t know. My relationship with the baby’s father was on-and-off and we were currently in an off phase. I was still on the pill the last time I had sex with him before that particular breakup. I was 27, but wasn’t as emotionally mature as some other 27-year-olds. I’d had a few relationships, but didn’t know that when I was sick that could have affected the pill working—or more to the point, not working.Even though I had never managed to hold a job down for more than a few months, there wasn’t a doubt at that moment about keeping the baby. I just didn’t know anything beyond that, like how I would look after a baby. Looking back, I wasn’t in the right place or frame of mind to do what was needed to take care of a child.

I know I should have been stronger, but doubts set in and I became less certain of how I felt.

Nobody Plans to Have an Abortion

I told my ex, and he accused me of making up a pregnancy to win him back. When it finally sank in I was telling the truth, he was adamant I should get an abortion.“I’m keeping it,” I told him by text, as he refused to take my calls. “You don’t have to be involved in the child’s life.”That wasn’t enough for him though. He didn’t want a child tracking him down and turning up on his doorstep 18 years later. I tried to stick to my guns. I know I should have been stronger, but doubts set in and I became less certain of how I felt.I never opposed anyone’s right to have an abortion, but I didn’t think it was something I would choose for myself. I suppose that’s the point. Nobody plans to have an abortion until they are faced with the prospect of an unplanned pregnancy that they are completely unprepared for. My own childhood wasn’t ideal. I’d never wished I hadn’t been born, but my dad was violent and my mom stood by. We lived on a council estate and I was bullied at all the schools I went to. The more I thought about it, the more I felt the so-called cruelty of aborting a baby before it became a living being was kinder than bringing a child into a world where it might suffer in all the ways I had. I also wanted my ex to help, and without his support, I didn’t see how I could provide for a baby. I thought there was something wrong with me, and he only fueled that by treating me like I was lazy, as though I didn’t want to achieve anything in life. I’ve only recently discovered I’m an introvert, and that it means I work better alone, and can only handle social interactions in moderation. There is nothing wrong with me, but I need a different kind of work environment from other people. My ex wasn’t prepared to try to understand that.

I’m Lucky Abortion Was an Option For Me

If abortion had been illegal where I lived, I would have had two options: Bring a child into the world, despite not being capable of looking after him or her at the time, or get an illegal abortion at a place without proper monitoring. This could have damaged or even killed me. I realize many anti-abortion protestors think making abortions illegal will stop them. I don’t believe it will; this would only result in more illegal abortions at unregistered clinics, often performed by unqualified people. By claiming to be pro-life, they could actually put the lives of countless women at risk.My own decision wasn’t made lightly, and yes I was coerced, but it wasn’t the right time and I didn’t have the tools, knowledge and life skills right then. Nobody has an abortion without thinking it through. The pill or condoms are never 100 percent effective, and mistakes happen. There are enough damaged adults who had awful childhoods without creating more by forcing women to give birth to children who they can’t nurture and take care of.

By claiming to be pro-life, they could actually put the lives of countless women at risk.

Regret Doesn’t Mean I’d Do Things Differently

I regret my abortion all the time. I’m always thinking about how old my child might be now and what they would be like. But if I could go back to the day I took the abortion pill, I wouldn’t do anything differently. Regret isn’t the same as thinking I could have been a good mother back then.Some things still sting though. My partner (now husband) was curious about my ex. So, while we were in a hotel room, while visiting family over Christmas, he found my ex’s Facebook profile. I was shocked to see pictures of my ex getting married, holding a baby and announcing he was a father. He constantly told me he didn’t want children, or wanted to get married. My shock wasn’t because I wished he’d married me. I’d moved on and progressed as a person. Marrying him would have given me a worse life than I had, and my mental health would have suffered for it.But it felt like I was being punished. I never had children—but he did? I thought if he was a father, but I wasn’t a mother, then this must be karma, and I was completely to blame for the abortion. Objectively, that’s a ridiculous notion. I would never think a childless woman who had an abortion almost 15 years ago was being karmically punished for her decision. Women (including me) tend to be harsher on themselves.It’s unlikely I will have my own children now, but I know I did the right thing. This helped me to ease up on the guilt I feel. Because of my own upbringing, I spent time in foster homes. Some were better than others. I will probably look into fostering within the next few years hoping to help children deal with their trauma and have a better life. Maybe that’s what I was always supposed to do, if you believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe if I had my baby, I wouldn’t be where I am now.

Panda Girl

December 20, 2023

I've Always Been a 'Good Boy': It's Not True

From a very young age, I've based my behavior on what I thought would bring me love. I sought love from parents, teachers, peers and partners by being a “good boy.” This “good boy” was respectful, didn't abuse drugs or alcohol, never fought verbally or physically and tried to always treat others with respect. I constantly strove for approval, inclusion, appreciation and love. As I developed this “good boy” character, I learned to be curious about people, to find out how to make them laugh and smile along with me and to explore unique ways of getting to know them. I also learned how to make my parents and teachers proud by doing homework and housework, getting good grades and excelling in my extracurricular activities. While I didn’t realize the trappings of white, cis, male heteronormativity at the time, I would eventually learn how these parts of my identity, along with my upper-middle-class upbringing, contributed to what made me a “good boy” in the eyes of many, far beyond my personality and behavior. On the flip side, I learned that my sexual desires, as they began to overtake my body and attention, were not part of the equation that made up my “good boy” persona.

With help from therapy and my wife, I’m realizing that I’ve muted myself for most of my life.

I Thought Being a Good Person Meant Neglecting Myself

Recently, I’ve begun to understand the person I have been my entire life was a person who bypassed his own needs and desires, sexually and otherwise, in service to others. I never learned how to check-in and understand what I truly wanted and needed, or if I did have needs and desires, I often felt ashamed or selfish asking for them. All I knew how to do was get others to like me and appreciate me by bending over backward to like and appreciate them first. I had no way of knowing how to manage my sexual desires in communication with others, and I was explicitly socialized to believe that my sexual nature was something to keep to myself. I remember my parents teaching me at an early age (quite appropriately) that my private parts, and anything to do with them, were explicitly private. But when I was caught in the bathroom with my mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalog and she asked, “What is this doing here?” I felt deeply ashamed and had no answer. Now, I’m in my late 30s, recently married and about to have a kid. As I begin to uncover the truth behind always being a “good boy” and recognize the unspoken desires I’ve always had, I'm realizing I'm not who I thought I was. I’m learning that I still make decisions based on what my parents would approve of, my partner’s needs or getting love from people I admire. I find this showing up in the simple daily questions of what I want for dinner or what I do for work. My wife inquires, and I almost always defer back to her. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask. In explaining my work, I find ways to identify as an entrepreneur, a designer, an artist, depending on who I’m speaking to, always thinking about how I can explain it to parents and friends in a way that they will find admirable. I’m also learning how to slowly break free from this cycle of thinking that has hijacked my awareness and true identity. With help from therapy and my wife, I’m realizing that I’ve muted myself for most of my life and I need to take time to feel into my body and determine what I actually want. Slowly, I’m learning to voice what I need and want. It’s scary, but it’s time.

I Didn't Realize How My Identity Affected My Behavior

As millennials, we have grown up through an explosion of identity politics. The way we define our race, beliefs, sexuality and gender are often as important, if not more important, in society than how we speak about our careers and passions. As early as first grade, I learned that I had lots of privilege as a white, upper-middle-class “good boy.” I experienced the differences in how my family lived and some of my classmates with different identities and privileges. Over time, I learned that my privileges informed how I behaved. I learned to mute myself so as not to stand out, and I learned that my identities weren’t necessarily cool in the circles where I wanted to be accepted. The cool kids, especially in middle school, rode skateboards and bikes all over the city; they lived in modest houses and apartments, some in the projects; and they watched The Simpsons every night. For a while, I felt left out. I didn’t watch the right TV shows or have the balance to stay on a skateboard, and I didn’t have the freedom from my parents to roam free all day after school. But after spending some time listening and cajoling my parents to loosen up, I began joining my classmates in the Simpsons talk and on the skateboards and got comfortable spending time in their homes.I felt more accepted for a while, and my self-esteem began to grow as I got better at skateboarding and more fluent in cool culture, but eventually, what was cool changed as middle school turned into high school. I could no longer hack it with just my activities and attention; now my race and privilege set me apart from the pack, and it was hard to overcome those differences that became more vast as we grew older by watching the right TV shows. I also gravitated toward new friends who were more like me in terms of privilege and felt more accepting of who I was.

I learned that my privileges informed how I behaved.

I’m Tired of Being the “Good Boy” and Am Refocusing on Myself

I remember being frustrated as an adolescent into young adulthood as I grappled with my label as a “nice guy” amongst women I desired. I didn’t want to be mean or selfish or disrespectful to anyone, but I did want the respect and admiration many of those not nice guys got, especially from our female peers. Because the “good boy” knew how to make friends, I found many crushes led to friendships. Looking back now, I realize that “good boy” really badly wanted more than just friendship. He wanted to explore his sexual nature with others. He wanted to fuck. Even in college, it was challenging for me to comfortably share my desires for women I was attracted to and to fully express my sexual fantasies. I felt like I was being bad or disrespectful by voicing or being too overt about my sexual interest in someone else. When I did find reciprocity in a romantic connection, it felt like I was being granted a pass to a forbidden land where I wasn’t supposed to go.Lately, I’ve noticed a similar feeling of shame and silence coming up around my comfort level being a white man in a non-white world. I feel like I should mute my expression or natural desire to lead, take up space and create when I carry the privileges of cis, white patriarchy. The thing is, like my sexual fervor, I do want to take up space and share myself with the world in my fullest expression without shame or self-suppression. I want to expand my expression, make bigger, bolder art, dress in wilder, more colorful ways, say provocative things that challenge social norms. I want to live fully without restraint!Looking back on how I was raised and the culture that taught me how to be a “good boy,” I am thankful for many of the skills and sensitivities that got me here. Now I seek to unlearn some of the conditioning that leads me to neglect my own needs and desires for the sake of everyone else. I am ready to meet my “bad boy,” the one who knows when and how to prioritize his needs, the one who isn’t afraid to say what he thinks or engage in conflict that serves his growth. I know that my friends and family can love this boy too. Those who know me best have been waiting for him to arrive for a long time.

December 20, 2023

I Miscarried While the News Ran Stories of Roe v. Wade Being Overturned

I was warned, but how often do we heed warning signs?After reviewing my hormone levels and ultrasound, the doctor said it could go either way—a baby or a loss. He projected seven weeks, but the ultrasound put me at five. When I asked what I could do, he smiled and said to “just wait in agony.”Months before the positive pregnancy test, my partner and I had agreed to prepare. I took prenatals, exercised regularly and tracked my period and ovulation dates. When I missed my period, I was convinced that I had a hormone imbalance, which would affect my ability to get pregnant. I had already experienced hormonal issues, as well as a surgery to remove endometrial polyps. Even after the doctor told me the news, I asked if he was sure because I didn’t want to get myself excited. On the ride home from that first appointment, I felt everything: disbelief, joy, anxiety.A few days later, still processing the pregnancy news, Politico leaked the potential overturn of Roe v. Wade. I was shocked but not appalled. I read through news articles and various social media posts. I thought about the people who would be impacted by this monumental decision. Then, I went about my day, checking emails, checking my underwear for unwanted blood, checking labels to confirm everything was pregnancy safe. Not for one second did I think this news impacted me directly.

I was devastated and terrified.

Ignoring My Body’s Cues, I Chose Cautious Optimism

The day after the story broke, I started spotting. Brown, according to the internet, meant nothing to worry about. The next day, the spotting increased, turning bright red. The nurse insisted I come in. My partner offered to miss his work meeting. When I said no, he offered to sit outside in the parking lot. He was stressed enough with work, and I figured it would be easier to handle alone. I assured him I would be fine. Hours later, I was in the office with a white sheet doing little to cover my naked thighs. The doctor checked my cervix, which was closed, then sent me down the hall for an ultrasound.I had researched for hours and hours, desperate to know every sign and symptom, ingest every intimate, heart-wrenching story. Some women had bled throughout their pregnancies without complications. Some had been given bad news, only to show up weeks later with a healthy heartbeat. These rare, inspiring stories reassured me, kept me calm, right up until the moment the technician put the probe between my legs.The imaging showed a sac, but no embryo.“There’s nothing there,” I said aloud, but she wouldn’t confirm it. She called the doctor while I changed in the bathroom.My partner and I had talked through the possibility of a miscarriage. When the levels were low and rising too slowly, we changed our language from “when” to “if,” knowing the chances weren’t in our favor. Still, I took prenatal vitamins, cut out caffeine, bought pregnancy-safe toiletries, subscribed to a prenatal fitness program, bought stretch mark cream and researched the best baby products. I refused to buy anything baby-specific, as if that would protect me from the potential heartache, but already, I had allowed myself to envision our life together.When the doctor gave me the news, the words came out in choppy sentences, as if I were standing in a crowded bar listening to a drunken story. I heard “blighted ovum,” “can’t confirm yet,” “not official,” “you’ll probably pass it on your own.” I nodded, but I was devastated and terrified. “Keep your ultrasound appointment. If needed, we can start you on medication.” I nodded continuously, holding tight to the armor that surrounded my body.Then, the technician interrupted him to say, “I’m so sorry.” In this moment of seriousness, this woman was choosing to acknowledge the emotions—my emotions—and just like that, I was disarmed, the armor stripped. Tears pooled in my eyes. “Don’t beat yourself up,” the doctor said as the technician handed me a tissue. “This is not your fault.”

Growing Up, I Couldn’t Fathom the Need for Abortion

I was born and raised Catholic. My parents had four priests on the altar at their wedding, all of whom were family members. We kept holy water next to the condiments in our fridge. Before every major road trip, we said a decade of the rosary. When it stormed, we imagined God was in the clouds bowling. Every night before bed, I prayed to my guardian angel. As a teenager, I wore a purity ring and wrote letters to my future husband.Pregnancy before marriage was my mother’s greatest fear for me, her only daughter. I would begin to warn her of important news, only for her to jump to the conclusion that I was pregnant. No news could be as awful as that. Not once did she worry about sexual assault or cancer. Just pregnancy. I’d secretly wonder what would happen if I actually got pregnant, but I was too cautious, paranoid, guilt-ridden. I refused to have sex until my early 20s and only then because I met a guy I thought I would marry. Pregnancy terrified me. Even when I wasn’t having vaginal sex, a missed period made me anxious. If at any point I got pregnant, I would have the baby—no questions asked.In a strict Catholic household, you don’t have to be told what to believe; you inherit beliefs like you would jewelry. We didn’t believe in feminism, always voted Republican and celebrated shotgun weddings. Abortion was unfathomable, inhumane. We didn’t even mention the word. It was far too dirty, like “Jesus Christ” out of context or “divorce.”For many years, I lived naively, but the more I learned, the more I unlearned. The more people I met, the more I realized that my inherited beliefs didn’t account for every person, every experience. Imagine unraveling yourself from a roll of packing tape. You pull slowly, steadily yanking at stray hairs, tugging your skin, until you're bare, until there’s nothing left but your body in its natural, raw state. That’s what it felt like to pull myself away from the church and every belief that I’d been taught. The pain of that extraction is still there, but now, I can speak out against the church, argue with relatives and remind my parents that their beliefs contradict morality.I came around to abortion because I understood it was a necessity. Not only could it save a woman’s life but some people had no other options—no money, support or community. Until our government could offer comprehensive support to every new mother, every newborn, then we needed abortion to be legal. And yet, deep inside, abortion still felt wrong to me. It felt like a last resort; an option when you’ve exhausted all other options. I didn’t yet believe, wholeheartedly, that everyone deserved the right to an abortion, no matter their situation.

No One Can Prepare You for the Loneliness of Miscarriage

According to the doctor, I would bleed heavily for four to five hours and experience some period-like cramping, and then I would have light spotting. If the heavy bleeding continued beyond that point, then I would need to go to the emergency room. After work, I closed my computer, ordered Thai food and watched Top Chef from the beginning. I had large menstrual pads from a previous surgery but no Tylenol. Surely, I’d be fine without.With period cramps, you feel a fullness and dull, achy pain. This was sharp, sudden. It felt like someone implanted metal springs into my uterus and was pressing and releasing, repeatedly and without warning. I couldn’t find a comfortable position and couldn’t relieve the pain, so I stood, walked, stretched, lowered myself to the yoga mat, pressed my upper body against a table. My partner watched helplessly.I bled and contracted for the next 12 hours. I watched holiday baking shows, and listened to a podcast on miscarriage. One woman bled for countless days before going to the emergency room, only to be told it wasn’t over and they couldn’t do anything for her. I feared that I would hemorrhage, go to sleep and never wake up again. I called the obstetrics department of the hospital at 1 a.m. just to make sure I wasn’t dying. The woman couldn’t give me medical advice but assured me that I would be OK.Throughout the night, I slashed the sheets in anger, kicked my legs in frustration, propped myself in child’s pose and set an alarm every two hours to check and change my pad. The grief settled into my body as I writhed in pain. In the morning, I attempted to brush my teeth but couldn’t stand without keeling over. Crouching on the bathroom floor, I begged for it to be over. I told my partner if this ever happened again, I wanted a D&C.I got into my car that morning and waddled into CVS to buy a pain reliever. On the way, I passed an elementary school during the morning rush. Mothers, young and old, held their children’s hands, pulling them toward the school. How many, I wondered, had endured this? I swallowed the pills in my car and went back home to work. I sat through meetings with a blanket wrapped around my waist and took breaks to lie down, cry and recompose myself. The pain subsided, but I didn’t pass the sac or placenta until the next day, the Saturday before Mother’s Day. I stared, dumbfounded, before taking a photo and then wrapping up the placenta in the pad and putting it gently into a Ziploc bag before throwing it away. Showing up to my parents’ house the next day, with period underwear and a large overnight pad under my sweater dress, I listened to my sister-in-law complain about her pregnancy discomfort and dutifully agreed to help my brother with dishes so the mothers could chat on the couch.To the world, I was still unmarried and childless. It didn’t matter that I was in my 30s, in a happy relationship and planning for the future. It didn’t matter that I was silently miscarrying. “If you want kids, you should probably get married soon,” my mother reminds me constantly. “Even if you want kids, you may not be able to have them,” I want to scream. If only people knew what others were suffering through—but we refuse to talk about the realities of pregnancy, loss and raising a baby in a country that fails to properly support new mothers and babies with minimal paid leave, expensive child care and inaccessible, expensive medical care.All around this country, people are waiting for the bleeding to stop or the bleeding to start, miscarrying at home without a partner or support system, avoiding the doctor’s office because of transportation, work, the inability to pay or fear of judgment, having unprotected sex because they can’t access or afford contraception, hemorrhaging without a hospital nearby, dreading having a baby but unable to abort, driving cross-country to get medical attention. What are we doing to protect them and their bodies? We’re trying to take away their rights.

Returning to the news with the blood still dripping from my vagina, I felt enraged.

It Took a Miscarriage to Solidify My Belief in Abortion

I passed it beautifully, according to the doctor. Beautifully. No tissue had been left. There was nothing left to do but wait for my hCG levels to drop, my cycle to return. I already knew I was lucky. My experience paled in comparison to so many others. I had no complications or emergencies. Still, I felt wrecked. Even with a dedicated partner who willingly checked the blood levels on my pad and listened to my complaints, miscarrying was one of the loneliest experiences I have ever had.My doctor told me I could try again at any time. The thought made me want to curl into a ball and disappear. I simply nodded, reminding myself that he did this for a living. After handing me the final paperwork, he said, “I’ll see you when you’re pregnant again.”I got into my car, feeling as if I’d just worked a double shift on a Saturday night. I had everything I needed to get through this—a loving partner, a large team of medical experts, insurance and the extra money needed to pay for out-of-pocket expenses. I didn’t need medication, surgery. I felt—and still feel—so much pain, so much grief, but I had no additional burdens, no barriers to care. I am still paying for the miscarriage, but I can afford it. Being able to focus on nothing but the miscarriage is a privilege that few are afforded.Returning to the news with the blood still dripping from my vagina, I felt enraged. I read article after article. I shared them online. The trauma I was experiencing made me realize how much women endure, on their own, with or without support. How could I have, at any time, believed that the government had any right whatsoever to decide how a woman treated her body? How could I have been so ignorant to believe that abortions were only necessary during medical emergencies? How could I have ignored the larger implications? Roe v. Wade goes far beyond abortion. Every one of us, regardless of our situation, deserve the right to autonomy.Writing this now, I feel ashamed. How did it take me so long to understand? How could I have called myself a feminist if I wasn’t willing to defend every single girl, woman or nonbinary person from having the right to choose what happens with their body? I’m embarrassed and heartbroken. It shouldn’t have taken a miscarriage for me to stand behind abortion, but here we are.To all of you out there, pregnant, alone, in need of support—I see you. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand before; I didn’t listen. But I’m here now, I’m with you and I will advocate for your rights.

Lilac Jones

December 20, 2023

Parallels of Choice: My Colleague and I Both Became Pregnant and Took Different Paths

For an entire summer, I wore the same earrings. They were small, fake, gold-painted depictions of the Egyptian goddess Ma’at. I bought them on Amazon for six dollars but enjoyed pretending they were from an eclectic antique shop. In Egyptian mythology, Ma’at represents the embodiment of justice, truth and fertility, and while I spent that summer between community college and university pouring bottles of Prosecco and serving lemon-crusted snapper to the bourgeois, women would coo as they sipped their chilled Sauvignon blanc. “Those are interesting earrings,” they’d say. “Which god is that again?” I explained the virtues depicted in my earrings but never mentioned the fertility concept. After being coerced to take birth control since the age of 15, I had this unconscious idea that I was permanently infertile. As if the years of birth control had convinced my eggs to refuse procreation. As if my eggs were raging feminists who denied the oncoming advances of semen as an ideological stance. I had chosen to stop taking birth control a year earlier when I realized it was the culprit responsible for my loony mood swings. When customers asked me about my earrings, I didn’t mention the virtue of fertility because I thought saying it out loud could make it more possible. I never thought becoming pregnant was physically viable, but I pushed the option far from the realm of possibility. Sometimes in life, it seems like the ideas we hinge our beliefs on dissolve before us. The universe has a special way of dealing with stubborn people. The summer before I went to university was tenuous—I needed to save an outrageous amount of money and find a living situation in the city I was moving to. Both seemed impossible. Becoming pregnant at such a delicate time loosened the already weak grasp I had on my situation. But when my co-worker became pregnant at the same time and our worlds quietly intersected, I observed the dynamics of choice that played out through our very different realities.

My Colleagues All Had Their Own Issues

In the summer of 2018, I felt like a surging ball of energy and motion, propelling in an uncharted direction. It would be my last summer in the place I attended community college before attending university. My transient upbringing had led me to fall in love with the stability that two years allowed. But that rush of energy had manifested for one reason: I was falling out of love. I was ready to untangle myself from my first adult relationship.At the restaurant, my colleagues and I were all around the same age—most of us were going to school and working long hours, trying to balance the priorities of life. We transformed from studious, motivated pupils to silver-tongued public servants the hour we got out of class. In our 20s, sharing the hostile hardening experience of the customer service industry, we were all very different. Kyle liked taking pictures of his balls in the bathroom and sent them to his co-workers, constantly talking about how important his beard was. Mandy arrived at each shift with a worse hangover than the day before and babbled about how wild her night was while she applied a new coat of bright lipstick—as if that was going to disguise the reek of Jameson and anguish expelling from her pores. Chelsea was young like me but had this wise grace about her that came off as comforting and dignified. She wasn’t in school, but we had deep conversations about philosophy, astrology, family and culture that convinced me of her intuitive awareness of the world, something that isn’t taught in school. Chelsea would arrive for work each day with a soft, charming smile and fierce, iridescent blue eyes. Her gaze was stunning, with penetrating eyes that edged on intimidation—her radiant smile that followed allowed your heart time to resuscitate. We would often discuss our complicated relationships with our boyfriends in the break room on scathingly hot summer days while troops of flies struggled to break up our intimate exchanges.Chelsea never revealed anything explicitly negative about her relationship with her boyfriend, but I picked up on a deep sorrow that reflected in some of her stories: An affair that resulted in a child, a DUI that cost him a job and an undertone of neglect for the compassion and care she brought to the relationship. My inferences were only that. The dense, thorny, complicated corridors that relationships contain have no need for speculation from outsiders. Chelsea had a spunky sense of humor and would tease the men that hit on her, and as she walked away, their gaze would follow—wistful desire in their enthusiastic eyes, a playful distant flicker in her crystalline gaze. We were both millennials, came from loving families and understood the industry's conundrum that could squash an ego and praise it at the same moment.

The climactic drama that I had witnessed in movies was nowhere near my despondent melancholia.

I Discovered I Was Pregnant; My Colleague Was, Too

My period was supposed to arrive while I was on a backpacking trip in the beginning of the summer. I begged Aunt Flo to delay it for a week because backpacking without a shower would be the least comfortable experience. Every time I’d feel a potential cramp in my stomach, I would inwardly sigh, knowing it had arrived. But when I returned home, it still hadn’t come. Nothing happened for a couple of days, so just to be safe, I took a pregnancy test. It turned out positive. To be sure, I took three more. All positive. My brain couldn’t think about it, so I bathed in gloom. Biology had taken its course, and my sensibility couldn’t adjust. The climactic drama that I had witnessed in movies was nowhere near my despondent melancholia. The inevitability of my future action repulsed me in the present moment. I made an appointment with hasty anxiety, not wanting to acknowledge the reality of the situation. The lady at Planned Parenthood explained that I would have to wait at least a week for the fetus to form in order to abort it. My thoughts were drenched in the ethics of murder. My mind was absorbed in the emotional ambiguities behind the procedure. I went to work expecting to use it as a distraction, but it seemed that all my tables were pregnant mothers or families with small children. I was in a daze, engrossed in trying to understand my feelings and working on accepting them. Chelsea noticed my distance and inquired; I deflected by asking her if she had any news. She actually had incredible, life-changing news: She was seven weeks pregnant, exactly the same as me. I looked at her youthful smile and shuddered in awe and disbelief. It was as if we were accidentally representing the yin and yang of the world. I felt as if my eyes were brimming with the truth that was inside my gut, and if we held eye contact for long enough, she would be able to tell. I looked down, trying to collect the cataclysmic thoughts surging in my head, and then glanced back to her sparkly cobalt stare. Chelsea’s energy surrounding the conversation was warm with excitement. She had resigned to the idea that this was going to be her life. It was as if she had almost been lost before this moment and now she had a purpose.

My Abortion Was an Isolated Experience, Unlike Chelsea’s Pregnancy

I felt like an imposter in my own skin as she stood right next to me with such comfort and pleasure. It felt blasphemous to look at her; we were secretly in the same situation, but our choices were worlds apart. How could the label “mother” fit so naturally on a person who was just my co-worker moments before? Considering that label for myself felt like an intrusion, an offense of the most serious kind. We worked together that entire week, riding the tidal waves of interpretation. Chelsea would arrive at work basking in her cloud of prospective mommyhood, while I wallowed in this awkward space of denial and guilt. My mental physics would traverse back and forth between feelings of acceptance and chronic self-hatred. Chelsea would disclose her new discoveries in mommy research as I listened, intent on observing the differences between our internal reactions. Why did the shape of this identity adorn her in such a natural way when I recoiled at the thought of trying it on?I went through with the procedure as I expected, the most disheartening part. My body took months to recover; my mind recovered when the procedure proved successful; but my soul has never released the thought. As the hot and busy summer months continued, Chelsea told more people, and eventually management. I watched her create a support system at work, and everybody got excited with her. People started suggesting names at the espresso counter and doula references at the ice machine. I even witnessed our co-workers doing a little extra work to eliminate some of her strain. She placed her vulnerability in the hands of colleagues, and people rose to the occasion with deep reverence. Many days, Chelsea would arrive at work with severe exhaustion exuding from her movements, yet she would light up when someone asked how she was feeling.

The division between our worlds made me tremble with admiration. Admiration for the choices we made that allowed each of us to continue our lives in the way we deemed fit.

I Loved That We Both Could Make Decisions That Fit Our Lives

The division between our worlds made me tremble with admiration. Admiration for the choices we made that allowed each of us to continue our lives in the way we deemed fit. Admiration for the brutal integrity and incredible vigor Chelsea displayed while working a laborious job and navigating through a pregnancy. Admiration for the dynamism that both life and death encourage in different arrangements. The manner in which two seemingly similar-positioned women internalized a biological fact. It was extraordinary.The summer of 2018 was sweaty, busy and unfolded in ways I only began to understand as time passed. I continued wearing my goddess earrings to work each day, except with a deeper reverence for their symbology. As I would gently place them in my earlobes while staring in the mirror, I’d think about Chelsea and her capacity to adorn the values of truth, justice and fertility with a fierce honor.

Rose Gecko

December 20, 2023

LGBTQ

Trans People Don’t Want to Control How You Talk

If you spend long enough in the liberal social mediasphere, you’ll eventually just sort of pick up how to be a good trans ally, as if by osmosis: Use the right pronouns, avoid gender-specific language, don’t ever use someone’s pre-transition name. That’s how I learned it, back at the dawn of Twitter. At that point, I hadn’t ever really met a trans person (that I was aware of), and learning the rules of trans allyship felt a lot like learning which silverware to use at fancy dinners, which I had also done: It was something I didn’t have a practical need for at the time but that I hoped I would in the future and wanted to get right perfectly from the start.Now that I’ve transitioned, I constantly encounter people who have the same kind of formal approach to allyship that I used to have and the same apparent anxiety about it. People in business Zoom calls conspicuously ask the group to declare their pronouns at the start of meetings. Friends rush to apologize when they accidentally say “you guys” instead of something gender-neutral. Strangers use my correct pronouns, with a little extra emphasis so I make sure to notice they got it right. I know it all comes from a good place, and every time it happens, I’m grateful for the consideration that they show, but I also want to tell them that they shouldn’t worry about it because it really doesn’t matter.

I also want to tell them that they shouldn’t worry about it because it really doesn’t matter.

Pronouns Aren’t Trans Peoples’ Biggest Issue

There’s a widespread belief, perpetuated by infographics and scolding tweets (often shared by straight, cis people), that being an ally to trans people means following a strict set of rules about what you can and can’t say and that if you make a mistake, it means you’re a transphobe (or at least that you’ll be called one on Twitter). It makes allyship into a tightrope walk over a pool of Internet lava—treacherous, easy to fuck up and an overall unfair situation for anyone to be put in. It’s no wonder the anti-trans movement has seized on the idea of trans people trying to control how cis people can speak as one of their main grievances.To be clear, we don’t want to control how you speak. In reality, using the right language for trans people is like using good table etiquette, in that it’s a mostly ceremonial thing that you can use to show respect to other people. How strictly you need to stick to it depends on the situation and specific people you’re interacting with. And like good table etiquette, it’s not worth freaking out over if someone messes up.The truth is, a lot of trans people don’t really care about that kind of stuff, or at least not enough to make a big deal about it. We’re so used to getting misgendered that for a lot of us, it’s just a minor everyday annoyance. Being intentionally misgendered is hurtful, and so is being repeatedly misgendered by someone who should know better. But we also understand that people fuck up sometimes. Very few trans people—besides the terminally online—will ever lose their shit on you for using the wrong words or for saying “you guys” to a group that includes transfeminine or nonbinary people or for not always using the strictest and most thoroughly inclusive PC language possible.

Most of us have bigger concerns on our radar, like our physical safety and autonomy.

We Need Allies Who Are Really on Our Side

Because for most trans people, pronouns and inclusive language aren’t the most pressing issues we face. Most of us have bigger concerns on our radar, like our physical safety and autonomy. I live in New York City, which I think is the greatest and safest place in America and maybe the world in which to be a trans person, and I still get extremely anxious for my safety every time I leave the house. Trans people are routinely threatened and physically attacked in even the most socially liberal parts of the city. Finding healthcare providers who know how gender-affirming care works can be challenging, even in places where it’s not being legislatively attacked, and even if you can find someone who knows what they’re doing, transitioning can be prohibitively expensive even for those of us lucky enough to have insurance. And the rising anti-trans movement that’s gaining footholds on all ends of the political spectrum is a constant existential threat to all of us.Like table etiquette, trans etiquette is useless in a fight, which is what we find ourselves in right now. Despite the gains trans people have made in “visibility” and “inclusion” over the past decade or so, we’ve always had to fight simply to exist. We desperately need allies in this fight—real allies who are willing to do real things in our fight. Being a trans ally is much simpler than the social media discourse can make it seem. All you have to do is love trans people—or at least respect our right to exist—and be willing to show it. There are a million ways you can do that: speaking out against anti-trans legislation, donating to legal groups pushing back against those laws, donating to fundraisers for trans people seeking gender-affirming healthcare or simply standing up for us when transphobes around you start acting up. None of these acts are much more work than putting your pronouns in your bio or learning to add “and femmes” when you say “women.” All of them are about a million times more effective.If you can show up for trans people out of a place of love, you don’t have to worry about getting everything right all the time. We’re all human and all deserving of forgiveness for the mistakes we all inevitably make. An imperfect ally who actually cares is worth more than every virtue-signaling post on social media. We need as many of you as we can get.

Avedon Baldwin

December 20, 2023

LGBTQ

I Hope Coming Out as Bi Causes Chaos in My Homophobic Family

I have a recurring fantasy of how I want to come out as bisexual. I do it publicly, on social media, and incite chaos in my homophobic family. It may be a picture of me, or maybe it’s just the bi pride flag, and it says something to the effect of: “I am bisexual. It took a long time and a lot of work to overcome the homophobia I was surrounded with growing up, but I finally understand that this is who I am and I am proud of it.” It is direct and serious and leaves no room for questions. I imagine that in the outpour of support from my friends and colleagues, I will get lots of texts and phone calls from my mom, asking questions like, “Why didn’t you tell me before? You really should have told me privately before shaming us publicly like this. I can’t believe you would call us homophobic!” Maybe my dad finds out when a cousin or aunt shares the post with him. Maybe he desperately tries to call me in a rage, sends me insulting text messages or possibly just ignores me entirely. Whatever the response, I do not engage but bask in the glory of the shitstorm I’ve created. It makes me giddy to think about shattering my hateful father’s illusion of who I, his one and only son, really am. Destroying the illusion that we are a happy, functioning family. I secretly hope that he’s bigoted enough to disown me entirely when he finds out. I want to deny him the ability to sweep this under the rug, to keep it hidden from my extended family. I want my mom, who enabled his abusive, hateful parenting style, to see my post and understand why I’ve become so distant from them. I don’t want their acceptance. I just want them to leave me alone. I do also have constructive, positive reasons for wanting to come out: Announcing to the world that this is who I am, confidently and unequivocally, would feel amazing. Really, I just want to be my authentic self. But the thought of making the homophobes in my family squirm feels like it would grant me even greater joy and catharsis.

What is the value of acceptance from unrepentant homophobes?

My Family Made It Hard for Me to Accept My Sexuality

I could not accept that I was bisexual until my 27th birthday. Looking back, I had known I was bi since I was 14, and yet it took me over a decade to earnestly admit it to myself and even longer to feel comfortable enough to share it with the people closest to me. Like many queer people, I didn’t have the luxury of my parents’ unconditional love to make me feel secure in exploring my sexuality. I didn't even have to waste my time guessing whether or not my parents would be accepting of me if I was gay. One evening at dinner when I was 15, my dad made a homophobic comment about the idea of gay couples having the right to marry. I spoke up against him, and we got into a heated argument. My mom mostly sat on the sidelines, but at the end, she asked my dad, “What would you do if our son was gay?” And his answer was, “He wouldn’t be my son.”And so, armed with years worth of direct and indirect reinforcement that being heterosexual was the only way I would ever earn the love of my parents and peers, I waged a protracted war against myself. I found plenty of excuses to disregard the clear signs and feelings I was experiencing. As a student in an all-boys Catholic high school, I dismissed the attraction I felt toward several of my classmates as just a natural consequence of not being around any women. Besides, how could I be gay if I was also attracted to girls? I didn’t even consider the possibility of bisexuality—I was either completely straight or completely gay, and any middle ground or nuance was just living in denial, which I couldn’t cope with. I leaned hard into embracing the toxic masculinity modeled by my father and peers, hoping that I could fake it till I made it into being a straight, strong alpha male. Unsurprisingly, none of this worked, and I left high school a confused, anxious, angry mess who was still experiencing those feelings of attraction that threatened my fragile sense of identity.

I Finally Found Freedom (With Some Help From My Friends)

Fortunately, moving out of my parents’ house and going to college liberated me from the cave I had spent my formative years trapped in. It took quite a bit of time to become accustomed to the light after years of living in darkness, of course. I became friends with many open-minded, diverse people who helped expose me to ideas and experiences I was completely deprived of at home. Over time, I was able to deconstruct and discard the biases and pessimism baked into the unhealthy self-image I was raised with. Finally, I was able to step out of the cave and bask in the spectacular light of the outside world. However, while I had finally succeeded in figuring out who I wasn’t, discovering my true identity took almost equally as long. I understood that sexuality was a spectrum, rather than a binary, but I still didn’t feel comfortable placing myself too far from the heterosexual end. I had found the love of my life, the woman who I would go on to marry, so I figured there was no point in languishing over this question anymore. I knew there was a good chance I wasn’t completely straight, but I figured I was happy with the way things are, so did the question of my sexuality really need a definitive answer?I couldn’t tell you exactly what caused me to realize I was bisexual. Most likely, it was a lot of small things that built up over years and finally reached a point where I couldn’t deny it anymore. Or rather, I didn’t want to deny it anymore. One night, I was at a house party with some friends and we were talking about sexuality. My tongue had been loosened by a few drinks, and for the first time, I said out loud, “I feel like I’m probably a little bisexual.” Immediately after the words came out of my mouth, I felt a sense of joy, with none of the guilt and shame I was used to carrying around. I knew deep down that I was speaking the truth about this part of myself for the first time ever, and it felt incredible. I sat on this feeling for about a week, thinking about it constantly, until I finally felt comfortable and confident enough to admit to myself, “I am bisexual.” Once I had that moment of acceptance, I sat down with my wife and opened up to her about it. She was incredibly accepting and supportive, as I knew she would be. I went on to tell the rest of my closest friends afterward. If I thought I was free before, this was like a whole new level of freedom I never knew existed. Being honest, not just with myself but with others, about my sexuality and identity gave me a sense of happiness and comfort I never experienced before. It felt like decades of repression and self-doubt were melting away, and I had finally found my true self.

This was like a whole new level of freedom I never knew existed.

I Know My Family Will Never Accept Me

In this wave of joy and self-acceptance, I never wasted a thought on whether my parents would accept me the same way my wife and friends had. Even if they did, it would feel meaningless or even demeaning. What is the value of acceptance from unrepentant homophobes? Why would I feel comforted by them simply tolerating me, especially when I know that they resent all other queer people? Honestly, any tolerance or acceptance I could expect from them would only be granted because I happen to be in a heterosexual relationship. If I was married to a man, I know I would receive no such support. At best, they will convince themselves that I’m just confused and never bring it up. At worst, they’ll assume I’m just a closeted gay man and my marriage is a sham. I don’t want their fake acceptance, and I know that if they were capable of truly loving me for who I am, they would have demonstrated it through their words and actions long ago.Now I find myself sitting with this mischievous fantasy of publicly coming out and possibly destroying my family in the process. I am delighted by the thought of the shame that my dad would feel, the guilt that my mom would experience for never speaking out when my dad was spreading his hateful ideas about LGBT people. Coming out publicly would give me an immense sense of relief that I felt when I came out to my wife and close friends, but the ramifications that it would bring upon my family is a delectable cherry on top of it all. It feels like revenge for my repressed, abusive upbringing. Revenge for the person that I could have been if I was offered the security of unconditional love that all children should have. I am lucky enough to be completely independent of my parents, and because I am too afraid of confronting them directly, I have to resort to this fantasy of forcing them to disown me. Would it be so much to ask for the easy way out for once?

Jaded Cat

December 20, 2023

LGBTQ

I'm Nonbinary—and So Is My Mom

I’m not saying my mom invented being nonbinary. I’m just saying that she was saying stuff to my brother and me like, “I don’t feel like a woman or a man; I’m just your mom,” all the way back in the 1990s. So maybe it was her and like, David Bowie. But she was doing it before it was all the rage and before we had the language to describe it. Growing up, I remember my mother always talking about her childhood and how different she was from me. She marveled at the way I wore dresses and played with makeup, how it came so naturally to me despite her never wearing either in her whole life, let alone around me. She would mention in passing how much she dreaded puberty as a child, how her budding breasts announced the truth to people, no matter how short her hair or how much she dressed like her older brother. My mother’s relationship to her gender revealed itself in her funny stories about trying to pee standing up as a kid, in her obliviousness to things my friends’ mothers would teach them about hair and clothes, in the way she only started shaving her legs when she realized her hair was embarrassing to her kids when at the public pool. Sometimes, it revealed itself matter of factly: “I don’t feel like a woman or a man; I’m just your mom.”

So maybe it was her and like, David Bowie.

My Mother and I Came Out as Bisexual to Each Other

I’m not saying I invented bisexuality, but I will say my first kiss was with my neighbor when I was 3, and my second kiss was his older sister later that day. I knew I was queer basically as soon as I had cognizant thoughts. It always just felt inherent to human life. It wasn’t until I fell in love with my best friend in middle school that the fact it made me different really started to creep in. When my best friend fell in love with me back is when I knew it was time for me to do that whole “coming out” thing. There was something strange to me about coming out to my mom; like subconsciously, there was an understanding that queerness is simply the default. I was more nervous about coming out to my mom as a person who was regularly kissing another person than I was that I was queer. “Mom,” I told her one day as she sat at her desk, “I have something to tell you.” She looked up from her computer at me, and as if someone was paying me to say the following words as fast as I could, I blurted out: “I’m bisexual, and I’m dating Alex.” Before she could say anything back to me, I ran to my room and hid under the covers, hoping that by the laws of you-can’t-see-me-if-I-can’t-see-you, she would simply leave me alone and never bring it up again. There was a tap on my bedroom door, and a few moments later, a hand on my back through the blanket. Through a chuckle, as if it was obvious, she just assured me that she’s bisexual, too. I’m not saying I’m so gay that the mere presence of my embryo’s DNA running through my mom’s veins turned her gay, but it is canon that the first time my mom fell in love with a woman was when she was pregnant with me. Or maybe that’s what turned me gay. (Given my mom’s underlying gender identity, who’s to say if her feelings for my dad weren’t actually gayer?) The point is, we’re both gay, whether it’s the gay apple that doesn’t fall far from the gay tree or it’s the gay apple seed that turned the tree gay. The tree and apple weren’t done learning what they had in common, though. At 16, when I was chronically online, learning about sexuality and identity on Tumblr, I started coming to the dinner table with words like “intersectional feminism” and “gender spectrum,” lecturing my exceptionally progressive family about how backward and behind they were. My mom very graciously gave me space to be a condescending and bratty teenager, but her interest was piqued. Gender? A spectrum, you say? Not long after that, I began exploring what gender meant to me, personally. My boyfriend at the time and I started wearing each other’s clothes and doing each other’s makeup. Part of me felt punk for breaking all the rules, but another part of me felt the most lawful and legitimate I had ever felt. Like I was following a code inside of me I didn’t even know was there. My rejection of the binary looked and felt different than the not-woman-not-man-just-mom who raised me, but suddenly, it began to click that I, too, am a not-woman-not-man.

I knew I was queer basically as soon as I had cognizant thoughts. It always just felt inherent to human life.

My Mother's Openness Allowed Me to Embrace My Sexual Identity

I'm not saying the internet made my mom and me trans. No, I'm actually not saying that. But what it did do was give us the language for what was living under the surface all along. Together, parallel to one another, we were two queer kids from different generations coming of age in our own ways. Without my mother always being open and bold enough to be herself and be honest about her experiences—regardless of the vocabulary available to her at the time—I may not have felt empowered to so comfortably and, without doubt, come into my own. And without my access to the new queer generation's fearless rhetoric and my dissemination of that discourse to my mother, she may never have felt empowered to claim and internalize her identity. In the years that have followed, she has changed her name but not her pronouns. I have changed my pronouns but not my name. We both live unapologetically queer lives, and our nonbinary identities and how we express them physically may be different, but what remains the same is how we continue to see and understand each other in ways nobody else really can. “Pride” means something entirely different when you are lucky enough to know your queer lineage, and who you're proud of reaches beyond the limits of your own individual self. I'm proud of us.

Dropout

December 20, 2023

Love

My New Experience With Tantric Sex

I'd had the final session with my surrogate partner just a few weeks before. In that session, she had suggested cuddle parties as a way to get physical touch. A cuddle party is a place where adults can engage in platonic extended touch. I never did get to that cuddle party, but I had an experience that changed my life. When looking for the cuddle party my surrogate partner had suggested, I found out about this gathering online. I showed up at a groovy white building with an indoor fire pit and talked to a man named Mark. “The cuddle party will start soon,” Mark said, and we got to talking about what tantra is. I thought to myself, “This feels like something I need to do.” Unfortunately, our female class member was unable to attend, and since a male-female balance is needed to practice tantra, ultimately, he had to cancel it. But I headed home with the tantra seed planted in my mind.

We are there to honor, cherish and adore.

No, Tantra Is Not About Sex

The word “tantra” means “woven together.” This “liberated mind” practice is about spiritual sensuality and sexuality. While any gender can practice with any gender, the practice is usually male to female. Our focus is for the men to be of service to the women. We are there to honor, cherish and adore. As the trust of women has been hideously violated in the outside world, we get to create a place of safety and love in our tantric practice. Both couples and singles are welcome—being in love with one’s practicing partner isn’t required. We don’t have to be in love to give love.When I talk about tantra, the number one question people ask me is, “Isn’t that about sex?” No, it’s not. Tantra is not about sex or sex acts. It’s about sensuality and sexuality. Basically, it’s about love. While sexual acts can happen in the tantra practice, if both practicing partners want it, that’s not the goal or the focus. As Mark always likes to say about sex, “It’s a penis in a vagina, nothing more.”The next class after the aborted cuddle session was about sensual massage. My goal for this class was to experience physical touch. I wasn’t sure about the massage. The idea of being sensual or sexual with someone I had just met made me feel uncomfortable at first. But then, we watched a series of videos about what we would be doing. “This is nice,” I thought, “the videos portray such a loving, sweet experience.” Mark told us about the optional sexual massage at the end. “OK,” I thought, “I don’t think I’m going to do that, but I’ll do the other stuff.”After a round-robin introduction session around the fire, we moved onto our yoga mats. As always, consent came first. Consent is always required for a person to enter another person’s space and for them to touch someone. We also talked about how we must also speak up if something makes us uncomfortable and that we never have to do anything we don’t want to. It’s okay to say no. Then came our first exercise, called the tantra kiss. Mark paired all of us off. Each person put their right hand on their partner’s chest, and then we soul gazed, which is when each person looks deep into the other’s eyes.

The Spiritual Aspect of Tantra Started Making Sense to Me

As we went through one exercise after another, I realized how comfortable and safe I felt. I knew that I wanted to give to my partner in whatever way she wanted. I felt something incredible: A spiritual presence entered my body. I was now a vessel for my spiritual power. Then, Mark said, “Why don’t we take off some clothes?” Before I knew it, I was completely naked. I was so comfortable! I had known I wanted to try group nudity in some setting, but I didn’t think that would mean I would be so comfortable being naked around others. This was another level!I felt no erotic thoughts whatsoever. I needed nothing. I felt a perfect abundance. All I wanted to do was give. I felt infinite unconditional love for my practicing partner, and as I looked around, I saw the same thing happening with the other practicing partners. I felt infinite unconditional love for them, as well. As I progressed, I went into deeper levels of intimacy with my practicing partner as I gave her the sensual massage. Finally, near the end, she said she wanted the erotic massage. Known in tantra practice as the yoni massage, it’s when the vagina is massaged from the outside, providing sexual pleasure. After I had started giving my partner the sexual massage, Mark came by and whispered in her ear, “You can give back to the men, if you want.” She touched me sexually in return, and it was wonderful. As the class wrapped up, all of us sat cross-legged and nude in a circle, discussing how the class went. I announced to everyone that it was the first time I had been nude in a group. Everyone cheered. I felt a sense of destiny and belonging. I had found my family and my path.A few months later, I had experienced a few more sensual massage classes, each one beautifully unique, and I was ready to move to a deeper level of intimacy. My practicing partner and I started our usual practice, and she told me exactly what she wanted, which makes my practice so much easier. I gave her a sexual massage, which was such a rewarding experience for me. She wanted to give back to me. I was both excited and nervous. She massaged my chest and stomach for a while, a blissful experience, and then she told me to lay down. It was time for the lingam, or penis, massage, which is like a hand job but slowed down to make the receiver stay present in the experience. I hadn’t asked for the lingam massage before, because I was too shy. I was still working on asking for what I wanted, and the fear of rejection if the other person says no can sometimes be very strong for me. As she slowly transitioned from the sensual massage to the sexual massage, I got more and more excited. It felt so good, but I realized I hadn’t been giving feedback to her. She made the adjustments, and it felt even more pleasurable. The experience was pure bliss. All of a sudden, I realized I was close to orgasm and let my partner know. And then it was over. What an experience! She then asked me what I needed, and I said I wanted to cuddle, so we did. My partner had mentioned earlier in the night that she had to leave by a certain time, and as I looked at the clock, I realized we had gone way past. When I asked her about it, she said, “I wanted to stay and give to you.” I’m so lucky to have a practicing partner like her.

I wanted to try group nudity in some setting, but I didn’t think that would mean I would be so comfortable being naked around others.

Tantra Allows Me to Understand and Love Myself on a Deeper Level

I have now been to most of the classes that our group has to offer: the intro class, dubbed Tantra 101, where we learn the basics of tantra and do an introductory practice; the massage class, where we get to practice higher levels of tantra; and the nude acro-yoga class, where we practice nude yoga, plus some light acrobatic work with a tantric focus to get into our bodies with love and joy. I’ve had many platonic and sensual experiences and have enjoyed learning, on a truly intimate level, how to give back and knowing that I never have to do anything I’m not comfortable with. And as I am single, I get to practice with a different person in every class, choosing at the moment from pure emotional instinct. Sexuality doesn’t always have to be about having an orgasm; it can also be about developing a deeper level of intimacy and connection with your practicing partner, yourself and a higher spirituality. Sensual and sexual acts are really about developing a deeper level of intimacy with myself. In giving, trusting myself to support my partner’s needs, and in receiving, trusting my partner to support my needs.This tantric journey has really made me open up more and find compassion, energy and love I didn’t even know was there. As I fill up in the tantra class, I get to take that love energy out into the world. Because, as we know, the world sorely needs this. So if you’re reading this and you’re in the L.A. area, listen to this podcast episode to learn more. Come to be honored, cherished and adored. We’d love to have you.

Self-Love Man

December 20, 2023

Media

A Major News Outlet Screwed Me

I’m a freelance writer. It’s my real job. No, it doesn’t come with benefits. Yes, I do enjoy it. When you get an acceptance—when an editor you respect at a place you respect and actually read says that your words are great and they want to publish you—it’s a great feeling. When you write your heart out and publish something and your friends and family tell you you’re a good writer: Oh, man, does that feel good. When strangers find you on your website and make a point to tell you what your writing meant to them, that’s really the best. The highs are high and the lows are low. This is a story of a low. I wrote a piece for a major news outlet last summer. By major news outlet, I mean that they have their own TV channel where you might watch incoming election results or tune in during a national emergency. You likely watched them on 9/11 if you’re old enough to have been watching TV on 9/11. They also have an online presence, as all things do now, and I wrote about something I’m very passionate about for them. I was proud of my piece. I had great expert sources. They paid me. People I know were proud of me for it. It was a good freelancer experience. The weird thing about this particular outlet is that they didn’t have me sign a contract when they told me they’d accepted my piece. I thought it was odd, but I really wanted the byline, so I wrote it, the article was published and all was well.

It was by far the most rounds of edits I’d ever had.

My Editor Assigned Another Writer the Same Kind of Story

I pitched the editor again and she agreed to the same terms: no contract, acceptance after two rounds of edits, same rate, same scope, same length. This is called “writing on spec,” meaning the editor gets to read the finished draft before accepting the story. I’d done it many times before. I got to work. I did three interviews with people highly respected in their field. I read many peer-reviewed studies and lots of laws and regulations surrounding the topic. I visited websites and found resources. I started a first draft. Two days before my draft was due, I got an email from the editor. “I screwed up,” she’d written. She explained that she had already assigned out a piece on this same topic. She apologized and said the topic was broad enough that she would send me the other writer’s draft. I could see if my work could be put into another article. I was deeply unhappy, but I’d put in hours of work already. I said, “Yes.” She sent over the draft. I recognized the author’s name. She was a well-respected writer with significantly more prestigious bylines than me. She’d spoken at a conference I’d attended. She was a rock star. Her article was great. She used many of the same research sources I did. It was, however, a little different than mine in that it was geared toward a slightly different audience. I told the editor I could make it work. I reworked the draft over the next two days and sent it in on time. The editor liked it and said she’d do some edits and get back to me. Her revisions and notes weren’t too scathing. I sent back a new draft, she edited some more and I did it again. Then, she started disliking some of my wording. I’d said an article I cited was a study when it was actually a summary of a study. I fixed it in another draft. At this point, we were on the third draft, acceptance territory.

After All My Work, the Story Still Has No Home

My last piece required six drafts with this editor; then, it went to a copy editor for two more rounds before publication. It was by far the most rounds of edits I’d ever had but also the newsiest place I’d ever written for. Still, my editor wasn’t satisfied with this new story. “Closer,” she told me, asking for more edits. She said she was “concerned” because she still had questions at every stage of the edit. I sent a new draft. Eventually, she killed the piece. She said it would take too much time to get it ready for publication. I asked about what to do—it had now gone through five rounds of editing. She said she wouldn’t be paying me a “kill fee,” an amount of money written into a contract for if a piece doesn’t run, usually half the promised price. She didn’t have to pay me because I wasn’t under contract. I could, however, sell the piece elsewhere. So I pitched it to some dream publications. They ghosted me or sent me rejections. I considered turning it into an op-ed for a newspaper, but it ran too long and would need to be completely reworked to shift from a feature to an opinion piece. I pitched it to other publications, ones that would pay me less but would get the words out there nonetheless. To this day, nothing. I turned in my first draft to the original editor in August and, as of the beginning of December, have yet to find it a home.Yes, it’s my fault. The piece was too overwrought by the time I got through the gauntlet—there were too many twists in the editing process. It needs work in order to sell elsewhere. I didn’t sign a contract, and that’s also on me. I certainly won’t make that mistake again, even if it’s my number one dream publication. I wasted so much time. I feel tricked. Used. It’s also not my fault. This is mainstream news, a forum that’s supposed to have journalistic integrity. Their online publications are built on the backs of freelancers who have very few rights when it comes to their own time, rates and intellectual property. To get pieces placed in these publications, you have to give them your words, your time and your expertise for free and hope they pay you back in money but also prestige. Bylines beget bylines.

I wasted so much time.

I’m Refusing to Give Up on a Freelance Career

Was this a learning experience? Oh, yes, it was. Was it fun? No, no, no. Are any learning experiences fun? Not that I’m aware of.My one experience with this one publication speaks to a bigger issue, which is that art, be it writing, visual or performance, is constantly undervalued and under-supported. We love our art, so we keep making it and consuming it, and the systems in place take advantage of the starving artist because there’s always more where that came from, always someone willing to work on something they love.I’m not giving up on my piece or my freelancing career, but the takeaway is a bitter one. I pitched the story again today, with a slightly different hook, and am hoping to place it this year. Hope, the thing with feathers as Emily Dickinson puts it, will keep me singing my tune to every editor until I get that byline, whether with this piece or the next. The artist—the writer, in this case—like hope, never stops at all.

RabbitRabbit

December 20, 2023

Sport

A Dream Delayed: What It’s Like to Be an Olympian Waiting for the Tokyo Games

Athletes dream and train their entire lives with no guarantees to become Olympians. Only .0001 percent of the world’s population actually make that dream a reality. I make up part of that small percentage, and my dream came true in Rio De Janeiro in 2016. But I wasn’t done there. I wanted to give it one more shot for Tokyo 2020. COVID-19 had different plans for all of us. The Olympics are truly amazing. It is the only event where the world comes together to put aside its differences for two straight weeks and celebrates sports. Winning a gold medal is pretty darn cool, too. To not only attain your lifelong dream, but help those around you reach theirs is something special. As a water polo athlete, the realization that all of my teammates were just little girls who fell in love with the sport and reached the pinnacle was inspiring.The feeling of winning is addicting, but what happens during the years leading up to the Games is even more so. The behind-the-scenes grind, the 40-hour travel days to Siberia, the schedule and routine, the nights out after tournaments, the not-so-nice pool that we’ve made our home—those are just a few details about what makes this program and journey so special. This is why I came back. Another gold medal in Tokyo wouldn’t be too bad, either.

The feeling of winning is addicting, but what happens during the years leading up to the Games is even more so.

Women’s Water Polo Began in Sydney Because of Trailblazers

I like to describe water polo as a combination of soccer and basketball, with the intensity of hockey. There are 13 players on a roster, with seven allowed in the water per team (which is made up of six field players and one goalie). The object is simple: Score more goals than the opposing team during eight-minute quarters. Two refs outside the pool call regular fouls, kickouts and penalties depending on rules and severity. Regular fouls are essentially a free pass resulting in a kickout, which sends a player to the foul box for 20 seconds while their team plays with a man down. A penalty carries a more severe sanction resulting in a free shot for the opposing team five meters away from the goal. Players cannot touch the ball with two hands or touch the bottom of the pool. It’s an aggressive contact sport that is biggest in Europe, but gaining traction around the rest of the world.Women’s water polo, however, was a relatively new Olympic sport that debuted in the 2000 Sydney Games. Currently, Team USA has medaled in every Olympic Games since and is striving for an unprecedented three-peat. The program was built off of a group of trailblazing women who fought to get the sport the recognition it deserved. After continued failure, they finally received an opportunity in Sydney and the program hasn’t looked back. Today’s athletes and staff members have a responsibility to uphold the standards and values set by the original trailblazers, all while evolving into our own team that’s set on our own journey. This team’s journey is definitely different than those that came before us. We call the four-year Olympic game cycle a quad. Most quads have a lot of turnover the first year; things are relatively light at first. The closer we get to the Games, the more intense it all becomes. During the first two years of the quad, we come together from May through September to train, travel and compete in international tournaments. The remaining time is spent apart with our respective professional teams abroad or collegiate programs. We will connect a few times throughout the year outside of our summer months. Our final year of the quad is called a “full-time year.” We all congregate in Southern California and train six days a week, six hours a day. We spend countless hours training in the weight room and pool; preparing in sports psychology meetings and video rooms; traveling and competing on the road. It is a grind like no other, but also provides our biggest growth period. Without that full-time year, I don’t think we would have the success we’ve had—or at least it wouldn’t be as meaningful.

The Pandemic Postponed the Olympics and Our Dreams

I became aware of COVID-19 in late January during our full-time year. Like most of us, I didn’t initially think twice about it. A few weeks later, I remember joking with a teammate, “What if this cancels the Olympics?” We were flying to the Netherlands on what we didn’t know was going to be our last team trip. We arrived home in early March, the toughest month of training. If we made it through March, we would be getting to the fun stuff: the team being announced, playing games at home in front of crowds, and anticipating the hype of the Olympic Games. We were so close. The fear really began when the NBA suspended their season indefinitely and the NCAA followed shortly thereafter. The vibes at practices were weird, to say the least. We had some discussions and implemented a new, lighter training schedule, but that didn’t change the ominous feeling. I remember feeling that it didn’t seem right that we were at the pool training when the rest of the world was shutting down. We had one last scrimmage that I actually appreciated because it was the first time that the thought of the coronavirus didn’t pop up in my head for an entire hour. It’s as if our coach knew time was running out, but we were still fighting for each minute. Every day seemed to become darker, and it was harder to find a reason to be motivated at the pool. He finally pulled the plug and ended training on March 18. We put together individual equipment bags for home gyms and went our separate ways not knowing what the future had in store for us. The official postponement of the Tokyo Olympics was announced a week later. I was following the news pretty religiously by this point and had started to come to terms with the postponement. It seemed as if I was a week ahead of most of my teammates in mourning the news. The emotions were all over the place, from relief to anger to sadness. This is when I truly learned the importance of giving others the space and grace they need to digest their thoughts and feelings. The early stages of quarantine consisted of dreaded team Zoom meetings four times per week, temporary home workouts to try and stay in decent shape and the longest time out of a pool since many of us started playing the sport. Everyone was processing the news of the Olympics and the fear of COVID-19 in their own way. At some point, we would have to pick ourselves up, put the postponement behind us and get back to work. It took us a long time to get to that point.

We still don’t know what the future has in store—Tokyo 2021 may still not happen.

The Blessing of This Is Being Able to Play Water Polo Another Year

June 1 was our first official day back at the pool. New protocols, social distancing and testing were put into place. We split the team into two groups and most of the summer consisted of daily social distant conditioning. The vibes were still weird. Emotions and thoughts differed from person to person. Some enjoyed having a routine, seeing teammates and swimming again, while others couldn’t find the motivation to be training in the middle of a pandemic with the Olympics still over a year away. We learned a lot about the virus and got a glimpse of what future training would look like. During the fall, we ramped up testing and training. We had a few double days and implemented non-contact and contact days depending on test results. Although not pretty, we were finally playing some water polo, which was a joy for some and a struggle for others. I could see that we were getting a little closer to our old schedule and old selves, but motivation and unity were still lacking. It wasn’t until the beginning of 2021 where we, as a collective, were ready to accept the past and get back on our mission for a Tokyo gold. The six hours a day, six days a week grind was back and I never thought I would miss it as much as I did. There has been tremendous progress both individually and as a whole, which excites me for what’s to come. We’ve made it back to March and have our first team trip scheduled, one year after the last one. We still don’t know what the future has in store—Tokyo 2021 may still not happen—but we do know that we can get through whatever adversity is thrown our way as long as we lean on each other. The biggest blessing through all this craziness is that I got one more year at playing the sport that I love before it was my time to step away from the game and let other women fulfill their dreams of representing the United States on the world stage.

Roadrunner

December 20, 2023

Family

A Consumer DNA Test Strained My Marriage and My Family’s Privacy

She announced herself last September. She thought he had a right to know she existed. He had never taken a consumer DNA test. But someone in his extended family did.That’s how a 32-year-old woman was able to make herself known. A long-forgotten one-night stand from my husband’s past became his entire unsuspecting family’s present. We knew about each other’s pasts when we got married. For me, as long as I was his last, it didn’t matter. I was content knowing I would be the only woman to have his children. But a decision he made a long time ago ended up shifting our entire story. My husband admits this readily. There is responsibility. But what is that supposed to look like 32 years after the fact? She assured him she was just interested in information. Some medical history would be helpful. She wasn’t looking for a relationship. That wasn’t true either, but that’s another story.

She was hoping to find out where her dimples came from.

My Husband and I Were Unprepared for This Surprise

Such an interesting concept. Rights, I mean. Whose and what rights is this about? Because I can assure you, we could have done without this knowledge, at least at that time.COVID-19, she said, made her contemplate her priorities. It made her more aware of the uncertainty and fragility of life. And because of that she finally decided it was the right time to search for her biological family. We were worried about whether our business could stay afloat. We were trying to pay our employees. We were raising three children, one of whom was struggling deeply with online school and the loss of social interaction. We were mourning the loss of a close relative. She was hoping to find out where her dimples came from. She was curious about that small percentage of Scottish heritage the 23andMe test revealed. Of course, she wasn’t aware of the challenges we were contending with. How could she be? She couldn’t anticipate her genetic father would struggle tremendously with guilt and shame over past choices either. That his rush to make “amends” would distract him from everything else, and he’d fail to prioritize the people he was responsible for. That for a time I was left to manage the day-to-day challenges of real life alone. That her appearance would compound the stresses already on our plate, leading us—an otherwise happy couple of 20 years—to consider separation.(We have no idea where her dimples come from. And my husband didn’t know he was Scottish.)We were unprepared for her arrival. It was too much, too fast and we weren’t given the space to figure out how to handle this discovery. Maybe she felt it was her right to pursue what she was looking for, and there was no “right” time to do that—for her or for us.

Interesting concepts—rights and privacy. When the two converge, when the lines become blurred, what happens?

Should Consumer DNA Tests Have More Privacy Policies?

I should mention we are private people. We live quiet lives. We’re focused on raising our children. Such an interesting concept. Privacy, I mean.Is that a “right,” too? It seems to be. Sometimes.My husband can’t receive the results of the mammogram I had last week without my explicit, written permission. Yet his first cousin can identify and contact his unknown offspring (and share the news on Facebook) before my husband learns of her existence.For just $99 and a tube of spit, Ancestry.com or 23andMe divulges information that would otherwise be considered private, not to mention life-altering in some cases. And they share it over email. At least these companies have a 1-800 number people can call to help make sense of confusing results. So there’s that. I’ve read this is how as many as ten percent of test-takers find out their dad isn’t biologically their dad. Before they’ve recovered from the shock, they’ll have been bombarded by the media’s happy, seamless reunion stories (the only kind they seem to show). And they’ll be emboldened by Facebook support groups and most advice columnists, who suggest it is their right to contact this man (and his relatives) regardless of his circumstances. They’ll hear very little about privacy. Unsuspecting families will have to rely on searchers’ discretion. Interesting concepts—rights and privacy. When the two converge, when the lines become blurred, what happens? Which takes priority?

SweetCarol

December 20, 2023

Education

A Poor Indian Man Taught Me True Generosity

He was a man easily missed in a crowd. But he stood alone, outside the airport in Jaipur, India, with a gentle confidence that I would grow to trust more than instinct over the coming days. He was a stranger, but he approached us—me and my husband—at two in the morning like we had been reunited from a long time apart. “My name is Sunny,” he said. “The best ride in town. I’ll take you. Where do you go?” Without our response, he eased the backpack off my shoulder and burdened the weight onto his. “I’m very strong,” he said. “Don’t worry.” Then he began to walk away. As a stranger left with my life’s belongings, I should have worried. Yet the way Sunny moved—more sway than determination—was comforting. He led us from the airport to an abandoned parking lot. He packed us into his blue and red tuk-tuk and closed the shallow door on my side. Taking a seat at the helm, he adjusted the mirror so we had a cinematic view of his charming brown eyes and high cheekbone smile.“First time in India?” he asked.“Yes, yes it is,” I said, trying to focus on anything but the echo of the word "India," 3,000 miles away from my bed. There was a silver statue of a Hindu God on his dashboard and nothing else. Not even dust.“Are you from Jaipur?” I asked.“Oh yes. My family is here,” he said. “My babies and I are always here." Arriving at our hostel, he handed us a piece of paper with his number. He told us to call him in the morning when we wanted to see Jaipur. No sale, no pitch, just his digits.In part, I was sold by his smile. But in truth, it was because I liked how genuine he seemed. We called him the next day and he drove us around the Pink City. He was working, but there was a pride that beamed from him as he made stops. We would return to the tuk-tuk from a fort tour and he would be in jovial conversation with other drivers sipping chai, a smooth grin under his mustache. He anticipated our needs and eased us into the strangeness of India, taking us to clean places to eat and making recommendations. He treated us with delicacy as foreigners, but he did so without undermining his humility, greeting everyone with equal affection.

In part, I was sold by his smile. But in truth, it was because I liked how genuine he seemed.

I Traveled Outside of My Comfort Zone, and Into His

On the second day with Sunny, he invited us for dinner with his family as a celebration of the Hindu holiday. He drove us out of town, where the scenery didn’t fade in color, but in life and light. He turned off the six-lane highway and parked the tuk-tuk next to his family’s fleet of four others. A dozen kids were playing in the side street kicking a ball barefooted under an absent street lamp. A few men came to greet Sunny, including his cousin Raj. They all wanted to see who had come from beyond the neighborhood. Sunny had shown us palaces and shops to buy exotic spices, but he had shielded us from everyday life. We followed Sunny down a muddy alleyway, feeling the discomfort that came with the turn of day in an unfamiliar place.When I entered the house behind Sunny, I didn’t cross through a door, but an open archway. I left my sandals inside by the single stove on the ground. Two women were cooking a meal of homemade chapatis and green vegetable curry under an open roof. In the house, there were three spaces divided by curtains and illuminated by a single lightbulb: a kitchen, a bedroom with a raised surface to sleep, and a matted area big enough for four adults to sit in a circle knee to knee. There was no toilet.The air didn’t shift as I moved. India had kept its promise of relentless heat even in the setting season after dusk. But in the house, the dirt was soft and the walls were dry. We moved around the women to file into the back room. Sunny apologized for the absence of air-conditioning as he sat and leaned so the bump of his belly stressed the lower buttons of his shirt. I assured him of my comfort as the sweat beads fell from my neck. I wondered how many blue button-up shirts Sunny had or if it was the same one he had been wearing for two days. Raj came in from the alley and sat in the circle. Sunny straightened his posture and pulled out a cigarette to hand to Raj as a reflex. The women prepared plates, enough for four, and served them to us without a word. I hadn’t known the women were fasting for the holiday until Sunny explained they would eat at midnight. I felt the pang of hunger in my gut move to guilt for having burdened them with cooking a meal they couldn’t eat, but the energy between the walls was tender and generous. The women smiled at Sunny as they placed food on the floor and left. Between bites, Raj talked of his profession, folding over anecdotes of his abilities to speak with the Hindu Gods. Sunny was transfixed and agreed with Raj’s every word. I doubted Raj had magic powers and his stories were overzealous, but I believed in Sunny.

Leaving Jaipur Was Like Breaking a Cycle of Kindness

I had felt at ease hearing Sunny’s soft voice assuring “no worries,” or in calling me brother. I trusted the warmth in his brown eyes as he looked to Raj with a love that could be seen even in the shadows. He had shown us his India—his family, his way of life—and spent his time trying to make our experience more than a set of sites. He had repeatedly refused gratuity, and instead insisted we join him for a meal with his family. Believing in Raj’s powers, however momentary, appeared more sincere to Sunny than any other token of thanks. So after dinner, I sat alone with Raj in the dark for a palm reading. I assured him the secrets that had arisen would be kept as a sister—not as I was, a stranger, who had missed the big red arrow toward civilization and instead followed a humble tuk-tuk driver to the outskirts of Jaipur. I was out of place amongst the air, filled with souring fruit and manure. Yet, this was a place where Sunny raised his kids. A place where his wife and sister would lift their veils after we left. Five of them would huddle in one bed, and turn in for some sleep before Sunny headed back out into the late hours of the night to find a fare. This was a place that Sunny called home and where he was never ashamed to call it so when we visited. A place where he offered us a meal while his family ate nothing.It was a strange thing to leave Jaipur the next day, as though we were breaking a cycle of kindness Sunny perpetuated in every aspect of his life. While in India, I was held by skepticism, always decoding niceness from strangers. But now, a year later, I think about Sunny and his family. Every few weeks he sends a roughly written message in English over Facebook. I know he’s gone out of his way to find somewhere with Wi-Fi to send his words. I know he’s dictating the message to his son to type, as Sunny can’t read or write, in his language or mine. There’s nothing for him to gain in all this trouble of staying in touch, unless the return is simply that—to stay in touch. Sunny never wanted to make a sale—of himself, his ways, his culture or his beliefs. Nor did he shade others who did, something I hadn’t understood was unique to Sunny and not the traditions of India or Hinduism. His unmasked genuineness challenged my understanding of kindness as someone from America. Sunny showed me how the less you had the more you yearned to give.I’m humbled by the misplaced letters of Sunny’s messages—notes of concern for my family during COVID—or, most recently, a picture of his newborn niece. They’re notes I would send to someone close, to people I’d known for years. I had known Sunny for a collective few hours yet our exchanges flow comfortably like friends. Whether he had known from the beginning, when he had said hello and taken my bag upon his shoulder, Sunny’s compassion and blind kindness have imparted his presence in my life, happily and forever.

Tonic

December 20, 2023

Religion

As a Christian, I Thought I Owed My Husband Sex—Even if It Was Violent

Despite being a Christian, I didn’t go into marriage as a virgin. So I knew the sex with my husband wasn’t great—but it had never felt this bad.In bed, I turned away from the man I’d been married to for 15 years and curled my knees up into my stomach, wrapping my arms around them. He rolled onto his back beside me and fell asleep almost instantly. Tears slid down my cheek and made a little wet patch on my pillow. The longer we were married, the rougher he got during sex and the less he cared if I was enjoying it.There was something mechanical about it. I wondered if he thought of it like servicing the car—replacing the oil or some other necessary function. It was all about what he needed, what he said he had to have to feel loved, what I owed him as his wife.Somehow, those old-fashioned ideas had slipped into our marriage, and he seemed quite happy with them. To me, it was starting to feel more and more like rape.“I can only get it from you! What do you expect me to do?” he’d asked that night, after I’d said I wasn’t feeling up to it. It had been a long day with the kids, and I was exhausted. He’d expected sex every night that week, and things were starting to hurt down there.I should have said, “You can sort it out yourself, you know.” But he didn’t like masturbating. Why masturbate when you have a wife right there?Forcing myself out of my fetal position in bed, I blinked the tears away and headed for the bathroom. I winced as I carefully wiped toilet paper between my legs. I’d felt the rip when he’d entered. Foreplay was nonexistent, as usual, and I hadn’t been anywhere near ready. A spot of blood came away on the toilet paper. I knew from experience that rips like that hurt for weeks. It was in the same spot as last time. With his incessant need for sex, it never got the chance to fully heal.I sat on the toilet seat, dropped my head to my chest and took a deep breath. How much more of this was I expected to take? As a Christian, I had certain beliefs about sex and marriage, but was this really what God expected of me?

The longer we were married, the rougher he got during sex and the less he cared if I was enjoying it.

Against My Plan to Wait Until Marriage, I Had Sex at 21

I’d planned to be married before having sex. I knew some of my Christian friends had already broken that rule, but I was determined to do it the “right” way. Then, at 21, after too many drinks at a party, I found myself in one of the back rooms with a stranger between my legs. I barely remember any of it, but it was my first experience with sex, and it put me at a moral crossroads. If I couldn’t be a virginal bride anymore, why hold on to the virtue at all?When my next boyfriend came along, we jumped into bed straight away. For a year, I experimented and allowed him to explore my body in ways I’d never imagined. He was older than me and enjoyed making me feel great in the bedroom. In fact, he enjoyed making me feel great in lots of places.The sex was fantastic, but we weren’t in love, and I knew I wouldn’t marry him. He lived a wild, thrill-seeking life, taking a lot of risks fueled by recreational drugs. He wasn’t interested in growing a family or settling down like I was. I’d momentarily turned away from my faith, but we both knew it was temporary. We broke up and, a few months later, I met my husband online.

My Husband Was Different—in Some of the Right Ways

Right away, this felt different than my last relationship. We had all the same values, goals and beliefs, and we’d talk on the phone for hours. He lived in a different city, so our relationship wasn’t physical at the start. Being forced to talk without touching—without sex—fast-tracked the relationship and, by the time we met in person three months later, we knew we’d be getting married.Neither of us were virgins, and although we’d talked about waiting until marriage, we ended up in bed that first night we met. Initially, sex was good; the three-month build-up probably helped. But I’d also never made love to someone I cared about so much. Even though it wasn’t the mind-blowing sex I’d been having before, it was sweet and fun. Still, we tried to behave ourselves, and I never stayed the night at his house while we were dating. We got married quickly and, only then, moved in together.Once we were married, I noticed a worrying change. My new husband wanted sex every day, sometimes more than once a day. I would have been OK with that, but he didn’t seem interested in turning me on anymore or making sure I was enjoying myself. If I turned him down, he’d spend the rest of the night sulking.

Did Being a Christian Mean I Had to Endure Torturous Sex?

Sex wasn’t talked about a lot in the churches I went to, but I’d started to believe that I should never turn my husband down. It was my role as a wife to be available for his sexual needs any time he had them. I still enjoyed sex sometimes but, in my mind, whether I enjoyed it or not didn’t matter: It was all about the guy.There are many warped interpretations of Bible verses about submission in Christian circles, but I’m not sure why I believed them. The churches I went to weren’t especially conservative or legalistic, but I desperately wanted to be a good wife. I didn’t want to divorce like my parents, so it made sense to keep my husband satisfied.Initially, I worked hard to make sex good for both of us. “Could you do that a little more gently?” I’d ask when he used his fingers on me. “Even more gently?” Eventually, I’d move his hand away and shuffle down to give him a blow job or skip foreplay altogether. Whatever he did, it was always too rough and painful. Even kissing felt invasive: his tongue too deep, the pressure of his lips too hard against mine. I started to forget how good it had been once and decided I was the problem. Perhaps I’d become fussy? Saying no caused too much conflict and made me feel guilty, so instead of turning him down, I aimed to get sex over with as quickly as possible. That meant letting him do it roughly from behind, but the quicker and rougher it got, the less consensual it felt.I sat in the bathroom with my underwear around my ankles, dropped my head into my hands and prayed. “Is this what you expect from me as a wife, God?” An invisible band around my chest tightened until I was gasping for breath. This was all too much. Sex wasn’t the only aspect of our marriage that was becoming tough. Things were falling apart.I pulled my underwear back up, feeling the pain of the tear between my legs as it brushed against the fabric. I knew then that this wasn’t what God wanted for me at all. Sex is meant to be an expression of love. It’s not meant to leave me ripped apart and heartbroken.Shortly afterward, I left my marriage.

Was this really what God expected of me?

Starting Over Showed Me That Sex Could Be Orgasmic Again

When I started dating after divorce, I knew sex would be an important factor. I wanted someone who had similar Christian values and family goals, but I also wanted great sex again. Could I have both? Was I kidding myself? A year later, I found a wonderful man. It took a while to get to know him, but once I felt comfortable, I decided I was ready to let him into my bed. I wasn’t expecting much, but afterward, I held him against me and blinked at the ceiling over his shoulder in disbelief. “Wow,” I giggled. “I never orgasm that quickly!” “I aim to please,” he said into my neck.Four years later, he’s still aiming to please. Sex is exactly how it should be: gentle, consensual, loving and incredibly enjoyable—for both of us.

Pineapple Queen

December 19, 2023

Love

Travel

The Holiday of a Lifetime Ended My Marriage

Travel. The word itself conjures up images of balmy beachside evenings, bustling cities and new adventure. I have always loved travel, whether discovering somewhere new or revisiting an old favorite. A few years ago, Dubai was the ideal destination, and it wasn’t long until the word filtered down about all the exciting developments that were happening in the country. My then-husband, a contractor, was smitten.He had always been excited by architecture and development, and the stuff happening in Dubai made him giddy—the tallest buildings, the man-made islands and the fast cars. He wanted in. We visited as a family once or twice, and although I liked it, I wasn’t as smitten as he appeared to be. It was a little too ostentatious for my style, but hey, it was hard to fault the five-star hotels, the great restaurants and the evocative Arabian landscape.Despite this, I always felt there was a dark undercurrent there, something ugly lurking beneath the shiny surface, and it made me nervous. The busloads of overworked and underpaid migrant workers being ferried around the city to various construction sites did nothing to endear me to the city, nor did the sight of them sleeping under shady trees in 40 degree Celsius heat. Anything that’s too good to be true usually is.

Anything that’s too good to be true usually is.

I Put My Doubts Aside, and We Moved to Dubai for the Summer

My husband began spending a lot of time in the country, building business connections, and his infatuation with the lifestyle was growing stronger every day. Despite my misgivings, that summer, my children and I packed our bags to join their dad and spend the summer in Dubai for what we were promised would be “the holiday of a lifetime.” I wasn't fully sure I wanted to spend two months there, but I decided to go with the flow and support him in his new ventures. I was excited about a summer adventure but also a little nervous at the prospect of being away from home for so long. My husband was a workaholic, but at home, I had friends and a support system to help out. This was going to be a totally different ball game. Straight off, I felt something had changed. All the time spent away had an impact on him—and not in a positive way. It felt strange. We were rarely able to see him with all his work commitments, and when we did, he had an entourage of staff following him everywhere. Getting time alone was like asking for an audience with the pope. My husband had been a successful contractor back home, but deep down, he was a normal country boy who worked hard and enjoyed his family and friends. Now his jeans were cast aside (he had taken to wearing designer suits), and he had even found his own tailor. The customary 4x4 he usually drove had been traded for a fancy sports car, and he had people who appeared to be around just to do his bidding.As the days ticked by, it became obvious to me that this new persona was alien to us, and I wasn’t a fan. The influence of the wealth around us made him rude to people, and I was constantly embarrassed. He, on the other hand, seemed to revel in his newfound (self-appointed) status as some sort of don. Big things were happening, he said, and I needed to suck it up while he climbed the ladder of success. A few days into our stay, I organized a sitter and persuaded him to go for a drive and some lunch so that we could talk. I was unsettled and felt like I didn’t know the man I was married to anymore. He was a stranger. True, we had had our ups and downs throughout the marriage, but through it all, I had known who I was dealing with. Not anymore.He shrugged off my concerns and informed me that his future was Dubai-based, and as a result, so was mine. I laughed, but my face drained when he told me that he had already started looking at schools for our kids. I was speechless, and for the first time in all the years I had known him, I was scared. Dubai had a reputation for not being the most hospitable place for Westerners, and as for women…well, I had heard enough stories to know that I didn’t plan to ever live there or send my kids to school there. But my protests fell on deaf ears, and a week into our visit, he advised me that he had hired an interior decorator to help me decorate the villa that we would be living in and that money was not an object. I was aghast—this was never the plan, or at least any plan of mine.

It was all surreal, and I felt powerless to do anything about it apart from appeal to the man I had married.

My Husband Decided We Would Move to Dubai—Permanently

Somehow, I had devolved into a place in my marriage where my opinion was not considered. I was reminded regularly that he was the breadwinner and that as long as I didn’t cause trouble, I would be well looked after, spoiled even. Back home, we had been well off, but the way he was spending was next level; I knew we weren’t in that league. But prestige and power had intoxicated him, and as he patiently explained to me many times, Dubai was a place you had to fake it till you made it. “Fake” was certainly the word that I clung to. The days dragged on, and after a week or so, we moved from the hotel into a villa that my husband had leased for the summer while the villa he had bought was being built. I was lonely and confused by the change in his personality, but I rarely saw him alone, as his posse was always around. When we socialized, I wasn’t allowed to sit with him while he was in the company of local Emirati business associates and was instructed to sit with the other women. Having a glass of wine raised eyebrows, and my Western dress was not appreciated whatsoever. Once, I was left sitting in a sweltering car for hours as he stopped off to see someone on our way to dinner and totally forgot I was with him.It was all surreal, and I felt powerless to do anything about it apart from appeal to the man I had married. Sadly, he no longer existed. Eventually, sensing my frustration, he suggested I invite a friend to come stay to keep me company. Desperately in need of a friend, I jumped at the chance. Two days later, she arrived, her face etched with worry after the stories I had told her. She didn’t know the half of it.

A Visit From a Friend Offered My Family a Chance to Escape

She spent a week with me and the kids, but by the end of it, she was anxious to get home—and get us home too. I wasn’t arguing. As the date of her flight crept closer, I tried to figure out a reason to tell my husband that I needed to go back home too, but any hints that I made were instantly dismissed. I had my passport, and the kids’ too, but I knew I didn’t have enough cash in the bank to book five last-minute flights home. I was stuck. And then, I caught a lucky break.My husband had to return home for a week to sign some papers, and then and there, I decided I would be going home too. He begged us to stay and wait for him, but I knew this was my chance. With my friend in my corner, we insisted he book us all flights home together, and finally, because she was there, he relented.And so we packed our bags and boarded a flight home, never to return. He did return eventually, but the damage to our relationship was done. Dubai was not the first or final straw in what had become a strained marriage, but it was certainly the straw that wielded the most impact. By the end of that summer, we had separated for good, although it took years for our eventual divorce to be finalized. But that’s a whole different story.

Resting Bitch Face

December 18, 2023