Two People

I met him second semester of freshman year. It was a bright day. We happened to be wearing the same neon green Northface jacket. He stuck his hand out to shake mine; it was firm. A wonderful, tall boy with a big frame whose soul felt oddly familiar. Sometimes you meet people, you look them in the eye, and you just know they’re going to change your life forever. This was one of those times.

Three years later, like I knew we would be, we were in love.

It wasn’t until my mom sat me down one day that I realized there were certain challenges we would face as a couple—challenges stemming from the ignorance and prejudices of some people. No matter how many times I tried to explain to such people, there was one thing they continuously struggled to understand: I didn’t choose him because he was white; I chose him because he felt like home. We would get stares, but my mom would calm me down and tell me it’s because we were so beautiful. I never believed her.

Our school was an incredibly diverse place, but there weren’t many interracial couples with a black woman and a white man. As much praise as we got on social media and in real life, I would still get remarks that I liked “pink” (referring to his penis) and that he had a taste for “chocolate.” I never told my boyfriend about these remarks, even if they were from his friends, because I knew he would be upset. Throughout my entire life, I had built up my own defenses to racist and derogatory comments, so I chose to deal with much of this ignorance alone. I never wanted him to suffer in the ways I had before. I was constantly insecure that people looked at us and either wondered why he would ever date someone like me, or on the fetishizing side of the spectrum, thought, of course, he wants to be with someone “exotic.”

I spent countless times in the kitchen with the elders of my family explaining that he had a name and it wasn’t “white boy.” I had infinite conversations with my cousin clarifying that I don’t exclusively date white men, but that I just fell in love with someone who was. I assured her that he treated me like the most amazing girl in the world, and it wasn’t because I was black.

Comments were made about how beautiful our kids would be if we were to conceive—we were 17. I would show him to new college friends who wanted to know what my high school boyfriend looked like. Him being white was always the most shocking thing to them, as if the concept of us as a couple was going to somehow reverse the effects of racism entirely. Yet even under that delusional belief, my identity as a black individual was constantly being invalidated or challenged because I was in love with a white person. As if being in love with a white man made me less black. As if our entire relationship was focused on race. In actuality, the only time we talked about it was when we planned what we would do if we were in public and someone tried to harass us. I wish we didn’t have to have that conversation. But the reality was, we were living in a country where interracial love was still very much a taboo concept; Alabama didn’t lift all interracial marriage laws until the year 2000, and even then, 40% of its citizens voted against this decision.

As I grow and I see interracial relationships becoming more popular, I want everyone to think more about the two people dating versus the difference in their skin tones. They are human beings who have a beautiful relationship often because they’re in love—not because it’s “trendy” or “cool.” I applaud the increasing number of interracial couples I see because they have the courage to defy expectations and live beyond the confines of “taboo.”

I loved my boyfriend because he was amazing. He understood all of my dumb jokes, he looked at me like I was the only girl in the room, he kept me moving, he kept me grounded, and he fought for my love every single day when we were together. And that’s just how hard I loved him back. Not because he was white. Not because he wasn’t black. But because he was love, and at the end of the day, what more can any of us really ask for?

Online/Offline

Growing up alongside a strong presence of social media, I’ve been aware of the contrast between people’s behavior online and in person for a long time, from watching Catfish to reading comments from keyboard warriors. The internet provides an escape from everyday life, desensitizing people to what it’s like to communicate face to face, and creating an incentive to say things that people may not have the courage to say to someone’s face. In addition to that, it’s so easy for words on a screen to get misinterpreted or lost in translation.

I’ve been especially conscious of this incongruity as I’ve started to explore the world of romantic relationships. Like many other young women and teenage girls, this behavior is pushed to its extreme in my Instagram DMs and on Tinder. I’ve never had a guy greet me in person with, “If I rearrange some of the letters in your name I can spell anal,” or “Wanna fuck?” But in online communication, it seems to be a regular thing. Most of these messages are from men who I’ve never met, so it’s easy for me to press the unmatch or block button and remove them from my life. What these men say can still bother me, but it’s easier for me to shake than in-person interactions because I know that I will never have to confront this person.

But not all unwanted messages online are from strangers. Throughout middle school, high school, and college, I’ve received unwanted messages from my male classmates that made me feel uncomfortable, violated, and unsafe. Blocking them online may stop the unwanted online communication, but that does nothing to prevent them from behaving inappropriately in person or alleviate the stress of having to see them every day. I wish I could gain back the class time I spent in fear—afraid of how they would treat me in person, how they might react if I blocked them, and of being misinterpreted if I rejected them.

In middle school, these comments were encouraged in a way by the popularity of a website called Ask.fm, where people could anonymously ask questions by posting a link to your Facebook page. I quickly realized that this platform welcomed inappropriate comments—giving 13 to 14 year old boys the ability to send you anonymous messages gets really perverse really fast. These messages affected the way I felt at school. I’d scan the hallways and classrooms, trying to pair anonymous messages to faces, always wondering who had said what. I was suddenly aware that my school environment was not as safe as I’d thought.

In high school, boys left anonymity behind and started to comment whatever they wanted on my Instagram and Facebook posts. For years, I deleted the comments and never talked about them in attempt to be the bigger person—but also out of fear, because I didn’t want to confront these guys, not knowing how they’d respond. I’d been told that boys will be boys, and I wasn’t even sure if I could convince people they were wrong. So instead I went about my days trying to avoid all contact with anyone who said negative things about me online.

It wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I changed the way I dealt with inappropriate messages. There was a person who continually left comments on my Instagram and sent me text messages, demeaning me physically and intellectually. He also attacked my friends, and got his friends to gang up against me. I was over it. I wouldn’t tolerate silently sitting across from someone in class who was extremely hostile to me online. Before I went to the administration, a teacher heard him threatening me in the lunchroom, starting the process of getting help in handling the situation. He got suspended for his online interactions with me. Getting one of the most “popular” boys suspended from school held unfortunate consequences for me, creating tension between me and people who were loyal to him. But it also had its benefits—I had to adjust who I spent time with, and by the end of high school, I felt like the people who I was friends with were not only loyal but shared the same values as me.

Before this point it seemed completely foreign to me to reach out for help regarding unwanted messages. I feared that I’d get in some sort of trouble, or I’d be told “boys will be boys” for the billionth time, so I kept it private. This helped me realize that it’s not only okay, but extremely important to hold people accountable for their actions online. There might always be a gap between the way people behave online and in person, but online actions have no less weight than their actions offline.

My most recent experience with unwanted messages was different from the rest. For most of my second semester at college, this guy in one of my lectures wasn’t even on my radar. He usually sat far behind me in the fifty-person lecture class and had never said a word to me. One day he friended me on Facebook and I accepted, just as I would anyone else who went to my college. Almost immediately, he messaged me asking about how the class was going and if I wanted to hang out sometime. It seemed like a perfectly friendly message on the surface, but something about it really freaked me out. I didn’t know him; what motivated him to suddenly reach out to me? I responded politely, telling him a bit about the paper I was writing and deflecting his invitation to hang out, saying maybe another time. I hoped he’d notice that I wasn’t interested and stop messaging me. Over the next few weeks, he continued to send me random messages and asking me to hang out. I was at a loss for how to deal with it.

I had a lot of anxiety about rejecting him over Facebook Messenger. It’s easy to misinterpret the tone and intention of words on a screen. I’ve had my fair share of rejection, and I didn’t want him to assume there was a personal reason that I rejected him, or that I rejected him because of his appearance. The lack of personal connection with him made me fear that he’d read my rejection as harsher than it actually was.

So instead, I stopped responding completely. I felt paralyzed, and even though this person seemed nonthreatening, I still feared going to class. I didn’t know how he interpreted my silence, and then the silence lasted so long that I was worried how he’d interpret a response from me and what it’d warrant. Sitting in a room with someone who had extensively reached out to me online but had never spoken to me in person felt mysterious and terrifying. The messages continued even after I returned home for summer, which finally motivated me to end the interaction. I wish I could say that I stood up for myself and explained what was wrong to him, but I ended it by letting him know that I was transferring schools and moving to another state.

I feel that it’s somewhat unfair that I ignored him and didn’t tell him clearly that I wasn’t interested right away, but I stand firm in my belief that the frequency of his communication crossed a line. His relentlessness was so shocking to me, mostly because it seemed to be the exact opposite of what I would do if I were in his position. I’ve taken the risk of being the first person to initiate a relationship, and I’ve faced rejection a few times and even no response. Either of those outcomes are enough cause me to hide under my bed for a week and never try to interact with them again. This classmate and I might be examples of two extremes, but I feel that the disparity between the way that men and women behave online and in person is extremely vast.
In these three very different experiences with my male classmates and social media, I notice a common theme of entitlement. Those 13 and 14 year-old boys thought it was their business to ask me what my breast size was, with no regard to how violated that made me feel. My high school classmate thought there was no problem with commenting horrible things about me on my own posts. My college classmate made it seem like he was entitled to my time, even after I showed no interest. The relevant platforms for communicating online have changed so much during my lifetime, and are evolving faster than I can comprehend. The freedom that social media gives you makes me really excited for the future, but also afraid, because I really have no idea what kinds of interactions I will have ahead of me as I continue to navigate my relationships.

Intentionally Alone

Twelve months ago I made a pretty big decision. I decided I would not date for a full year. I know what you are wondering: why close yourself off to meeting someone completely? And if you know me well, then you must be thinking: but don’t you facilitate a story-telling collective all about dating?

It wasn’t until last summer that I realized I had long been using dating as a way to fill the voids of myself. Though I had mostly relished in my single status the last few years, I often felt myself being pulled by men who offered me glimmers of happiness instead of finding that within myself first. After a breakup, a death in my family, a major surgery, a toxic roommate, and an attack by a dog on the street (yes, that actually happened!), I realized it was time to refocus my energy inward and work on accepting myself on my own for an extended period of time.

Following all that trauma, I started seeing a therapist and learned I’ve been living with mental illness, which made it difficult for me to find peace within myself. And these struggles had long extended into my dating life. Realizing this was difficult as I looked into my past and discovered patterns and explanations for so many of the hiccups in my dating trajectory: there were countless times I used sex as a way to communicate with my partners because I never fully felt comfortable saying what was really on my mind. And while my anxiety kept me from speaking up about my needs time and time again, my codependency had caused me to do things I didn’t always want to do all because I felt a desperate need to be liked. Frequently, I got swept up in the idea of someone, and prioritized partners over me instead of figuring out what I truly needed because I was so used to putting everyone’s needs before my own. There’s a reason the partners I previously picked never stuck around—I can now see many of their shortcomings as a mirror of my own.

Though I’ve taken dating breaks in the past, I decided this one would be different. I’d fully commit myself to aloneness for an entire year. In other words no dating apps, no dates, no sex, no flirting, no nothing. I’d focus solely on healing myself and making strides towards my personal goals. This also means I would live a life in which I would no longer be vying for the attention of men. Now that I think about it, I’ve been trying to get their attention since I hit puberty. That’s at least 16 years of dressing or acting a certain way in order to attain the attention or validation of a man so that I would feel “complete.” Whoa.

Initially, my decision elicited mixed reactions from those around me—many of my female-identifying friends responded with the question: but what if you meet someone worthwhile, then what? While my guy friends reacted as though it were no big deal. It’s interesting how men and women perceive aloneness differently. As time went on, people asked less and less about my relationship status and dating life, just as I began to care less and less myself. Over time, I came to see myself as a full and thriving human being, regardless of my singledom.

As my year of aloneness ends, the past twelve months have acted as my own little revolution against the patriarchal ways in which society has told women that singleness is unattractive and aloneness is undesirable. In spending quality time focusing on self-care and establishing more independence, I have learned that I don’t need anyone but myself to feel worthy or valid.

These days, I think less about how I look or how attractive I am in the eyes of men, and instead, have given myself more quality time to hang out with my thoughts and feelings. It’s been a refreshing exercise in letting myself be quiet and more in touch with my needs.

While I would still love to find the right partner someday, I don’t worry as much about being alone forever. Recently, I told my therapist how little I crave a relationship and how fulfilled I feel on my own. She says this is the perfect time to get back into dating and practice everything I’ve been working on: establishing autonomy, exercising boundaries, and managing my anxiety.

Wish me luck!

No Shirt

“I’m in love with you but I can’t date you,” he said unprompted.

Unblinkingly, I stared up at him from my seat on the bench by the bonfire, waiting anxiously to hear where this was headed. He had ambushed me at our high school graduation after-party. Maybe he felt the same crushing finality of this chapter of our lives as I did, fearing that this was his last chance to set the record straight. He continued, “someone like me with someone… like you. It just wouldn’t be good for my reputation.” He danced around the subject for a few more minutes, talking in circles until we both felt dizzy; but the underlying message was there, I was too fat to date publicly.

This drunk confession from my high school crush was not easy on my impressionable, 18 year-old ears. That being said, it wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. I had spent my whole life telling myself that I was too fat to do anything: too fat to become a competitive figure skater, too fat to go to my best friend’s pool party, too fat to squeeze into the largest size of Lululemon yoga pants that all my friends were wearing in tenth grade. I had certainly been turned down or ignored by crushes before, so why did this time feel so different?

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my fatness. Comparable to an overbearing parent, it has always had a strong hold over the way I conduct myself, and acted as a factor in every decision I have ever made. Before saying yes to an activity, I would picture how I would look participating in said activity. Amusement parks were out of the question. What if I can’t fit the seat-belt around me? Sports were similarly removed from discussion. What if I get tired before everyone else and have to sit out? Even eating in public would be cause for concern, depending on the social environment and circumstances. What if I eat more than everyone else? What if the hot guy from fourth period sees me shoving poutine into my mouth as though I haven’t eaten in months?

All possibilities for humiliation considered, I often still manage to have an intense superiority complex. On a good day, the Alex in my head is a waif-like size zero. She has a gorgeous face, perfect body, and never settles. The presence of two opposing Alexandras in my psyche has always created problems in my dating and sex life. Imaginary Alex is extremely superficial and wants a fit, conventionally attractive man to show off on Instagram, while Real Alex knows this isn’t exactly an easy task to accomplish in her current physical state. As a result, at times my standards for potential partners can be too high. This simply adds to the already high probability of rejection and humiliation.

Nevertheless, Imaginary Alex allows for a certain degree of confidence that I wouldn’t otherwise experience on a daily basis. Unfortunately, Imaginary Alex doesn’t always make an appearance in my daily stream of consciousness.

In a world where fat is viewed as inferior, my alter ego often gives me the confidence to pursue those society considers to be “outside of my league.” However, too often this false confidence has lead to a destructive cycle of vulnerability and humiliation in which I grow close with the guy I am interested in, convince myself that he may be interested in me too, muster up the courage to ask how he feels, and ultimately get turned down.

Fortunately, most of these crushes were kind enough to let me down easily, and I am still friends with them to this day. Such demonstrations of decency is often more than one can expect from a teenage boy. These vague rejections also left the reasoning behind their lack-of-interest up to self interpretation. Therefore, while my self-deprecating mind often relegated partial blame to my fatness, it was easy enough to pretend that the majority of my rejection could be attributed to a lack of romantic connection. However, this means of self-protection was not fool proof. Each new rejection stung more than the last, despite adamant attempts to push my pain onto the back-burner.

Then came Will. Will was your typical jock/womanizer combination who was obsessed with protecting his ego. Looking back, he wasn’t even that cute. Notwithstanding—Will’s lack of physical prowess and asshole demeanor—he still managed to get all the girls to pull down their Catholic school kilts for him; myself included. Will and I ran in the same social circle since grade nine, but only became close at the beginning of grade twelve.

I started helping him with his English homework and partnering with him for projects. Eventually we started going to parties together, and then would ultimately end up sitting in his driveway until five o’clock in the morning talking about anything and everything. The more I got to know Will, the less I hated the version of himself he presented to the world. It became clear he had many of his own insecurities. It was almost like he had an Imaginary Will of his own that helped get him through the day. I quickly became infatuated with Will and was not shy about spreading this news to all of my friends. We had such a strange and intense connection that some part of me believed he liked me back.

It was only a matter of time before Will found out that I had feelings for him.

At that point, I didn’t care that he had found out, and he didn’t seem to care that I liked him. Nothing about our relationship changed. Although he didn’t show any immediate signs of wanting to pursue a relationship with me, something kept me from entirely giving up any hope of us being together. As the school year went on, I became more and more infatuated with him. In my eyes, he could do no wrong. Will constantly used me for rides to parties; I didn’t get mad. He fucked my best friend; I didn’t get mad. He told me he couldn’t date me because I was too fat and it was bad for his reputation; I still didn’t get mad.

His actions aside, it wouldn’t be fair to blame my insecurities surrounding sex and relationships entirely on Will. My insecurities have been deeply ingrained in my psyche since childhood. However, the accumulation of these recurring experiences continued to reinforce my negative thoughts. Although I am well aware of society’s perception of fat people, such reminders serve as a recurring slap in the face.

Fat prejudice is often thinly disguised as concern for the health of the population. Of course, excessive weight gain can be unhealthy, but so are smoking, drinking, or taking drugs—all of which are glamorized by the media. Fatness becomes the outlier in this myriad of “unhealthy practices” because it is considered to be an eyesore. Fatness makes people uncomfortable. The social standards surrounding health and beauty unconsciously shape individual biases to the extent that even I, an actual fat person, can admit to preferring my partners to being conventionally attractive.

I’m not going to rattle on and on about the large amount of unlearning that we have to do as a society because, because you’ve heard it all before. If you’re not attracted to fat people, reading an essay about the damaging effects of the “skinny > fat” mindset isn’t going to change your mind, and that’s okay. It wouldn’t be realistic to expect everyone to suddenly find all fat people attractive. However, it is important to understand that my experience isn’t unique. Fat people are frequently made to feel as though they don’t deserve love, and must suppress their sexuality until they attain a body deemed acceptable by society. During the rare instances in which a fat person’s sexuality is celebrated, it is often viewed as a fetish, reducing fat people to an object used merely for sexual satisfaction.

While it is certainly easy to play the victim and wallow in self pity, I know that I am not purely a victim of circumstance. My particular weight gain was preventable and is absolutely my fault. I also hold the power to lose weight whenever I want. However, knowing these facts doesn’t make my journey to self-acceptance easier.

Finally, the years of continually being turned down caught up to me. The feelings of embarrassment I experienced after being told that I’m not good enough were unparalleled. The phrase “I see you as a friend” is now enough to send Imaginary Alex into an immediate and long hibernation. With each new rejection, the voice inside my head was quick to humble me, “how could you think that HE would fuck YOU?” It began to feel as though I would never find someone who was able to look past my weight and appreciate the rest of what makes me beautiful. I even began to question why I so desperately longed for a relationship. Was it simply for validation?

When I finally did begin to have sex in my twenties, it was not without conflict. Much to the chagrin of my current boyfriend, I spent the first year of our sexual relationship having sex with my shirt on.

“Will you take your shirt off?” he finally requested meekly. I stopped fucking him as soon as I processed what he had asked. He seemed as nervous to make the request as I did about exposing myself. For a full thirty seconds I pondered the request before taking a deep breath and obliging. While my compliance was met with enthusiasm, with each passing second I tried desperately to shrink further and further into myself. Suddenly the fact that I was on top, completely exposed, was horrifying. He had seen every part of my body before, but never all at once. I had always kept our encounters tightly controlled by keeping on a single item of clothing or using a strategically placed blanket to hide an undesired body part. I was always constantly thinking about how my entire body looked in any given position.

What if he can see my stomach hanging out when he fucks me from behind?

What if my tits look saggy when I’m on top?

What if I suffocate him with my thighs when he goes down on me?

What if the sight of my entire disgusting body all at once is too overwhelming and he leaves me?

It’s hard to feel sexy when you don’t believe it yourself. My boyfriend has always been amazing at showering me with compliments. Notwithstanding these attempts to comfort me, I can never seem to shake the thought that he doesn’t find me attractive. I’m constantly questioning his motives for being with me. Does he have a fat fetish? Does he lack the confidence to go out and find someone of equal physical stature? While I am aware that it’s not fair to project my own insecurities onto my boyfriend, at times I’m not able to stop myself. An even bigger fear is that my thoughts will ultimately create a self-fulfilling prophecy, causing my partner to grow tired of my drama and leave me as a result. People will only take so much of your bullshit until you have to own your trauma and take responsibility for your healing.

If I had been told at 16 that I would fuck three people by the age of 22 without losing any weight first, I would have never believed it. The healing process is slow and never fully guaranteed, but it is necessary. It took me twenty-two years to feel comfortable enough in my body in order to share it with someone else. Everyone’s healing process is unique, just as everyone’s reasons for acceptance are different, but if you want to get there, you can make it happen.

I’m nowhere near at ease with my body yet, but hey, I can fuck without a shirt on.

How Sex Changed My Body Image

I hadn’t known to take my body seriously.

To a degree, I saw my body as a foreign object for as long as I can remember. I knew that I needed it to carry me places, to relieve my hunger when I fed it, and to memorize information that I needed to know for school. I was taught to keep my body clean, and to protect it from being taken advantage of. In my sheltered mind, what I knew of my body and what I was taught to do with it was all that existed.

As I got older, my body started its natural changes. It began to curve and jiggle in ways I hadn’t observed before. I was told about training bras that I didn’t want to wear. I was asked why my legs were so hairy before I even knew that it was the norm for girls to shave them. I was congratulated for being fertile when my period first reared its god-awful head when all I could do was feel like vomiting from the pain.

One night, I carried all these observations with me to the mirror and looked at myself completely nude. I cringed at what I saw. I was shaped like a defective rectangle; had nothing too ladylike about the outline of my body. My boobs looked, to me, like down-sloping bananas from the side, instead of the full, perky ones I’d seen in movies. My ass was supposedly where it should’ve been, but not fully visible, and it held stretch marks in place of the invisible growth. My stomach ebbed and flowed, instead of remaining completely flat like I figured it should have. I wouldn’t even look at my “down there” area. I didn’t entirely know what to identify my body as, though, from what I’d seen in all forms of media at the time, it didn’t look the way it was supposed to. From that point on, things were different… I saw my body as something that was happening to me. I knew that it needed more attention, but I wanted to be as separate from it as I could. I felt ashamed of it.

I knew about sex, of course. Like most kids, I was definitely curious about it. The way directors made sex look in movies and TV shows was enticing, and I knew that rubbing something “down there” felt good. However, I was the golden child, an innocent angel. I was me, and I was too pure to see or do anything that pertained to sex. Even asking about it made people think I was growing too fast. It ruined people’s perceptions of me, and it ruined my perception of myself. Naturally, it all left me confused, but still wanting to know more. It was like a forbidden fruit.

All I knew was that, in the right circumstances, a body could provide pleasure and a unique emotional closeness with another through sex. I found this idea one of the most interesting and beautiful things, and I sheepishly searched about it on Google in my free time. But even once I’d gotten my period and was “fertile,” sex still wasn’t something I could connect to myself. It was always something for the more experienced, for people who’d already owned their bodies and knew how to use them. As someone who had a separated and awkward relationship with their body, sex seemed like a distant reality.

So when I first experienced it at twenty-one, it was obviously a tricky process. I didn’t want my partner to see the body I hadn’t fully owned yet. It felt incomplete, like it would never be good enough. I showered him with apologies about my body, and was initially afraid to go too far. This caused frustration on both sides. This was a sexually experienced man, who couldn’t even get a chance to cum because his lover was too afraid, and I was an all-around inexperienced woman, who wanted so badly to see firsthand what sex was like, but felt it was out of her league.

Thankfully, my partner was patient and straightforward with me while we explored sex together. When he and I finally orgasmed together for the first time, something else changed for me. I felt more natural in that moment than I had in any other. I got to do something with my body that not only made me feel good, but also made someone else feel good. My rectangular shape and my sad banana boobs didn’t matter in the enormity of a climax. Instead of seeing my body as something that had happened to me, I discovered how to use it to serve me and how strongly I would cum. It was the most freedom I’d felt in a long time; probably ever.

I began to see my body differently once I experienced sex. Slowly, but surely, it became less foreign to me. I became more confident from seeing it as a sexual temple that I held the reigns to. I could go out in public without a bra. I could look in the mirror without grimacing (as much, at least). Hell, I could sleep entirely nude if I wanted! Those things felt like such breakthroughs for me as a person who’d hidden her body away in embarrassment for so long. At the same time, those things felt so natural, like my newfound confidence revealed to me that I’d been capable of this the all along.

I still don’t feel comfortable in my body all the time, but I’m more willing to explore it now. I no longer apologize as much for how it looks in front of my partner, and knowing how to work it during sex has become second nature to me. I’ve found more importance in being in tune with my body and what helps it to thrive, realizing I control whether or not it does. Today, I can look at my “down there” area, and know that it’s mostly comprised of my vagina, and not feel uncomfortable about what functions it serves. Now, I can talk to people more freely about sex, as I see that sex shouldn’t be something scary. Most importantly, I’ve learned to take my body seriously. I can say that it’s mine now.

Take Young Queer Women Seriously

Queer culture has manifested itself in nightlife as early as the 1930s. Gathering to mix and mingle, queer people of all shapes and sizes congregate in bars and clubs. These venues not only help queer people meet, but also facilitate safe environments for a group of people often left to their own devices when it comes to building a community. Unfortunately, many of these spaces are catered to queer men by default.

Over the past year, I have read a number of articles about the decline in queer spaces for women all over the country. This comes as no surprise to me. I moved to New York this year only to find even less spaces carved out for queer women than I had expected. The fact that I can count on three fingers the only lesbian bars in all of New York City is a testament to the fading trend of queer female spaces across the nation. I can only imagine how few spaces are left for queer women in more rural areas.

Before moving to New York, I grew up between a small beach town in San Diego and an equally small suburb of Copenhagen, Denmark. Neither place offered much representation when it came to queer women. Very few openly queer people attended my small, private, Christian high school, and even fewer of the out queer people I knew were women. Therefore, I was excited by the prospect of attending a women’s college and living in a large city, hoping the combination would offer more opportunity to build a queer community for myself.

I’m sure you’ve heard the narrative before—girl escapes Christian private high school suppressing any deviation from compulsive heterosexuality only to realize… she’s queer! This, however, isn’t my story.

Although my high school greatly lacked in representation, I realized I was queer long before leaving. It was coming to New York that made me realize how much of a community I actually lacked. I didn’t realize I wanted a queer community until I experienced it, and now I can’t imagine my life without one.

Not only was my school lacking any sort of queer community, the greater city of San Diego also lacked in LGBTQ+ pride. Although the city has Hillcrest—a historically gay part of town—it feels outdated, and centered around an older generation. It is also largely male dominated, and as a young queer woman I never felt like there was a space for me in Hillcrest.

This trend of queer spaces catering to an older, white, male crowd isn’t new.

Most queer spaces, even in New York, cater to white men. Within the LGBTQ+ community, most things default to maleness and whiteness. If you search the city for gay bars, you’ll find most filled with only gay men. When most queer and/or gay spaces are compulsively male, it becomes isolating for women and nonbinary folk. There is somehow the assumption that gay men and women have their queerness in common and that that is enough, but there is a gap here—a lack of exclusively queer spaces for women.

Some would argue that the remedy for this issue is creating more general queer spaces where all are welcomed; however, I believe carving out space for people of specific intersectional identities may be a more effective way to build community. The sad truth is, while few designated spaces exist for queer women, even fewer exist for queer people of color. The LGBTQ+ community has unfortunately adopted systems of power that value masculinity, maleness, and whiteness above all other identities. Most queer spaces are made for white men, and this is a huge problem. Not all gay people are white men! Spaces for communities based on identity should not just be a privilege reserved for the apparent majority.

Part of this decline in spaces for queer women comes from a generational gap—many young queer women are doing away with labels and opting for a my-sexuality-is-fluid-and-I-hate-labels approach. Because of this it may seem as though queer spaces specifically for women are no longer necessary. I beg to differ. To dismiss spaces made specifically for queer women is to erase the distinction of intersectional experience. It infers that all queer people experience the world similarly, when this is not at all the case. While I have pride in belonging to a greater LGBTQ+ community, I have very little in common with the older gay men I often meet in gay bars.

There is a case to be made for traditional labels of sexuality. Although the shift away from labels is progressive in that it acknowledges how fluid human sexuality can be, it can also be argued there is some internalized homophobia in wanting to distance oneself from terms like lesbian and gay. I identify as queer, but I also embrace the terms bisexual, lesbian, and gay to counteract the stigma associated with these terms. I have mixed feelings about the no labels approach many young queer women are taking today. While sexuality is by no means fixed, there is a certain power in reclaiming terms like lesbian, dyke, and queer.

As more and more young people are identifying with sexualities outside of heterosexuality, it’s affecting how queer communities are forming.

There appears less need for separate areas of town to be designated as gay areas—as fun as they are—for they seem a byproduct of more dire times, when many public spaces felt unsafe and unwelcoming to queer people. Today, young queer people are connecting in more innovative ways: through dating apps, social media, and mutual friends. It almost seems as though the need for queer-only spaces is dying down as identities become more complex and nuanced. There is, however, no substitute for a physical gathering space, and while less space is being carved out for queer women, this doesn’t mean we don’t need the space. Seeing that we are already a demographic not taken seriously, often patronized as confused, hyper-sexualized, or seen as going through a phase—young queer women are constructing community where there is none.

That’s not to say in modern times there aren’t still a lot of lingering issues for young queer women. One example is the underlying idea that we don’t have any agency over our own sexuality. As I mentioned before, young queer women are consistently patronized and hyper-sexualized. I remember one night at a gay bar—packed with mostly white men—an older man came up to me and asked if I was a lesbian. He continued to say that he was surprised to see me and my friends in this space, as most lesbians he knew were uglier, older, and “more masculine.”

Although I would like to believe that this older gay man was trying to compliment me and my friends by creating a dichotomy (think: you’re not like other lesbians, you’re attractive, feminine, and young!), in reality he was perpetuating a dangerous stereotype and deepening a pre-existing wound in the queer community. This addresses a deeper issue not just affecting young queer women, but all young women. This idea that “you’re too pretty to be gay” is a thinly-veiled comment implying that we should be interested in men simply because they are interested in us. This erases young women’s agency over their individual sexualities, and perpetuates the outdated notion that women are only queer because they’ve failed to capture the attention of a man.

By looking closely at the comments young queer women often receive, it becomes apparent that what may seem like a harmless joke or even an attempted compliment, actually impede taking young women seriously.

The stereotype against young queer women being that we are confused only perpetuates and makes it acceptable to not take us seriously. Implying queer women are confused is part of a greater cultural conversation in which femininity is equivocated with frivolity and stupidity, and queerness with uncertainty and disorder.

So let’s take young queer women seriously. We might surprise you.

How Our Society Enables Sexual Assault

*The content below may be triggering to those affected by assault.

I have trouble discussing violence prevention because of the dangerously thin line between promoting self-defense and promoting rape culture. Necessitating the need for self-defense knowledge can sometimes imply the responsibility to avoid assault falls to survivors as opposed to the assailant.

When I was a senior in high school, I was raped by one of my close friends. For the next few months, I was subject to gossip and rumors, losing sight of myself and my experience. The whole time, it felt like people needed to find an individual to blame, but it is not that simple. After this experience, I took some intensive violence prevention seminars and classes. These classes made me begin to consider if the attack was my fault—if I could have fought back and defended myself further.

I don’t think survivors are ever to blame.

There are more important, realistic, and educated ways to minimize violent sexual behavior in society than blaming survivors. Although conversations on the topic can be uncomfortable, they are important to have. There are people who claim survivors could do more to fight off their attacks. There are people who call survivors of rapes like my own “lazy.” To understand these perspectives and discrepancies around the definitions of rape, I began to critically examine our societal and cultural views of assault. I have learned that although sex-ed and violence diminishing efforts should involve self-defense, it should also include education about societal structures and cultural power dynamics, and the responsibilities and privileges that come with them.

After an assault takes place, our society often blames the individual rather than the system that promotes their behavior. As we consider society as a whole and the patterns within this, we learn that the individual is not the sole root from which these bad behaviors stem. These behaviors come from a complex web of historical and social constructs that create a system where certain individuals are unequal to others. This system of inequity creates dynamics that enable those with power and privilege to take advantage of those without (or less of) it. This abuse of privilege can come in the form of rape.

It’s also worth exploring the distinction between sexual assault and ‘bad sex’ and the dialogue around it.

‘Bad sex’ is an experience many of us have, wherein verbal consent may have never been explicitly given, but we don’t really mind. Typically, these interactions aren’t enjoyable and may cause either participant to feel bad afterward. People sometimes refer to these kinds of situations as the grey area of sexual assault, with the assumption that people know better than to label this kind of interaction as rape. I think this is an unfair assumption promotes the viewpoint that rape is only committed by random strangers in dark alleyways.

Rape and ‘bad sex’ are not the same. There is a difference between a sexual encounter where, due to clear or unclear pressures, one member feels as though they cannot express their discomfort and is being forced to continue (rape), and sexual encounters where one person is not fully present and does not care enough or feel like it’s worth speaking up to end a situation (bad sex). It isn’t rape because they weren’t active in the experience.

While bad sex isn’t rape, it comes from the same cultural influence: individuals with power and privilege feel more entitled to do what they want. To remedy this communicative disconnect, people with inherent social and sexual privilege need to understand their standing, and take on the responsibilities that come with it. For example, if one person is passive during sex while another is active, it is the responsibility of the active participant to engage and make sure the passive participant is consenting and enthusiastic about the sex they’re having. The “bad sex” argument is a cop-out for these often avoidable situations. Letting active participants off easy fuels phrases like ‘they’re just men, they don’t know any better’ and ‘boys will be boys.’

We need to hold all members of our society accountable, especially those with privilege, and make sure they’re aware of the power system we operate within, the toxic behaviors this system inspires, and ways to prevent these behaviors. That should be the bottom line when considering routes to minimize rape culture, not simply suggesting survivors participate in self-defense courses.

While I do believe self-defense practices are empowering and important, I don’t think they should be the only solution offered. I encourage everyone to ask themselves these difficult questions: why would someone not feel safe enough to express their sexual discomfort? Have you never found yourself in their situation? Am I genuinely considering my partner(s) needs? Am I actively making sure my partner(s) feels comfortable?

Once you consider the societal structures that produce this kind of behavior it becomes clear that violence prevention is not an individual’s responsibility, but a collective one. This is why the individual blame model does not work. We need to learn about privilege, about compassion, and about what it means to take advantage of our privileges. We need to learn how to be advocates rather than bystanders. We need to learn what consent means, what it sounds like, what it looks like, what it feels like.

My Pledge Sister Is Dating My Assailant

The title makes me laugh and I know it shouldn’t… but it does. Anyways, the title is pretty self explanatory so I don’t need to write much, which is good in my opinion.

“Honey, no…” are the first words that came to mind when my boyfriend informed me that my pledge sister (a girl I went through the new member process with when I was rushing my sorority in college) is dating the boy who sexually assaulted me freshman year.

I entered college in 2014. When I arrived on campus I felt cultured and sophisticated from frequent travel, yet somehow depressed because I now found myself in a small college town. I went to a rush event; however, I do not need to explain why I chose to smoke and drink and I refuse to explain why I pointed to my assailant and said, “He’s cute I kind of want to get with him,” to my friend. What does matter is that I remember my consciousness going in and out while in my bedroom and having my phone pushed away from me as I tried to read it and text my friends for help. I remember saying no and hearing the reply, “Why? You’re so beautiful?” I had never felt uglier.

The negative comments I received over the next year and a half were heart breaking. Very few people believed my story and wanted to believe that it was a cry for attention. Let me ask the public: why would I, or any woman want that kind of attention? Please fill me in because if I could go back I would not have told a single soul. In fact, it was HIM who told everyone why he was being suspended for two weeks and it was him who told several people that I was “crazy” and a liar. The counseling I received helped me significantly, as did the support from my true friends. Some of those friends included my sorority sisters. I pledged with 14 extraordinary girls who came from diverse backgrounds and had a lot to offer the sorority. I opened up my wounds a full year later with these girls, and felt at peace with everything that had happened.

Now as a 23-year-old kick ass woman, I find myself on my typical early 20s Manhattanite path. I attend graduate school in NYC, go to brunch on Sunday’s, attend overpriced workout classes, and student teach with some of the best educators the state has to offer. One day I wondered: “Why I am blocked (yes, there is an app for that) on Instagram by one of my pledge sisters?” I turned to my boyfriend and shrugged. “I guess she is over me then,” I said, laughing it off.

The next day my boyfriend found out why she blocked me on Instagram (oh, and Facebook too): she is dating that boy from the paragraph I JUST FINISHED ANGRILY TYPING ABOUT. My first thought was “Honey, no…” then my brain did that thing where it processes information (how dare it). I got angry. I got flashbacks of what happened freshman year, and I got angry at HER. I cannot blame him for being interested in her. She’s blonde, has a cool nose piercing, and is pretty alternative. But she also used to be one of my close friends, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why I was more mad at a fellow woman than I was at the man who violated me.

Then it came to me: she is a hypocrite.

This girl was an orientation leader, a tour guide, a sorority sister and an advocate for social justice. The boy who violated me was a hermit who did nothing but grow his hair to an ungodly length and a mustache that did no benefit to his face. He did nothing to make anyone else think that he gives a shit about anyone other than himself. Sure, he was an athlete *slow clap* but he convinced the rest of his team that I was a liar and that I made everything up. But this girl I considered a friend had the audacity to BLOCK me. It is not about losing a follower and it is not about losing her as a friend, because frankly I don’t want to know someone like her. It is about her assuming that she has the authority that she can block me from finding out what she is doing. On top of that, she does not have the right to decide that I cannot handle seeing his face. That is not up to you and it never will be.

To my former sorority sister: you are not an advocate for anyone or anything but yourself, and that is fine, but don’t you dare try and say you respect women if you are dating someone who calls your pledge sister a liar.

*This post is co-published with Bitter Blush, a platform that strives to discuss topics that traditionally make people blush. You can follow the blog on Instagram at @bitter.blush.

Fault In Your Stars

Has someone’s zodiac sign ever kept you from sleeping with them? Well, maybe it should have.

While it is your Mars alignment which speaks to your sexual nature, we’re more concerned with predicting someone’s prowess quickly, so we’ll just talk sun signs (the alignment that dictates general personality AKA the sign based solely on your birthday). After having consulted the powers that be (the internet and self proclaimed astrology experts), KAAST has come up with a break down on how the different sun signs love and fuck.

AQUARIUS

In bed this air sign displays the same free spirit they exhibit in life. Famously creative, they carry this trait into the bedroom, so I hope you’re up for an unconventional time. Their energy between the sheets is best paired with a Gemini or Scorpio.

In love Aquarians are notoriously uncommunicative, often coming off as detached. Not fans of telling you how they feel, being in love with an Aquarius requires some extra work. But don’t let their cool exterior discourage you, they ultimately make warm and intelligent lovers.

PISCES

In bed a Pisces is a consummate romantic and occasional role-player. In fact, an atmosphere of fantasy and passion persist throughout all of Pisces season, and sex with them is often a tender experience. A sexual giver, a Pisces usually tends to their partner’s needs before their own.

In love this water sign is looking for a true soulmate, someone they can connect with emotionally and spiritually. Pisces are very intuitive and can often sense what you’re keeping from them. Their selfless nature can make you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

ARIES

In bed as in life, Aries are impatient, often wearing their lust of their sleeves. Sometimes this impatience means little foreplay, but don’t worry, once an Aries puts it down, they’re more than capable lovers. Passionate and aggressive, sex with an Aries is always high energy and almost always fun!

In love these fire signs are extremely difficult. Having dated a few, I’ve found the very same traits that make them exciting fuckers also make them problematic lovers. Prideful, stubborn, often combative, there’s very little room for error with an Aries. They expect a superhuman level of loyalty, but if you’re willing to put in the legwork, they’ll return the favor. Aries can make fierce life partners (just don’t, for heaven’s sake, contradict them)!

TAURUS

In bed this earth sign has a really stellar sexual word of mouth. Ruled by Venus, the planet of love and beauty, a Taurus is very attune to their senses. They’re usually a great lay. Their slow-moving nature translates to lasting and indulgent fucks. Essentially, you should be sleeping with a Taurus.

In love they’re drawn to beauty and stability. But they’re also possessive; a Taurus friend once equated being left by a man to being robbed. Earth signs crave security, which sometimes verges on materialistic. So if you’re broke, maybe you should lose that Taurus’s number.

GEMINI

In bed a Gemini is playful, curious, and often a fan of dirty talk. They don’t take making love too seriously, which usually means you’re in for a fun and relaxed romp. They like to keep things fresh and bring refreshing versatility to the bedroom.

In love it’s often difficult to keep their attention. A multifaceted sign that excels at social adaptation, you need to be as dynamic as they are to keep a Gemini interested.

CANCER

In bed — if you’re lucky enough to get them there as they aren’t the most promiscuous sign — Cancers are affectionate and caring partners. Be gentle, as these water signs are highly sensitive. Trust that once you’ve entered them, a Cancer fully expects you to hold them throughout the night afterwards.

In love a Cancer will take care of you, but they’re easily the most emotional sign in the zodiac — so tread lightly! However, don’t mistake their tears for weakness; they are quite strong. To keep a Cancer, you must make them feel valued and safe. Cancers make fundamentally kind partners.

LEO

In bed Leos expect you to worship them. Vocalizing your satisfaction is vital, one negative comment can turn a Leo off completely. But don’t worry, if they feel sufficiently valued, they’ll be sure you feel the same. Leos are as fun in bed as they are in life — just be sure not to moan louder than them — they need to be the star of this porno.

In love Leos need to be constantly reminded of your devotion. They operate best when showered with praise. Yet despite their need for attention, they make very loyal partners. The archetypal social butterfly, this fire sign enjoys being the focal point in group settings. This is true in their love life, too; Leos sometimes select less outwardly impressive partners so they shine brighter. But don’t be annoyed by their centrism, Leos are a riot! Invest in them, and your investment will be returned.

VIRGO

In bed this earth sign will expect you to have your technique down-pat, because they do! Not a fan of sexual surprises, it’s best to play by the books with a Virgo. A sign that lives in their head, it’s vital to put in the tongue work during foreplay to make them feel comfortable and ready for the deed.

In love Virgos will put in the effort! They’re extremely hard workers (Beyoncé is a Virgo), but verge on being perfectionists. Occasionally this correctional compulsion will extend to you, and Virgos can sometimes make critical partners. But never doubt this comes from a place of care, as Virgos are very picky and don’t enter relationships lightly. Love with a Virgo can be lasting, as they always want to make it work.

LIBRA

In bed Libras are sexual chameleons. They’re mutable signs, so flexibility is their thing. A fan of setting the mood, wearing expensive lingerie and lighting some candles wouldn’t hurt.

In love you better watch these air signs, they’re easily the most charming sign of the zodiac. They crave romantic attention (and hate being alone), but in a much subtler way than Leos. Terribly indecisive, they’re used to holding many lovers at once. To be with a Libra you need a strong sense of self because they flirt with everyone.

SCORPIO

In bed this sign is in their element. Notoriously the most sexual sign of the zodiac, their skill and intensity is well reported. Scorpios are very consuming, and while they definitely love a casual fuck (or any fuck, really), sex with them will feel anything but. Just be sure to not mistake their intensity for intimacy.

In love it’s best to avoid Scorps if you’re looking for something chill. They have a penchant for jealousy and obsession, and opt for whirlwind love affairs that usually end in destruction. But the highs are undoubtedly high, and a Scorpio is never boring. They respond to honesty and take betrayal very seriously. A fan of revenge, don’t cross a Scorpio unless you’re ready to see them fuck your best friend and livestream it.

SAGITTARIUS

In bed a Sag makes a passionate and impulsive lover. On the tamer end of the fire spectrum, their burn lives within. They’ll try almost anything once and don’t mind rough sex. But once you finish, expect a Sagittarius to wax philosophically. Try reading a steamy love poem prior to penetration to get them wet.

In love it’s hard to pin a Sagittarius down, as they are the adventurer of the zodiac. But if you’re lucky enough to do so, hold onto them, because they’re easily the most well-rounded sign. Love with a Sag is often sunny, as they are eternal optimists. They are also romantics, so sprinkle in a few sweeping gestures to seal the deal.

CAPRICORN

In bed a Capricorn will always make you feel safe, but they can sometimes be a little boring. While they have a kinky side, their passivity requires you to draw it out of them. Thankfully, Capricorns are hard workers with a lot of stamina, so if you give it time, you’ll eventually find a fulfilling sexual rhythm.

In love you better impress a Capricorn. Bring your resume on the first date. They are deeply ambitious, and value the same in a partner. Often successful, they’re hyper-conscious of their social image and how they’re being perceived — be sure not to embarrass them. Big planners, Capricorns are always thinking ahead. Ultimately a Cap just wants a partner to build with.

So when you date and play, remember to look to the sky — it’s full of clues.

Uneven Breasts

When I was 18 I had a breast reduction. Most people’s reaction upon learning this is something like, “Oh, did you have bad back pain?” The answer is no. “Breast” is singular when I say breast reduction. I had a breast reduction on one boob. One of my boobs was so much larger than the other that I got it reduced to make them the same size. I’m not talking a one cup size difference; it was like a clementine and a large, genetically modified orange that you see at the grocery store and wonder how the fuck they grow an orange the size of a watermelon difference. They were the life of the party and the bane of my existence.

I had been praying for boobs pretty much my whole life. Everyone cool had them—my babysitters, my older sister, Lindsay Lohan. Even my grandma had them. It felt like this exclusive club I wasn’t allowed to be in. I did everything one possibly could to get boobs: pretty much nothing. I tried that exercise from Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret that Margaret and her friends do to increase their bust size, but it felt like an antiquated move. I went bra shopping with my friend who had really big boobs hoping they would rub off on me, and I imagined myself with boobs a lot. I wasn’t like a pervy, tit-obsessed kid… just a normal tit-obsessed kid waiting for a day that I was convinced would never come.

At last, when I was 16 I got boobs. But when they came in it was like one came out to play and the other never got the memo to start growing. They were uneven from the start. My doctor said to just give the other more time to go, but as they grew bigger, they only grew more uneven.

I had a pair of mismatched boobs. It felt like either: a) My life was a teenage coming of age movie of which the cliché moral was “to be careful what you wish for,” or b) My prayers all of those years must’ve been unclear in some way, because here I was with one boob.

Fast forward through years of endless complaining to my mom, waiting for the other one to catch up like I was advised it surely would, nothing happening, and then somehow getting my parents to take this issue seriously enough to get me a consultation with a plastic surgeon.

It went as you’d probably imagine. After sitting in the waiting room for an hour, I was shown into a room to meet a creepy, old male doctor with bushy eyebrows who was nice but not nice enough to distract from the fact that he looks at boobs all day. (Side note, why are there so few female plastic surgeons when the vast majority of cosmetic procedures are performed on women?) He drew all over my chest with a sharpie, and called my breast a “mutation.” We decided on a date for surgery and that was that. I would go under the knife only a few weeks before leaving for college, and thankfully it was going to be covered by my insurance.

During the surgery they made three incisions: one in a long straight line along my underboob, another shorter straight line up to my nipple, and one cut around my nipple so that they could move it. Also, they lipo-sucked some of the breast tissue out via a tube in my side. The recovery was much worse than what anyone had warned me about. I spent my two weeks of mandatory bed-rest half conscious from pain killers, angry, and sad.

What did I just do to myself? I somehow hated my boob even more than before for of all the pain it was causing me and the thought of all of the ugly scars I would surely have. I hated that I needed my mom to change my bandages and help me shower. I hated how this was how I had to spend the last of my time I had at home before moving across the country to Arizona to start college. I wondered, did I just ruin my life? Questioning all of my decisions led me to have a full blown existential crisis and anxiety attack in my childhood bed.

But don’t worry reader, I am typing this today with amazing tits. It’s been almost four years since my surgery and after some overdue personal growth, I can say that I love my surgery boob just as much as my other boob. However, surgery didn’t immediately fix my problems and make me love my body like I thought it would. It took some time and I had to do some of the work myself. Undergoing the procedure helped change the way I thought about my body image, and eventually led me to embrace new elements of my femininity. My newfound body confidence complemented my pre-existing emotional confidence, allowing me to shine.

When I look at my boob in the mirror I don’t feel regret anymore, I’m like yes boob! I’m proud of my decision to fix my boob and I’m grateful for the privilege to be able to do so at a young age. Having this surgery helped me grow into the person I am today—a person who doesn’t totally hate their body, who thinks it’s actually kind of nice.

I wanted to give an honest, candid, and realistic description of my experience for anyone out there that may be thinking about having something done to their breasts, especially teens. Now, I’m gonna hit you with some statistics: are you satisfied with your breasts? If the answer is no, you’re not alone. 70% of women say they’re not satisfied with their breasts, whether it’s regarding shape, size, etc. Which is probably why a breast augmentation has remained the #1 most popular cosmetic surgery since 2001 (and possibly before).

If you have uneven breasts, don’t worry—it’s normal. All breasts are different sizes, some more uneven than others. I didn’t know this; I just thought that everyone was supposed to have huge, perky porn star tits and that I was a gross mistake. In reality, everyone has uneven breasts. So don’t ever let an old, creepy doctor tell you that your body is mutated. Give your breasts time to even out because they generally don’t stop growing until age 18, and will continue growing throughout your adult life, especially if you have kids.

My advice for anyone thinking about getting a boob job/breast reduction is: do it for YOU. Don’t do it because your boyfriend, girlfriend, parents, or whoever makes comments about your breast size. Do it when you’re feeling emotionally stable, or whatever the closest thing to that looks like for you. If you schedule your procedure around a time of transition (i.e. going to college, starting a new job, moving, etc.) be aware of the emotional stamina this may require. Also be aware that the surgery won’t fix your problems or body issues, but rather give you the tools necessary to do so yourself. Your relationship with your body is not one you can ghost when it gets too clingy or says something weird; it’s a relationship you have to maintain for your whole life! Inevitably, so are our other crucial relationships, such as with our mental health and happiness. It’s all connected, baby. So whatever you call them—breasts, boobs, knockers, titties, your bumps, your humps, your lovely little lumps—take care of them.

And most importantly, you will need a support system. Though the boob jobs are so common it makes it seem like nothing, it’s a very serious surgery and you will need help. Plastic surgery isn’t the answer for everyone, but it was the answer for me. The pain and existential crises were a small price to pay for my overall happiness, a price I would easily pay if I had to do it all again.