Britni de la Cretaz

I want my child to be able to self-determine. What that means to me is that they know they have options besides the “default” one that’s plastered all over their TV screens, and that they always know that.

The sex dreams that have caught me completely off-guard. I don’t generally have much of a sex drive during my pregnancy when I’m awake, but when I’m asleep, it’s a completely different story. I have these incredibly vivid, incredibly-detailed sex dreams almost every night. Often, they involve celebrities.

Other girls are awesome. I never had any close female friends. I always said girls were “vapid, “catty,” and “annoying.” In reality, I was threatened by other girls.

I know you’re probably wondering how that happened, so I’m going to tell you. (You’re welcome.)

The first sign that something was wrong was the weirdly watery discharge. I'd never had vaginal discharge that looked like that before, and considering I'd just finished my period, the large-ish amount was confusing to me. But everything else felt fine. So I put a pantyliner on and went about my life, thinking it would stop soon.

Being both a mother and an activist can be tricky sometimes. Often, they seem to be at odds with each other. I can’t drop everything to show up for a protest, or meeting, because I have to find childcare, and my kid goes to bed at 6:30 PM. I have to consider my child’s safety when I make the decision to engage in a protest, or a direct action, even if she isn’t in attendance with me.

It’s been seven years since I left him. Most days he doesn’t cross my mind. I forget that he existed. The things that he put me through are filed away somewhere that never gets opened. I’ve done the work of understanding what I went through, of forgiving him for the abuse, of moving on with my life.

While people asking about our plan likely have good intentions, the conversation opens you up to so much judgment about how you’re planning to give birth.... Birth plans are personal, between parents and their care provider. We all make choices for our families that we feel are best, and at the end of the day, that’s what matters.

I’m working on an essay about the time I was raped my freshman year of college. For the very first time, I’m naming my perpetrator. Even if it’s only his first name, there’s still so much power in it.

So after years of feeling incredibly conflicted about the topic of my leg hair because FUCK YOUR PATRIARCHAL BEAUTY STANDARDS, it came to be winter.