Gemma Hartley

I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

Again and again I refuse to prioritize, refuse to let anything slide, at the expense of my physical and mental health.

Raise a glass to Friendsgiving - feasting without any sides of controversy or conspiracy theorizing. Friendsgiving is the best of all feasts.

How was I supposed to tell my son, who was already preoccupied and frightened by the idea of death, that his new little brother or sister was gone, that I'd had a miscarriage? I didn't know. So I lied.

“Feminism” wasn’t a word I heard much growing up. When I did hear it, I equated it with a historical event, not a work in progress. I thought first-wave feminism was a one-and-done deal, and that all the work necessary for women’s equality had already been accomplished.

Minimalism is great in concept, especially when you’re looking at someone else’s well-curated life. Declutter, simplify, own only things that bring you joy. This is all well and good for the twenty-something living in a one bedroom apartment, beholden to no one. When you’re a parent, however, minimalism gets a lot more complicated.

She is the type of woman I hope my daughter looks up to, a successful feminist role model if there ever was any. She is strong in the face of adversity. She does not cower when criticized. She knows that her words and actions are powerful, and is not afraid of those who would call her bossy, grating, shrill, yelling — when all she is really doing is being a leader. It is powerful for a growing girl to watch a woman like that thrive.

There is a time to be prudent and fair to “many sides” of an issue, but dealing with Nazis is not that time.

To be honest, it’s exhausting, and I am ready to shed this pesky baby weight once and for all. I mean that literally.

It wasn’t the name I would have picked — not originally, at least — but as days turned into weeks, it grew on me.