Kelly Burch

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I clearly remember the first time that I was forced to accept that something was wrong.

Last week, I did something reckless. I went out for Mexican food, and drank a margarita. The server didn’t ask for my ID, and she didn’t even ask for proof that my ovaries were on lock down.

A family's day of celebration became a nation's day of mourning.

I’m one of those bigger girls that confuses the medical community by being entirely healthy. My doctor body shamed me and lied to me about tests she ran.

Someone yelled out a racist comment, and Trump said, “Hey, I can’t say it, but he can.”

My toddler was twirling in her tutu bathing suit while I shimmied into my plus-sized polka dot bikini.

“You have nine new messages.”

Can you name an elite female athlete? If you asked me to name someone other than Venus or Serena Williams I’d have a tough time.

My husband brought home his first gun while I was at work. When I came in he pointed to it proudly, while I stood firmly on the other side of the room, looking at the firearm like it was an unpredictable animal that could spring up to bite me at any moment.