Bodies

When I was first diagnosed with Stage IV endometriosis and told that my fertility had become a now or never proposition, I didn’t know anyone else who had faced anything similar. All of my friends were at the point of marrying and having babies themselves. Several had gotten pregnant without even meaning to. Meanwhile, I was 26 and single, being told that it might never happen for me at all. The whole thing was crushing, perhaps even more so because I didn’t feel like there was anyone I could talk to about it. My friends couldn’t relate, and even those who were most empathetic and anxious to help were often at a loss for what to say.

“Congratulations, Joni. You have a UTI so bad my machine can't even read it.”

I like to give everything 110%, even my bacterial infections. I like to give everything 110%... except myself.

I understand that a lot, if not all, of the incredulity at the femmes who fancy themselves up is veiled insecurity about alternative forms of self-expression. But I hereby solemnly swear that I do not and have never viewed my female friends who choose the path of fewer accessories as lacking in feminine graces. There are so many ways to be a woman. I feel like that’s so essential that it should be a mantra, a giant blazing sign in the sky: There are so many ways to be a woman.

I understand that a lot, if not all, of the incredulity at the femmes who fancy themselves up is veiled insecurity about alternative forms of self-expression. But I hereby solemnly swear that I do not and have never viewed my female friends who choose the path of fewer accessories as lacking in feminine graces. There are so many ways to be a woman. I feel like that’s so essential that it should be a mantra, a giant blazing sign in the sky: There are so many ways to be a woman.

Taking the time to find clothes that I liked, to dye my hair, and get tattooed — for the first time I was building a place of my own.

When I lost that ability for a while, being too weak and swollen to really put the effort in, it felt like I’d lost a part of myself. It felt like I’d regressed, like I’d gotten to the finish line and was forced back into the race.

This is the trap we fall into when we discuss recovery, emotional development, mental health, or body image: believing there’s a destination.

Although I haven't gone out of my way to be naked around my 6-year-old daughter (and we haven't had any direct discussion about my nude body), I certainly haven't hid my body from her either. If I’m in the shower and she needs her hair washed, I'll pull her in with me. If I’m drying my hair, naked as I do, I don’t mind if she's standing next to me brushing her teeth. Why? I don't want her views on what a body is "supposed" to look like to be shaped by the one-sided view the media presents.

All day, you eagerly anticipate finding just 30 minutes to chill out, catch up with your significant other, and relax into sleep. But the problem is... though your body is ready to plop down on the sofa and decompress, your brain is still going a mile a minute. It's stuck in "go-go-go" mode. As a result, you're there with your loved ones, but you're not really present. You think, What's wrong with me? Why can't I relax?

Thin women can overeat, and it is seen as a quirk, or a one-time indulgence they deserve, or even proof that they aren’t anorexic. Fat women though? We are expected to constantly prove that we’re doing our best to not be fat.