As depressing as that is, that’s not to say that there’s no space for joy; for beauty and connection within our collective femininity. But, we must actively interrogate the source of that joy and question the terms of our connections.
On masculinity
Toxic masculinity – the extreme and damaging manifestation of traditional masculine ideas – poisons the well of connection. It breeds a culture of possessiveness, control and emotional unavailability. Men who have been taught to equate vulnerability with weakness often find themselves unable to form healthy, reciprocal relationships.
Perhaps.
I remember – or maybe I only imagine I remember – a time when the air crackled with the possibility of something unexpected.
It seems I was available.
There were no grand narratives or elaborate justifications. I was simply one of a series of choices made with the casualness of flipping through a catalogue. He was a consumer of experience, selecting from the available options.
On solitude & connection
I’ve actively dated for about a year now, and the men I’ve encountered within this environment and beyond often present a recurring pattern.
I’ve realised I’m grieving.
Grief cannot be passively endured, after all; you have to sit in the eye of its storm and let it destroy you.
On Mr & Mrs Fez
Congratulations, my dear friends. All my love.
On endings, loss and love.
I do, after all, love deeply. It’s a trait I am proud of, and I also understand that it can be dangerous. My emotions are wide open; they live on the surface and caress my skin like well-worn cashmere. They’re soft, gentle and comforting on the surface, but underneath lies a delicate fragility that is ever so easily ripped apart.
On girlhood
It’s a narrative that not only divides, but pits genders against each other. In its less violent, but no less insidious form, it teaches men to see women – not as equals – but as remedies for their own loneliness. Women become something to be used; a means to fill the void left by a lifetime of being told to stand apart (or as punishment for another woman’s wrong doing, in my case). And so the cycle continues. With connection on one side and isolation on the other, there’s a chasm that grows wider with every whisper of division.
I think I’m becoming brand new. Again.
For the longest time, I have allowed trauma to define me. Perhaps for good reason. The perpetual pummelling I’ve received from the world for so long has deeply scarred me; mentally, emotionally and physically. I have been ripped apart, crushed and broken; the whole ground has shifted beneath me and brought with it the kind of pain that has genuinely made me question whether I’d find my footing ever again.