HerStry publishes one Personal Essay every Wednesday. Weekly Personal Essays are a way for writers to tell the stories they want to tell. There are no rules. No themes. Nothing is off limits. For essay submissions check out our guidelines.
She was doing Pilates when she saw the first sign. She should have noticed. It was like last summer when the cop stopped her, leaned into the window, and asked if she’d seen the “STOP” sign. Of course she hadn’t, she told him; if she had seen it she’d have stopped. But that, too, was no kind of explanation.
Read MoreIf not for the pup and the ritual of our morning walk, I might not have banked so much joy, watching her endearing hobby-horse bounce as she runs across the field. I would never have seen that barred owl swish overhead in a silent, majestic flight. I'd have missed the quiet presence of the setting moon and an infinity of stars disappearing into the pale blue.
Read MoreI married my ex-husband in the early ’90s, and despite being a feminist and a working professional, I took his name. It wasn’t a difficult decision. In fact, I don’t really remember it being a decision at all. We had decided to become a family and I wanted a single, family name to unite us and the children I expected we’d have.
Read MoreI’ve often wondered: Why don’t you see birds drop dead from the sky? Surely it happens. There couldn’t possibly be a mechanism that keeps it from occurring. Could there be? Something about the nature of the flight that keeps beings in a state of suspended life, no matter the outcome?
Read More“Shorter,” I said. “Take it all.”
January seemed a fitting moment for fresh starts. It wasn't born from some halfhearted resolution or unfounded faith in the promise of a new year. It wasn't shoved in with a promise to swear off chocolate or set the alarm an hour early every Monday through Friday.
Read MoreI fumble through the kitchen searching for the button that turns on the light under the microwave. The one that doesn’t shock the darkness out of me. The house is still and quiet.
Start the coffee. Open the laptop. Light the candle that smells of evergreens.
Read MoreI sat in Taylor’s chair in the high-ceilinged hair salon on Madison Avenue, watching all the wealthy Upper East Siders, as they rested their five-figure handbags on velvet stools like beloved pets. My newfound sense of mortality had no place in this land of excess. This was the room T.S. Eliot must have been referring to when he spoke about the “women [who] come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo.”
Read MoreThe two of them were naked, the man and his wife, yet they felt no shame.
—Genesis 2:25
It’s the word “yet” that breaks my heart. Why would the Bible’s authors add that qualifier, unless body shame was already, in their time, a cultural given, a feeling so immediate and gutting that the lack of mortification at one’s own flesh—its size and shape, its smells and hungers—was worth noting in chapter two of the story of How It All Began.
Read MoreWhether I’m writing fiction or nonfiction, every piece begins the same: with a haunting. It grows as any respectable haunting should, first with creaking footsteps in the other room, the sense something is watching, until there’s a full-blown apparition standing beside the bed whispering, “You need to write this down.”
Read MoreI see you,
with your dimpled smile,
your tubby legs,
your first stumbling steps,
a complete trust in the universe
that nothing will harm you,
even as your harried mother
calculates all potential risks.
Read MoreFor years, I used my hair as a diversion.
It began with my ponytail phase. Every picture in my mom’s photo albums show me with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. The photos didn’t capture the back of my head and the way I carefully color-coordinated my ponytail holder with the day’s outfit.
Read MoreA sweetheart story is what I crave. The sweep-off-the-feet type that rides my heart into the
sunset with the faint letters rolling in the background. As innocent as prince charming, in
desperate search of their damsel in distress.
Read MoreBefore getting a smartphone in the seventh grade, I relied on memories captured by others. My mother, an amateur photographer, stored thousands of snapshots on her phone. Whenever I felt bored, I would navigate through them, retrieving, reliving, and retaining each preserved story.
Read MoreMy mom picks me up early from school for my runway gig at the Boynton Beach Mall. I'm twelve. It’s 2001. I attend John Casablanca’s, a modeling school where groups of girls ages five to twenty-five meet once a week. We discuss make-up, runway walks, and other pressing issues in fashion. Today, I have been chosen to model for Wet Seal, a clothing store that markets to wannabe slutty teenagers.
Read More“How do you, the jury, find the defendant?” asks the judge after two hours of deliberation.
The room was silent. The only sound was the jurors breathing a sigh of relief as they sat in their chairs. It was all going to be over soon. A tall man with white hair and kind eyes answered the judge.
Read MoreIt was early October when I updated my friend Kim about how I’d been spending my very single, mostly alone time in isolation during the coronavirus pandemic. “I’ve taken up watercolors. And also embroidery,” I said one night over FaceTime. Demure lady that she is, she covered her mouth and daintily laughed into her palm, the refined equivalent of a spit take, before regaining her composure.
Read MoreEvery year, Scorpio season kicks my ass. I experience a horrible rollercoaster of emotions. I barely know what to do with myself because every bit of me feels so scattered. Still, Autumn is my favorite time of year. It’s nostalgic, comforting, familiar. It’s also sightly, decorated with colors that bring me joy.
Read MoreBy my eighteenth birthday, I was convinced my entire personality was a mistake. My hobbies were hipster and obnoxious, tied to the fine arts and human culture. My goals were lofty and idealistic, invoking a life of novelty and meaning. I hated that I cared for these things despite their presumed futility in our modern (read: capitalist) world. The trendy albeit psychologically debunked Myers-Briggs Type Indicator had assigned me a personality with one of the lowest average incomes, followed by fun phrases like “most likely to have trouble in school,” and to me, this was the surest confirmation of my worthlessness.
Read MoreWeak Point
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you’re worried about?”
Secrets are like poison. Until you tell someone, they will kill you from the inside out. The worst secrets are the kind you keep from yourself—held at bay for so long until the dam finally breaks. For a week, I tell my mom that I’m having stomach problems, and it isn’t entirely a lie.
Read MorePeople say that to err is human and to forgive is divine. Some things can never be forgiven though. It’s time I stop trying. It’s time I let it go. There’s something I need to get off my chest, something that’s been suffocating me for too long. Eleven years ago I was raped and that just sucks, but even worse, that jerk never paid for it. I followed the rules. Sometimes following all the rules doesn’t see justice served.
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