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.
How does one define their life? How do you sum up everything that has happened in the last 20+ years? A friend told me that the best stories are about overcoming obstacles, how one deals with loss and love, and finding the silver linings. I believe that my body art tells my story. I’m proud to say that when I chose to decorate my body with tattoos, I chose from my past experiences to show things that are important to me. Things that have shaped my life.
Read MoreI’m mad.
And whenever I say that, the responses vary from concern for my general well-being/mental health to tone-policing and virtue-beating about how I “shouldn’t be mad.” Because apparently young, intelligent women like myself shouldn’t be angry?
Read MoreI am afraid of the water.
And, yet, I find it fascinating.
When I was young, I almost drowned. Twice. But I loved summers spent at our community pool.
I love to sit beside the water listening to the waves wash upon the shore.
Any shore is fine by me.
Read More“Are you serious?” I implored. We were sitting curled among each other on the couch, familiarity breeding comfort. I’d always had a hard time staying warm during winter, and that day in March I was hoping for some contact warmth.
Read MoreMy grandfather died in early December of 2013. He had dementia, and it wasn’t wholly unexpected. He died on the farm. He always said that was where he wanted to die, always refusing to move--even when my dad and his sisters insisted. He loved the land more than anyone I know. For so many farmers working the land has become just another way to make money, there is nothing spiritual left in it. But for my grandfather, I think working the land, standing in a field of corn, held something holy.
Read MoreI was caught in a fog of subtle depravity.
That is how I would describe my first years living in Guatemala. It is terrifying what one believes to be truth and noble when done in God’s name. Evil has no boundaries.
Read MoreThere are a thousand previous versions of myself. They are not so different from one another, some a little sassier or little quieter, a little more doubtful or a little more confident. For most of my life they have bled into one another, and it is only later I can look back and see the change.
Read MoreThis July I became older than my older brother. It’s odd now that I’m older than him I don’t feel any more grown up than when I was younger than him. That has made me really look at my life and what I’ve done, what I want to do, and what I’m scared to do.
Read MoreI am a survivor of abuse and rape. I don’t ignore that reality, and I’ll never forget it. I take medicine for PTSD daily and am a client of the campus counseling center where I can get free therapy. But it’s also not my whole story. I am also a wife, a PhD student, a friend, and a daughter-in-law; but most importantly, I am a child of a loving God.
Read MoreThey’re at every intersection in Nashville. The people selling their papers. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, “They don’t look like they’d be homeless. Wonder what their story is.” And then I remember.
Read MoreI have a tattoo on my neck that reads D I V I N A.
It is the feminine term for divine, in Spanish. You see, I have chosen to affirm my greatness through my body, and I consider this tattoo a proclamation to myself and an affirmation to my female ancestors. I love this tattoo because it is an indicator for outsiders to know who they are dealing with, when they approach me.
Read MoreI don’t remember how old I was. Eight or nine possibly. Some details didn’t stick in this guilty memory. But I remember the restaurant. It was a cheap pizza chain. I remember the smell of heat-lamp pizza and wilted pink salad with ranch. I remember the pleasure of seeing greasy wadded up paper napkins on empty beige plates next to half-drunk red plastic cups. Empty plates meant full tummies. And of course I remember distinctly the stained industrial carpet under the tables and chairs where I crouched and hid in mortification.
Read MoreI cannot tell you how I first came up with the idea for HerStory without first telling you about a place called Thistle Farms. Thistle Farms is a social enterprisese and nonprofit located in Nashville, Tennessee, and during the last year of my graduate program at Vanderbilt Divinity School I was their full time intern. The company makes natural body products, healing oils, and a few household goods. But that is not what is special about Thistle Farms. Thistle Farms is special because women who have survived trafficking, addiction, and life on the street make the products. These women come to Thistle Farms in search of recovery and a new life. They are given two years of free counseling, housing, and treatment, while also being given the chance to earn a living wage and learn the skills that they need to become free and independent women. It is from these women that the idea for HerStory was born.
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