This Note’s For You

I have this note that’s about six years old, and it’s been with me through four different house moves and about a million different purses. It looks like this:



It’s creased and crumpled because I’ve folded and unfolded it, read it and re-read it, loved it and loved it some more. That weird difference in color is probably from the time I accidentally spilled perfume on it when I had the note unfolded on the table while I was getting ready for a big interview. I doubt if the lovely woman who wrote it even knows that I still have it, but I’ve hung onto it for a million different reasons, not least of all her reminder that ‘you need no one else to make those things true about you (they just are).’

Before I can explain why this note is so important to me, I really need to make a confession: sometimes I hesitate before posting something on social media that has to do with feminism or with the importance of empowering other women or with accepting yourself because I swear – I swear! – I can almost hear all the women who knew me at a different stage in my life simultaneously rolling their eyes.

And I don’t blame them – I haven’t always acted like a feminist. Or tried to get along with other women. Or even accepted myself. And I actually find it pretty embarrassing when I think about the ways that I’ve interacted with and treated other women. If you’ve read any of my other posts, you’ll know that I’ve grown up overweight. While I now (mostly) see it as an immaterial aspect of who I am as a person, for a large part of my life I allowed it to define my self-perception. And (duh!) that effected the way I felt about other women. Growing up, I often felt threatened by women I perceived as more attractive (for me, this almost always meant thinner), more intelligent, more accomplished. Because not only did I feel the pressure to be thin, I also felt the pressure to compete with other women, and I felt this regardless of my size at any given point. I internalized the notion that the things that made another woman really cool somehow meant that the things I liked about myself weren’t so cool in comparison, and that my own worth was directly correlated with every other woman on Earth. If another girl was pretty, suddenly I wasn’t pretty anymore. If someone laughed at another girl’s jokes, suddenly I wasn’t funny. Honestly, it pains me to admit, but in social situations I’d often size up every girl around me. And, I mean, literally size them up: who was fatter than me? Who was thinner than me? I’d survey the room and then line them up in my mind from smallest to largest to determine where I fit into this ridiculously unhealthy hierarchy in my head.

Not always, obviously. I had healthy, functional, and amazing female friendships, but sometimes the things that affect your behavior or thoughts on a daily basis are so engrained that you barely notice them because they seem so normal. How many movies have you seen where two women fight over a man? How many TV shows depict women undermining each other for the upper hand in social situations? How many Regina Georges, Betty Rizzos, Blair Waldorfs, Chanels (and Chanel No. 1s and Chanel No. 2s and Chanel No. 3s and Chanel No. 4s…)?

You guys, I’m not trying to convince you that I have the world of female dynamics figured out. Trust me, I don’t. This meager blog post is way too brief to get into the nuances of feminism, what I’m describing is only a very rudimentary discussion of internalized misogyny, and there are tons of women I admire who understand it so much better and can explain it so much more eloquently than I ever could. The female experience comprises so many legitimate elements all at one time – race, class, ability, sexual orientation, gender identity (you don’t have to have a vagina to be a woman, y’all), and every woman has a unique story and perspective. And I think it’s incredibly important to discuss personal experiences on a very basic level, especially when it comes to taking responsibility for the times when we’ve come up short of who we’d like to be. Especially when it’s learned behavior. Especially when it makes your face turn red when you think about how you’ve acted in the past.

And, oh my gosh, does my face does turn red when I think of all the amazing women I could have gotten to know, who I could have learned from, whose presence and friendship I could have enjoyed instead of being unnecessarily cold and stand-offish, instead of being suspicious and catty, instead of being jealous and bitchy. And it seriously moves me. If you’re reading this and I’ve ever made you feel bad, I am so sorry that I deflected my own insecurities onto you. I hope you can forgive me.

Which brings me back to why I’ve kept that tattered note for so long. The girl who wrote this note to me was an acquaintance – I’d known her for several years through friends who all sang her praises, and the few times I’d been around her I understood why. She was hilarious and smart and the warm type of person who makes you feel like you are the reason that the world is a good place to live. She liked the Beatles and she had the coolest, most instinctive sense of style of anyone I’d ever met. In my mind, she was fearless for moving from Kentucky to a huge city up north. I’d heard rumors that she had dated the bass player I’d had a crush on throughout my entire early-twenties, and she was the kind of gorgeous that caused strangers to stop and gawk. So when I got an email from her several years later asking to meet up with me shortly after I’d moved to the UK, I was simultaneously excited and horrified. It would be the first time we’d spent one-on-one time together, and my insecurities FREAKED. THE. HECK. OUT. I had this gnawing worry that the things that I liked about myself, the things that I thought maybe set me apart from the crowd, were things that she was way better at doing.

But the day she arrived, I was so intimidated  – and then suddenly I wasn’t. She wouldn’t let me be intimidated. She didn’t need me to be intimidated. She was so full of genuine self-love that she absolutely radiated confidence and kindness and authenticity, and I bathed in it. My insecurities just kind of melted away, and I forgot to feel as though I didn’t measure up or that I needed to compete in some way, and it freed up my time to focus on things that were way more fun: wrapping up in a duvet and binge-watching 24, dancing to Beatles songs, getting dressed up and feeling like I could hug the whole dang world.

When she left, I found the note that I’ve held onto for so long. The things she wrote about me were so lovely, but what affected me more than what she wrote was the fact that she wrote it at all.

I have no idea if she remembers what she wrote or even leaving the note for me to find after she left. At the time, I was overwhelmed by her kindness, but it has only been recently, while looking back on the past several years, that I’ve been able to unpack the enormity of that little note and to understand the reasons why I’ve felt the need to hold onto it so long.

This girl – this brave, amazing, funny, talented, gorgeous girl who left me in awe of her whole existence – took the time to handwrite a note listing the things that she appreciated about me. In the world I lived in at the time, this was not the way things worked. It threw me. It spurred me to subconsciously question the way I perceived other women and how I saw myself in relationship to them. I’m not saying that this single note changed my perspective or my thoughts or my behaviors all at once. I mean, I definitely didn’t wake up the next morning spouting quotes from feminist literature or trying to braid the hair of the girl next door. But it put a huge crack in the weird how-women-are-supposed-to-act-towards-each-other box I’d trapped myself inside. And now, years later, knowing that I can step outside of that box, I can see that her kindness to me translated to kindness to myself and to other women. And slowly I’ve found that when I’m accepting of other women, I become more accepting of myself. And when I look for things to love and admire about the women I meet, I more easily find things to love and admire about myself. It’s all connected – feminism, self-acceptance, body positivity, empowerment.

What I’m trying to say is that, in a weird and beautiful contradiction typical of human interaction, I think sometimes we actually do need other people to remind us that we don’t need other people‘s validation to love ourselves. And I think it’s important for us as women to actively be those reminders for each other, to disarm each other’s insecurities. To build each other up instead of serving as human rubrics to hold each other against.

It’s okay for me to be all the things she said about me. Incredible. Amazing. Beautiful. Full of life. Precious. SO intelligent. And I don’t need other women to make them true. Not even her. I just am.

And you don’t need anyone to tell you that you are incredible. Amazing. Beautiful. Full of life. Precious. SO intelligent. Not even me. You just are.

But sometimes it can mean a lot to remind each other of that.

It’s Your Life – and You Can Decorate It As You Like

When I first put this outfit together, I was going to write a post about how lush this yellow jumper is:


Look at the ruffles on the collar! And the sleeves! ❤


I was going to write about how much I love these Monki earrings:


They’re so fluffy!

And, most importantly, I was going to write about how I finally found a pair of culottes that don’t make me want to throw up. (I mean, I seriously didn’t think it was possible.)

But instead, I’ve decided to dedicate this post to the woman who saw me in this outfit last week and made no effort to hide the look of disgust on her face as she looked me up and down, eyes lingering on my tummy.

Throughout my entire life, I have never experienced what it is like to not be the fat girl. In elementary school, a boy named Daniel convinced half my class to call me “Truck” behind my back. I only found out when the girl I called my best friend accidentally let it slip.

When I was thirteen, a girl in my class planned a sleepover, and her mother invited me to join them. When I got there, the girl was clearly surprised to see me, and I can still remember standing awkwardly in the living room trying not to make eye contact with the other guests while she argued in the next room to her mom, “…but she’s fat.”

Five years ago, I was walking home from work when a car load of grown men drove past and yelled at me to stop eating Big Macs.

Two years ago, at a local park as I was finishing the final run of the couch to 5K program I had been steadily working for two months to complete, a middle-aged man on a bicycle rolled up in front of me, forcing me to come to a halt. “You’d be able to run so much faster,” he said, “if you didn’t go home and eat chips and pies and cakes after every run. Stop eating so much and maybe the running will pay off.”

Incidents like these used to shrivel me. I spent my life trying to shrink my body and my presence. If I avoided drawing attention to myself, if I made myself a wallflower, if I lived on the margins, if I pleased everyone and caused no fuss and everyone liked me – maybe no one would notice that my body looks different from theirs. But eventually (a very long eventually…a twenty-five year eventually) I realised that this is the body I have. It can get smaller (and it has), it can get bigger (and it has), but no matter its size at any given moment, it’s mine and I have a right to love it as much as I want. And if the way I choose to love it is by dressing it in an outfit that looks half Victorian school boy / half circus clown, then I have every right to do that whether it flatters my cute, little tummy or not.

Several years ago, if someone had made the same disgusted face as the woman who side-eyed me last week, I would have gone home, taken off that outfit and never worn it again. But now, I have made it a point to wear this same outfit three or four times since. It probably needs washing by now, but I don’t even care because it makes me feel like such a badass when I wear it. (Don’t worry. I promise I’ll wash it – self-love is a constant struggle, but it’s so much easier when you don’t stink.)

(Unless you want to stink. I won’t judge. Seriously – just do what makes you happy.)



Jumper: ASOS (It’s part of the regular range, but it goes up to a size 20!)

Earrings: Monki

Culottes: Forever21 Plus (I bought them instore in the UK, but despite scouring the Internet cannot seem to find a link! Soz!)

Shoes: Doc Martens (again, forever, and always)

More is More


I think as a woman, I always sort of internalized the notion that less is more. I spent a large part of my life thinking that I needed to shrink different parts of myself – my body, my opinions, my ambitions, my personality, my voice – to be a better version of myself. It’s taken me 32 years, but I’m finally starting to see that more can more, and that it’s okay to take up as much or as little space as you want on whatever terms you want.

I’ve tried my hand at a few blogs in the past, but I’m the world’s worst when it comes to updating, and they’ve all just sort of fallen by the wayside (read: I’ve forgotten the password by the time I remember two years later that they exist). But I’ve decided that even if what I have to say is sporadic and important to no one but me – it’s still important. And I’m really excited about the idea of having this tiny little space in the corner of the Internet as a way of learning how to take up lots of space in my own life.