The Bisexual Mormon

I realized I was bisexual while an active member of the LDS church.

I had crushes on girls.  I remember one in particular from Girl’s Camp, my first year.  If you aren’t familiar with “Mormonland,” Girl’s Camp is an annual camping trip for LDS girls ages 12-17.  I was just twelve or so, and for the first time in memory, a girl made my stomach woozy.  I didn’t know her name or which Ward (AKA “congregation”) she was part of.  She was one of the camp leaders, probably about sixteen years old.  She had reddish silky hair, I remember that clearly.  And I remember that she was freaking hilarious.  I giggled at everything she said, like any girl with a crush does.  At night, laying in a sleeping bag and listening to the campground sleep, I would think about her and smile.  I wanted to be around her, I was too shy to talk to her, I just wanted to know her.  I had this feeling before.  Except… always with guys.  Never with a girl.

I brushed it off as admiration, not attraction, and went on.

Girl crushes popped up but I always explained them away.  I knew I liked boys.  Trust me, little Molly in kindergarten would chase down boys for kisses.  I liked boys.  So the way my eyes drifted to the heroine of a romantic comedy… or the fluttery feeling if that one girl in gym class talked to me… It’s just because I admired the female body, right?  Aesthetically, it’s just better, right?  And that one girl was just really nice and popular and… it was just exciting to talk with a potential friend, right?


I repeatedly explained it away.

Mormonland doesn’t hate the gays.  They will insist this up and down, with the same veracity they use to insist they are Christian or that polygamy isn’t part of Mormonism.  But here’s the deal.  Technically, they preach love and acceptance of a person, but they are free to condemn a person’s actions.

Let me use The Book of Mormon the Musical to explain.  Elder Price, the main character, says this:

“Well, Elder McKinley, I think it’s okay that you’re having gay thoughts, just so long as you never act upon them.”

The song titled “Turn it Off” basically insists that the best way to be Mormon is just “turn off” anything that doesn’t directly align with the church.  Fear?  Grief?  Gay thoughts?  Just turn it off like you would a light switch.

[Side note: I cannot express how much this song encapsulates the culture of the Mormon Church.  Plus, it’s hilarious.  Listen to it.]

So Molly’s gay thoughts?  I turned that shit right off.  If I couldn’t explain it away, then I would ignore it and avoid it.

I wasn’t scared of the idea of gay.  I had gay friends in high school.  And two of my favorite people in the world, my aunts, have been together for almost my entire life.  I didn’t think negatively of any of them as people.  And frankly, I didn’t think their sexual orientation was any of my business.

As far as the teachings of the Church regarding the LGBTQ community; I would like to say that I wholeheartedly opposed any discrimination that the Church pushed, but that would be a lie.

When Proposition 8 plastered news sites, I remember our bishop reading a statement that members were to oppose any and all legislation that gave gay couples the right to marry, as it would diminish the “sanctity of marriage.”  I stayed neutral.  If they asked us to vote right there, I wouldn’t have raised a hand on either side.  Later in the week our church building was vandalized, likely because of the Prop 8 controversy, which actually pushed me to support.  If the “other side” was willing to vandalize my sacred space, then clearly I needed to shore up my defenses.

When the Mormon teenagers made fun of gay kids or feminine boys between or before Church classes, I stayed silent.

Someone I admired taught a lesson where he stated that all gay people were either molested as children or had hormonal imbalances, and that’s why they were gay.  It wasn’t “normal.”  I was the girl who argued with everything the teacher said.  But not that day.  I said nothing, and worse, for a time, I believed him.

In a particularly low moment, I argued with someone that gay couples should be allowed to marry, but not to adopt children.  I rescinded my position shortly thereafter, but I to this day I am embarrassed to admit that at one point I held that belief so much that I tried to convince another of its validity.

In college, my feelings grew past the point of denial.  Keep in mind, at this point, I was at my highest church activity.  I was preparing to go through the temple, I was attending church with zeal and regularity, praying and fasting and tithing.  I attended BYU-Idaho in Rexburg, Idaho. Literally, 91.54% of the residents of Rexburg Idaho are LDS, and 99.76% of the students at BYU-Idaho are LDS.  ALL MORMON ALL THE TIME.

Somehow, it was here, in the ultimate Mormon echo-chamber, that I couldn’t avoid or ignore my feelings.  It was here, the epitome of Mormonland, that my gay dreams became regular and unavoidable and that they surfaced with extreme regularity, despite my avoidance, my explanations, my shame.

I liked boys.  But… I also liked girls.

Wait for it ya’ll, there’s a term for this.



I am bisexual, meaning that I am romantically/physically/emotionally attracted to both sexes.

Which was like… shit.  I mean, how do you reconcile this realization where you are in one of the most oppressive LDS communities around, a community that you believe in and support and love?

Plus, I think I forgot to mention that at the time I was MARRIED.  To a dude.

How do you tell your “Peter Priesthood” husband that you like chicks?

Well, I blurted it out in a Dairy Queen drive-thru.  If you’ve been to Rexburg, you know the one.  Right off 2nd street.  Between ordering our ice cream and actually getting it handed to us, into a moment of silence I said, “I think I’m bi.”

Bless him and bless his response.  That man glanced at me and said, “I know.  Do you want anything else?”

I gaped at him.

He said, “What?  I thought you knew.”

I still gaped.

Casually, he asked, “Are you going to cheat on me?”

“No,” I said, a little confused.

“Then it’s not a big deal,” he said and he handed me my ice cream.

We are no longer married (for reasons that have nothing to do with my sexuality), but I am so grateful for that response.  It’s not a big deal.  And it wasn’t.  Most of the time, it still isn’t.  While I was at BYU-I, I happened to be married to a man. Which meant that I could safely explore my thoughts and considerations without the burden of wondering how to act on them.  Which is a huge first step.  I tend to think things so far through that I get anxious about the end result.  Exploration without action allowed a considerable amount of acceptance and processing.

Not a big deal.  I stopped worrying about my attractions and started just acknowledging them.  I noticed girls that were attractive the same way I noticed boys that were attractive.  I just noticed it.  I stopped worrying about what to do about it and just let myself feel it. I didn’t have to worry about what to do about it, or what to say about it, or what others might think about it.  It was just me and my thoughts.

Since that marriage has ended, I have had the freedom to explore ideas and situations with others.  I have become far more open with others about my sexual orientation where it is relevant.

As far as the Church stuff goes, fuck them.  Fuck them for encouraging me (directly or indirectly) to “turn off” what I consider to be an important aspect of myself.  And a bigger, louder, finger-wagging exclamation: FUCK THEM for the harm they have inflicted on countless other individuals who are struggling to come to terms with their sexuality.

It’s not that big a deal to be bisexual.  It just is.  It’s like the shape of my fingers or the color of my irises or the texture of my hair.  It just is.  It’s a part of me.

Being gay is only as big of a deal as other people make it.  Fuck the Church for making it a big deal and acting like it was somehow their business.  Bless the husband who said, “It’s not a big deal.”  Fuck the Church kids who made fun of the effeminate.  Bless the many, many individuals like myself who have struggled and sought for their identity in the areas they were forbidden to explore.

Spencer Holdaway: The HIGH Standard of Society

This post was guest-authored by Spencer Holdaway, a dear friend of mine. When he sent me his thoughts in written form, the feminist in me wanted the whole world to hear them.  I settled for publishing them here.  Spencer is an active member of the LDS church, a lens that colors part of this post.  (Used with permission.)


Ever since I was little, I can recall being attracted to bigger women. If I was speaking to someone like Freud, he might have pointed towards some facts in my family that might suggest that, because of my upbringing and those I was around, I have the attractions that I do.  Needless to say, I highly disagree with many of Freud’s claims.

Whatever the case, I find a woman that looks like this:

FAR more attractive than someone like this:

Now, why is that important?

Because the world is under the insane impression that beauty is if you are as thin as a rod, show off a great butt, and all that junk. I like to use Michael Bay’s movies for a prime example of how the world views women and how disgusting that is for someone like me. Bay, and indeed MANY in the movie industry, naturally assume that all straight men are into this sort of woman…so they cast them as the lead’s love interest and make any other girl who might be buff and big a lesbian, a dumb-as-rocks comedic character, or otherwise. They try and make those types of women look comical in some perverted effort to install their own views into the minds of their viewers that THAT is not the kind of woman any sane, straight man or boy would want to date.

That’s where I fall, however. Because I do. I would LOVE to date a girl that’s 6’0”+, that would just be so beautiful and wonderful…not saying that I wouldn’t date anyone shorter! I just feel…perhaps not as comfortable with it? I’m not being picky, it’s just part of who I am now. My eyes naturally fall upon those girls who, quite literally, stand out in the crowd.

Of course, we need to talk about my anxiety and depression for a moment.

My anxiety likes to try and point out a few things to me, they are as follows:

  1. You’re not attracted to sexy women like Megan Fox or thin models in bikinis? Oh, you must be gay then!
  2. Freak
  3. You’re attracted to women who are large, big, muscular, etc., who could probably bench you? Oh, you’re just secretly a closet homosexual because everything you find really attractive in certain women are only acceptable in men (pixie cuts, sportswomen, women in the armed forces, etc.)
  4. Freak
  5. You are attracted to a woman who could hold you in her arms, that would require you to get on your tip-toes to kiss? You must REALLY like those dominatrix women then, huh? Sicko.
  6. Freak
  7. Is this a “fetish?” Is it not? Some of your friends think it is, some of them think it’s not – What is it then? There is absolutely no clear definition on this either
  8. Freak
  9. You just view women as meat, you sicko.
  10. Freak
  11. What’s the Church’s stance on this kind of attraction? It certainly makes your heart flutter and gets you excited. Sinner.
  12. Freak
  13. You would rather cuddle up in the arms of a big, strong woman like a girl would to their big, buff football boyfriend? Huh. Wonder what that makes you then
  14. Freak
  15. You really do like those girls that have “junk in the trunk”, huh? You pig.
  16. Freak
  17. Why would ANY girl who is taller would want to date you? Don’t you know? Tall girls don’t LIKE shorter boys. Might as well get a cat now and die alone, weirdo.
  18. Freak
  19. Why would you EVER like a girl with arms as big as your chest? That’s disgusting, you’d never fit in with the other guys
  20. Freak
  21. What would your parents and family think if they ever found out? Gee, you’d be an outcast FOR SURE.
  22. Freak
  23. Did I mention freak?


These honestly are some of the things that have come into my mind as my anxiety locks me down.

There are some good things, that I’ve come to find though…thanks to some wonderful friends of mine.

1. There is NO commandment that says: “Thou shalt not like women bigger than you”

2. Are you sinning? NO.

3. Are you a worthy priesthood holder still? YES.

4. Quoted from a friend: “In some ways it makes you more masculine because you are not afraid of girls like that. A lot of guys would feel intimidated by dating stronger girls but you admire it! It also kinda makes you humble because you recognize that you need to be held and that you too need to feel safe in a relationship.”

5. This world is increasingly more understanding than my anxiety wants me to think.

6. The cuddle value of a big woman? Heck yeah, spot on

7. There are FAR weirder things out there to be attracted to, such as dead things and children…I think I’m doing pretty okay if I’m still attracted to women (albeit 6’5” ones…)

8. Who says that ONLY women are entitled to wanting that security that is found in a bigger significant other? Am I not free to want that as well?

Also, if anyone gives us crap? She can TOTALLY beat them up, and I’d be perfectly alright with that ❤


And the end of the day, it’s my choice, isn’t it? Yes, I am attracted to big woman; women who are strong, well-built, tall and even very tall. Is that normal? Eh, not really. But hey…it’s MY vision of beauty, and as the beautiful, wonderful Gwendoline Christie once said:


I’m worthy, I am not a freak, I am a wonderful guy who just has slightly different taste in women. And ya know what? That is OKAY. So, you have your attractions and tastes…

…and I’ll have mine.

Motherhood Destroyed Me

Like many women, I have wanted to be a Mommy since I was a tiny little child.  I had a baby doll, Baby Lisa, that I would coddle and hold and pretend feed and clothe and soothe.  I played house constantly.  To a certain extent, I played Mommy to my little sister from the time she was born (much to my sister’s dismay).  I felt that “Mommy” was born into me.

Mormonism reinforced my conviction, because in Mormonland, there is no greater calling than to being a mother.  Well, for women anyway.  I babysat constantly, I took all the Red Cross courses, I listened attentively every Sunday and Tuesday as we young women were carefully taught how to care for our husbands and children (and never ourselves, obviously).  The few times women are mentioned in the LDS’ scriptures canon, it is often as mothers.  I took motherhood very seriously.  I looked forward to having my own little tow-headed children, just like me, and I often thought of them.

I was married at nineteen, but unlike many Mormon couples, we resisted the urge to have a child immediately.  I have great respect for the young families that choose this, I can’t imagine how hard it would have been.  We simply decided it wasn’t for us – yet.  We knew we wanted to have kids.

At the tail end of my University studies, I stopped taking daily birth control for medical reasons.  And we just never really replaced it.  We “sort of” attempted other methods, but we weren’t consistent.

So of course, I got pregnant.

I was nervous as hell and thrilled and excited and worried.  Most of my worries were financial in nature.  I found out I was pregnant during student teaching, which meant that I would have the baby halfway through my first year as a teacher.  I worried about the finances, I worried about my doctor, I worried about baby supplies and labor and daycare.

In short, I worried about trivialities.  I know that now.

What I didn’t know was how much motherhood would thoroughly and completely change me.

And not in the way I anticipated.

And not always in a good way.

Yeah, my body is different.  My hips are wider, there’s a paunch in my midsection that doesn’t seem to go away, my old jeans don’t fit right.  And my boobs sag.  I hate that.  But that’s the kind of stuff I had anticipated.

Society tells mothers that their lives totally change.  And mothers-to-be anticipate that, we really do.  But there’s no way to describe it, no way to fully expect the life-altering and permanent shift in all aspects of your life.

How do I put it… My identity has forever been adjusted.


When I made “big” choices before, I could undo the choice.  My major in college, where I lived, even my marriage.  I could back out of those things (not that I wanted to) but I could.

There’s no backing out of being a mom.  There’s no “control-alt-delete.”  He’s here.  My baby boy is here.  He is mine, but more importantly I am his.

He doesn’t have another Mommy.  Yes, he has plenty of people who love him and take care of him.  But I am his Mommy.  I cannot be replaced.  I can barely be substituted for the brief periods of time.

Do you know how much pressure that is?  If you have kids, nod your head.  If you don’t, you have no clue.  I say that with love and a tad of jealousy.  I thought I knew what it would be like.  I am “on call” always.  There is no clocking out.  There is no unplugging.  He is always, always, always in the back of my mind, even if I am not with him.  This tiny human, who I desperately love, is almost entirely dependent on me to provide the right experiences and nutrition and safety and education and… everything.

Let me say that again.


I can’t escape it.  I can’t undo it.  And it will never end.

Yes, one day he will grow up enough to leave me.  And that day will break my heart, but it will not be the end.  Because I will always worry about him and fret over him.  Even if he is not in my house, he is still my son and I still will feel (reasonably) responsible for him.

Everything.  Forever.

And sometimes, I hate that.

I am forever destroyed.  I am not the person I was before I had him.  I never will be.  And you know what?  I sometimes miss that person, the pre-baby Molly.  Setting aside my post-partum depression, and the hell my marriage went through, I cannot go back to carefree living.  My hobbies are not the same.  I struggle to find time for me.  The things I love, yoga and reading and writing and lately slack-lining, have to take a backseat to motherhood.  Even when I do have time for those things, or for a night out, the mom guilt is real and palpable.

It’s a new and daily struggle and one I do not often appreciate.

When I was a little girl, I could put Baby Lisa down and go do something else.  Not something to better my fake parenting skills, just something else.  When I was babysitting, I went home to my own bed with little more responsibility than tomorrow’s math homework.  Motherhood destroyed the person that I knew.  Sometimes I like this new person.  If I am being honest though, I am just getting to know her, and like most early relationships, it’s still a little touch-and-go.

Why I March

I do not march against Donald Trump.  Let me be clear: to do that would be small-minded and pointless.  I understand that he has been elected president of the United States.  I know how the electoral college works and I respect that.  To march against a single person is so much smaller than why I march.

I march for feminism.  Today’s women’s rights are not equal rights and no man can tell me that they are.  I demand equal pay for equal work, I demand representation and respect and choice.  My body is my own and no leadership of old white men should ever be able to tell me what to do with my uterus.


I march to end sexual violence.  I stand among and beside those who have experienced the terror and shame that comes with sexual assault and I cry, “It is not okay!”  It is not okay to excuse depravity with victim-blaming.  It’s not okay to subvert respect with so-called “jokes.”  It’s not okay to act like consent is anything less than imperative.


I march for education.  I will fight with every ounce of my being to obtain and maintain fundamental rights of education for every child in this country.  If we want a successful nation, it starts with providing quality education for everyone.  That means public, accountable, cutting-edge schools, consistently working to implement proven practice.  It also means respecting and paying teachers.


I march for healthcare.  Modern medicine is a human right, not a luxury of the wealthy.  No person should be financially bankrupt because they survive disease or accident, or because of easily manufactured medicine necessary for quality of life.


I march for LGBTQ rights.  A person is a person no matter their sexual orientation and I demand that these consenting adults have access to the same systems that benefit my own marriage.


I march to declare that the man leading this country does not espouse the values I hold most dear.

I march to stand in solidarity with my sisters and my brothers.  Your values are important to me!  No, I cannot claim to know what it’s like to be black or Muslim or an immigrant.  I am young, I am educated, I am a middle class woman, a parent, and healthy.  And I stand beside all of you who are some or none of those things.  We have a voice and I stand to make yours heard just as loud as mine.


Most of all, I march for my son.  My child is one year old.  He will not remember this day, and he may not remember the next four years.  But his life will be impacted by the upcoming events, perhaps more than will my own.  I march today to tell him that I was here, that I did everything in my power to make the world better for him.


I march for my child.  I march for me.  I march for all of us.

Postpartum Depression and Pumping

I hate pumping.

I’m not even pumping anymore and I HATE (present tense) pumping.

I had every working-mom advantage: I had my own room, time to pump, a mini fridge at my disposal and I HATE (present tense, bold) pumping.

BACK OF PKG., 7/3/06, 3:55 PM, 8C, 5250x3168 (0+1869), 88%, chrome 7 stops, 1/12 s, R76.5, G61.4, B88.5
Torture devices

It’s just the worst. I felt like a cow. I felt so disconnected from my baby and my body, I felt like a machine, I felt sick and miserable.  And it consumed me. It consumed all of me.

I was hospitalized for postpartum depression. Postpartum was the darkest I have ever felt, it was all-encompassing and terrible.  I felt like my emotions were an entire other beast that could never be tamed or controlled or, frankly, lived with.

I spent three days in the hospital, pumping every three hours, even through the night. My nurses would wake me up, I’d go and pump, fall asleep, and try to get better in between. But I didn’t get better. If anything, during my first three days in the loony bin, I got worse. Because I wasn’t thinking about getting better. I was thinking about pumping. I would mentally calculate the three hour time limit, meticulously plan my every minute. I obsessed over every ounce and cleaning my parts properly and ensuring that my nurses were storing the milk exactly as it needed to be stored and calling my husband to coordinate picking up the milk and worrying about my baby and wondering if he was getting enough food.

[If that sentence doesn’t make you anxious, you might be a robot.]

After three days of this over-zealous obsession, my doctors sat me down and pointed out that I wasn’t getting better. The amazing professional held her hands out and asked me, “So what do we do?” And that’s when the realization dawned. I had to stop.  I had to stop pumping, and, to ensure my mental and physical safety; I needed to stop breast feeding altogether.

I went into motherhood not expecting to be obsessed with breastfeeding. I wanted to try it, but I told myself that I wouldn’t get attached. If it didn’t work, I would stop.

It never occurred to me that I just plain wouldn’t like it.

It never occurred to me that after researching all the pumping and breastfeeding information I could get my hands on, I wouldn’t feel confident and informed; I would feel more pressured and overwhelmed than ever before.

When my son was still a squalling infant, I would sit in the rocking chair, holding him with one arm, the other holding my phone.  I spent a great deal of time reading breastfeeding “support” forums (which were insanely un-supportive) that sent me into spirals of anxiety.  My mind consistently tumbled with questions: Was I pumping enough?  Was I drinking enough?  Did my bra fit right? Was I using the right cream?  Did I store breastmilk right?  Was my childcare provider feeding my child correctly?  Was my baby accepting the bottle okay?  Was he too accepting of the bottle?  Were pacifiers going to ruin our breastfeeding relationship?

What strikes me most about this photo is how tired I look. I have a smile on my lips, but my eyes hurt.

Now, I was lucky in the sense that I (mostly) liked nursing my son. But I was working full time and my supply was not great. I did not yield a lot of milk with each pumping session (and yeah, I tried all the things).

But I felt like I HAD to soldier through it, FOR MY SON. Motherhood had turned my life upside-down and I was fully convinced that life was not my own anymore.  Therefore, I HAD to continue to pump and obsess, FOR MY SON.

I was three days in a hospital before I realized this very important lesson:

More than breast milk, my son needed a healthy mother.

BAM. I resolved to quit. I quit all the way, totally weaned.

When I decided to quit, I did the sensible thing and called my local lactation consultant (AKA “lactivist”).  She is supposed to know everything about boobies and milk, surely she would be the best resource, right?  After carefully explaining my situation, I asked for advice on how to wean.  Know what I got?  A list of reasons why I shouldn’t wean and some suggestions for how to adjust my breastfeeding relationship.

Lady, I wasn’t asking for your opinion on whether I should wean or not.  I already made this decision and it is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  But, thanks for making me question my decision and giving me literally none of the information I asked for.

In tears, on a hospital phone, I called a mama friend who had also weaned.  Suddenly, support.  Suddenly, understanding.  This goddess sent me a full-on weaning care package, complete with a letter. In this letter, I found a glimmer of hope.  I don’t have the letter with me (although I’m sure it’s in this disaster I call a house), but she told me how sad she was when she first started to wean.  Then, she said motherhood got better.

Motherhood got better without breastfeeding?

Isn’t that selfish?

No.  Because self-care isn’t selfish.

Would you believe this is generic clip art? Still applies, though.

Mothers are forced to be martyrs.  Society expects it of us.  No, society demands its mothers martyr themselves on the alter of their children.  We are supposed to take abuse after abuse, and buck up and pretend to be okay.  It’s our duty, they say.  It’s for the children, they say.

Fuck that shit.

I love my son and I will do lots of gross, dramatic, absurd, sacrificing things for him.  But in order to do those things, in order to be the mother that he needs most, I need to take care of myself.

And for me, that meant stopping breastfeeding.

I won’t lie, it was tough.  There was a mourning period, when I sold that pump and put on a real bra.  But it started my journey to healing.  Pumping was one aspect of my postpartum depression, and to end it was the first step to finding my way out of darkness.  I began, slowly, to truly love and appreciate motherhood. And that is what my son needs more than breast milk.

What the hell is feminism?

It’s a question we are dealing with a lot these days, while not actually addressing the question itself.  Feminism has become this “catch all” term, often associated with bra-less, unshaven hippies on the street.  It’s associated with hypocrisy and man-hate, and a sort of fascinating apathy.  I kind of hate even using the term feminism, because, as an “ism” it tends to attract a lot of extremes and polarized behavior.

There are too many definitions, too many associations, too many negative examples.

What is feminism?

In an oversimplified world, two general sides shake out when the term “feminism” arises.  One side sounds like this:

Fuck men!  *Burns bra* Bras are symbols of man’s oppression over women.  I should get paid better!  I don’t want to be treated differently because I’m a woman, everything should be totally equal!  I shouldn’t have to shave; men don’t shave.  Seriously, look at my armpit hair! That’s protest for you!  Really, we all know women are better anyway, men are just scared of the power we have.  We would be ruling the world but the patriarchy has us pinned under its boot.

They are associated with images like this

While the other side shouts this:

Feminism is over.  You can vote and work and live freely, what else could you possibly want?  Think of the rights that women have in other countries.  At least you have it better than that.  Besides, none of you know what you want any way.  I open a door for you and you freak out and call me chauvinist, if I don’t open the door then you call me a jerk.  What the hell? Whatever.  You guys have it fine.  Quit complaining.  And make me a sandwich lololjk.

And the other side says REAL QUOTES like this
And the other side says REAL QUOTES like this

You know what?  Both are wrong.  More importantly, I don’t really think either of these sides represents a large portion of people.  I do think most people inherently sense something is “off” in regards to gender treatment, but we seem to have a lot of trouble really putting our finger on it.

So what the hell is feminism?

First of all, the answer isn’t simple, and we need to stop trying to make it simple.  An obnoxious Facebook comment will NEVER define the looming issues tied up in this very big problem. (So please stop acting like your single comment on social media is going to do anything.)

True feminism is about both genders supporting each other. Change cannot occur without both sides listening and recognizing the unique challenges we all face.  I fully acknowledge that men deal with societal nuances that are total bullshit.

At the same time, the bulk of feminism is about women’s issues, because women need the most societal change.  Why?  Because women do not feel safe in our society. And I am talking about safe in every sense of the word: emotionally, physically, intellectually.  They just don’t.  I’m not just talking about back alley attacks, I’m talking about in the workplace, in their families, in their bodies, their relationships.  Perhaps a lucky woman here and there feels safe in a few of those areas, but you would be hard-pressed to find a female who can honestly declare that she is safe and confident in all aspects of her life.

Now before you blow your whistle and tell me that no one feels “safe” all the time, I would argue that women have a particularly difficult hand dealt to them.  Women are trying to figure out the rules of a game while the rules are changed and demand opposite actions.  Women are told a plethora of mixed messages:

  • Want sex but be pure.
  • Look good but not like you are trying too hard.
  • Be strong but don’t be a bitch.
This artist has several illustrations detailing this complex system of mixed messages
Click to see more images like this: this artist knows what’s up.

More than the messages themselves, they often come in little bundles of threat: conform or be rejected. And I personally think women are pressured into not complaining.  It’s confusing and it’s absurd.  Perhaps it’s my own bias, but I really don’t think any other single group gets nearly as much mixed messages coupled with societal demand.

With all of that in mind, here is my personal definition:

Feminism is the acknowledgement that gender inequality exists in many complex aspects of our society; due to this recognition, feminism demands action to change the paradigm in as respectful a manner possible while still achieving progress.

When I initially wanted to start a blog two years ago, it was going to be a blog entirely devoted to feminism.  It’s a HUGE topic.  More than that, there are huge topics within feminism, and feminism is somehow this loose binding that holds these many frustrating and hot-button issues together.

But as I started defining the very nature of feminism and thinking of all the things I wanted to articulate, I couldn’t nail everything under the banner of feminism.  I do consider myself a feminist.  I am also a mother.  I am also a teacher.  I’m a wife and a writer and a reader and to restrict myself to only feminist issues seemed like it was inherently counter-productive

As I write more, I find links and ties to feminism in all aspects of my life.  It’s not an overarching banner so much as a thread that runs through most projects and causes I undertake. So I think it will come up often in my writing, even if it’s not in a direct manner.

Women face new issues today, and they face old ones as well.  Sensationalizing these issues will not solve the problem.  Picking sides and screaming at each other will not solve the issue.  And ignoring these issues will never help us.

Feminism is real, even if we can’t define it very well.  And it needs to be talked about.

So let’s talk.

Let’s Talk About Consent

The first real conversation I had about consent happened in college.  IN COLLEGE.  At orientation.  Before I even had a firm class schedule, two RA’s sat us down to talk about consent.  At the time, I was irritated that they felt the need to talk about it.  In retrospect, I’m irritated that no one talked about it sooner.

I personally feel that consent is very misunderstood.  It’s more complicated that a simple yes/no.  It shouldn’t be more complicated than that, but the fact is that we live in a culture of Hollywood myth, bravado and stupidity.  So I’m here to give it to you straight (pun intended.)

You have probably heard “No means no!”  That’s true.  The word “No” absolutely, 100%, no questions asked, means NO.

Unfortunately, I know through both experience and story that “No” is not always accepted. Here are some things a person might hear in response to a no:

  • “Just let it happen.”
  • “C’mon, let me convince you a little.”
  • “Really quick, no one will know.”
  • “Why not?”
  • “Let’s just try a little and if you are still not into it, I’ll back off.”

Get the fuck out.  Those responses are absolute bullshit. They are manipulative, demeaning, demanding, and (frankly) predatory.

Someone once told me that consent, true consent, is a “Hell yes” and a high five.  Anything less is not consent.  It’s rape.

Let’s dispel some consent myths (because there are A LOT out there):

  • Myth: Consent is only necessary for sex.
  • Reality:  Consent is necessary for everything up to and including sex.  If doing [insert activity] in front of your family would make you uncomfortable (including kissing, depending on the situation) then consent is absolutely necessary.
  • Myth: Once you’ve said yes, you can’t take it back.
  • Reality: You can absolutely take it back. If you tell your partner yes in the morning and by evening you don’t want to—say no.  If you tell your partner yes and 30 seconds later you don’t want to—say no. If you tell your partner yes and you’re in the middle of the deed, you can STILL say no.
  • Myth: You need a reason to say no, an excuse.
  • Reality: You don’t need an excuse; you don’t need a reason to say no. You can say no for WHATEVER reason you want and that is FINE.  Whether you tell the other person or not is completely up to you.
  • Myth: If you can’t/don’t explicitly say no, then it’s a yes.
  • Reality: If a person is being “coy” or “shy” or whatever and doesn’t actually say no, that does NOT imply a yes. If a person is too wasted to know what it is (and who) they are doing, that is absolutely NOT consent.  It’s rape.
  • Myth: “Maybe” means yes.
  • Reality: Maybe means maybe.  In fact, usually it means no.  It certainly does not constitute consent.
  • Myth: If you’ve done [insert activity] with so-and-so, now you have to do it with this new partner.
  • Reality: Big fat nope.  Sexual past does not mean anything with a new person.
  • Myth: If you get your partner turned on then you “owe” them.
  • Reality: I hate this one.  Whether a person gets turned on by you is their damn problem.  You owe them nothing.
  • Myth: People in a committed relationship don’t have to give consent because consent is implied
  • Reality: Consent is always necessary, even if the people involved are dating, engaged, or married.
  • Myth: Men don’t have to give consent because they are always up to do the deed.
  • Reality: Back off, men have to give consent as well.  A man saying “No” is just as valid as a woman saying it.

If you are unsure if your partner has consented, always stop and directly ask.

If you have explicitly not given consent (AKA said no) and your partner refuses to accept or acknowledge it, you are now in a rape situation. Get out. It doesn’t matter if your partner is a “nice person,” if you think they wouldn’t do that, if they’ve never done it before. Sexual contact after an explicit no is




Consent is a big deal because rape is a big deal. Consent is a big deal because sex is a big deal.  Do not flirt with that line, do not let others flirt with that line.

With that, I wish you happy consenting.