Courageous Conversations

 One of the most profound, and perhaps saddest, realizations I’ve had growing up is the shift from the question “What did you do about it?” to “Why bother?” I believe I have always been an advocate, even before I had the language for it. If I trace the origins of that identity, I find it scattered across the quiet but powerful influences that shaped me; my parents, my teachers, the Sabbath school stories that taught me what it means to be human. They taught me to speak up against bullies, which later became my love for advocacy and poetry; to stand against injustice, which grew into my passion for the law; to show up for people, which shaped me into a mentor and, despite my attempts at being “ cool and mysterious ,” to be someone my friends would call warm and bubbly. They also taught me to forgive, though that is a lesson I am still learning. If I had to distill all of those lessons into one recurring idea, it would be this: I grew up being faced with one question, again and aga...

Allow me to use very Gen Z language for a second:  I was today years old when I realized that for some (perhaps many) people (particularly men ) special acknowledgment of Violence Against Women and Girls (VAWG) is framed as “protecting the weaker sex.” If you read between the lines, what this often means is this: VAWG is given special attention not because of structural injustice, but because women are perceived as physically weaker and therefore in need of extra protection. And what struck me most? This reasoning sometimes comes from highly educated, pro–women’s rights men. At first glance, you might think: the wording is uncomfortable, but maybe they’re not entirely wrong. Allow me to challenge that. Recently, I asked my 15-year-old sister a question: “Why do we say gender-based violence or violence against women and girls? After all, violence affects everyone. Women are human. Why single them out?” She responded: “It’s not just about the violence. It’s about misogyny and society...

There is something so inherently taxing about being a woman. Or maybe that is just my period talking. Yes, I said that out loud. Publicly. As if it is some radical act to acknowledge the simple biology of existing in a female body. I have never understood why we are made to whisper about something that visits us every month like a recurring storm. One week out of four. One quarter of our lives. And emotionally? Let’s just say I was not surprised to discover that there are barely two weeks in a cycle where a woman truly feels like herself, balanced, clear, steady. Imagine living in a body that feels like it is negotiating with you half the time. Half the time. That is not poetic exaggeration; that is arithmetic. If you are a girl reading this, consider this your validation. If you are a man, thank you for trying to imagine it. But trust me, it is heavier than imagination allows. Still, this is not really about periods. Or even about womanhood. This is about a confession. I am tired. Not...