Ceramics

In Japan, everyone looks the same. Women are taught from an early age what the standard of "beauty" is and what is acceptable. All women strive for this same standard and no one wants to stand out or look differently. My belief was that women with bigger breasts were more attractive.

When I came to America, I saw that everyone here is all different shapes and sizes. It is okay to be different and even celebrated at times. This opened my mind to the possibility that maybe I was attractive and could learn to like my body.

When I gave birth to my daughter, everything changed. She was so attached to my breasts. I realized maybe it isn't about men and how they view of our bodies but about what they are designed to do. Mine gave my child life and fed her. My broken beliefs have finally been changed through my daughter who provided a new perspective on my body and taught me that I was beautiful just the way I am.

I thought I was doing well: taking my meds, going to therapy, and working hard to better myself. This wasn’t an easy feat since I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and didn’t have a family to rely on. This illness set me back from the direction I thought my life would go, and now I work two jobs to be able to pay for my therapy and psychiatrist and to be able to afford my medical expenses. I tried the best I could and was proud to be prioritizing my mental health.

One night after a late shift at the restaurant I work, an aggressive customer I had seen come in often was waiting for me as I took the garbage out. He grabbed me, covered my mouth, and raped me. I told no one, feeling shameful that this happened and that I couldn’t protect myself. Since my period had always been irregular, I didn’t find out until months later that I was pregnant.

I worked with my therapist to process what had happened and decided I wanted to keep the baby. I had always wanted to have a child and even though I knew it would be hard, I wanted to show this baby the love that my family hadn’t shown me. When I went to my next psychiatrist appointment, my doctor ripped me off my meds because she said it wasn’t safe for the baby. This sent me back into a spiral of symptoms, and I became paranoid that the voices would steal my baby and do experiments on her. So I wanted to protect her the best I can and decided the best option was to have an abortion.

My therapist questioned this shift in my thinking and pleaded with my psychiatrist to find a way to treat me so I would be clear-headed again. She refused. Since I lived in the state of Arizona, I would have to go to another state where it was still legal to have an abortion after 15 weeks. It took me a long time to decide what to do but I think I made the best choice for myself in that moment. I still think about that decision every day of my life.

Anne was born in the 1930’s to a family of Irish Catholic immigrants. As she reached her teenage years, Anne was praised and known for her beauty. Around the age of 16, she left high school suddenly and didn’t return for an entire year. All of her classmates and friends heard she had a “psychotic break” and was sent to a mental hospital. Years later a close family member disclosed the truth: the real reason Anne left school was because her then-boyfriend (who was 30 years old) got her pregnant and dumped her. The tremendous pressure of being pregnant outside of marriage in the 1940’s caused her to perform an unsafe self-abortion. She told no one of this, and it resulted in her having a psychotic break.

A few years later, Anne met her husband and gave birth to twins. Both twins died shortly after birth. She was told by the doctor her previous self-inflicted abortion caused damage to her reproductive organs and caused the death of the twins. Anne felt incredibly guilty and experienced her second psychotic break shortly after, and underwent electric shock therapy. After leaving the psych ward, she eventually went on to have several children. Unfortunately, Anne’s mental health continued to deteriorate and the doctors diagnosed her with “schizophrenia” and “bipolar disorder.” She was put on loads of medication and spent most of her time in the hospital as her children grew up.

Anne was my grandmother. As a little girl, I remember she would cry to my sister and say, “You girls are so beautiful. How can you dare to look at me? I’m old and I look terrible.” As a child it was hard for me to conceptualize why she acted strange and tormented much of the time. I felt deep sorrow for her and a longing to help her feel better. I remember the family constantly fighting over her medications and hospital visits. It was scary to me. Despite Anne’s hardships, I always remembered her being a kind, loving and sweet Grandma. I will always love her.

When Anne would get anxious, I would hear her praying to “Mother Mary.” Anne felt comfort in this and years later it makes sense to me that she would be comforted by a female archetype despite growing up in a male-dominated religion that caused her shame.

Anne suffered immensely for most of her life. On Anne’s final days, my mother visited Anne in the nursing home. Anne always adored my mother, her daughter-in-law. My mom came home in tears saying how beautiful my Grandma looked claiming she looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding photos. She was so peaceful. My mother had never seen Anne at peace. A few days later Anne passed on. My mother believes on Anne’s final days, she was glowing because her soul was releasing the trauma and pain of this life and returned to her purest state of internal beauty.

Story told by Katie

In the summer of 2015, I was left lying in my hospital bed tilted back at an angle after spine surgery, feeling that my world had ended. It was hours into a day that began at 5:30 a.m. with every hope and belief that I would leave the hospital on two good legs, with less pain in my back, and on my way to recovery. Instead, it was after 10:00 p.m. and I was alone in a hospital room unable to move or feel my body below the waist.

Hours before, I was surrounded by my best friend, my mother, and my surgical team who were all smiles. They spoke of how interesting my surgery would be and said I’d be in a medical journal because they have never seen spinal discs begin to calcify. The calcification turned into a sharp mass that caused a dural tear, resulting in spinal fluid leaking ahead of my surgery and during its repair.

The smiles faded after surgery as the team touched my feet and legs and asked me to move them, and I could not. They, and I, began to realize that I was paralyzed. Not having fully come to terms with what was happening, I began to panic. This wasn’t the outcome I was told to expect. The room was cleared and I was told to try and rest, and that it was likely just the effect of the anesthesia. It wasn’t - the following day, the movement did not return to my legs or feet.

My surgeon’s frustration was palpable as he was in his last year of residency, and didn’t expect or want his last patient to be paralyzed after a surgery he performed. I wanted to feel for him, and I did, somewhat. I also wanted answers. He sighed, leaned against the wall, and let out a higher, more frustrated tone than before when he said, “Aziza, there is no prognosis.”

He left the room, and hope for my future seemed to trail out behind him. Alone again in my hospital bed in tears, angry, sad, frustrated, and fearful, I made the most important decision of my life. Between the tears, I whispered to myself, “If they don’t have a prognosis for me, I sure as shit better have one for myself.” Promising myself I’d never give up on me, and that I would walk out of that hospital, I did.

I had a melanoma and carcinoma diagnosis on my back and shoulder skin in 2021. That was my first brush with the C word! My breast cancer diagnosis on February 15, 2023, was a total surprise. I'm 44. I am healthy. I went in for a regular mammogram and suddenly, I was seeing a slew of plastic surgeons and oncologists.

I decided to manage the cancer through a double mastectomy. I thought about going without breasts, but thought…if I can’t have the real ones, why bother? But I realized that my breasts are part of my identity. I conducted some rituals to help say goodbye to my breasts: I wrote a Tata letter to my tatas and my partner shot a photoshoot of my original breasts. It was tender and emotional.

Finally, it was time for my DIEP flap survey - 12 hours in surgery, followed by a week in the hospital, followed by months of recovery. My breasts were hollowed out like pumpkins for Jack-o-lanterns and reconstructed with fat from my stomach. That was about 9 weeks ago. Today, I'm completely cancer-free and grateful to my body for healing and to my family for taking care of me.*

Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer in the early 2000s. Luckily it was caught early, and she had a double mastectomy, which left her with scars where her breasts had been. Living without breasts left her feeling uncomfortable; the bra-fillers were painful and unrealistic to her standards. She decided that she was going to take control of her body! Carol wanted to feel young and attractive again, so she decided to get implants.

She said, “If her boobs were going to try to kill her, she would get them replaced with an upgrade!”

Eight years later, the cancer came back. Carol died on Christmas Eve in 2014. Her family says Carol always tried to look on the bright side of life, and every bad thing that happened to her was a chance for an upgrade.

Story told by CJ Henderson

I couldn’t believe my ears when my surgeon who performed the biopsy on the lump in my breast said, “You have ductal carcinoma.” He proceeded to tell me what my next steps were, but it was like I was hearing him through a mist – like a dream. Then he said something that gave me hope. “You can do this. It’s 90% your attitude and 10% what we do.” I can still hear those words loud and clear 20 years later.

When I was informed by the oncology nurse what the side effects of chemo would, could, and might be, I was frightened and couldn’t get out of there fast enough! After an evening of tears and a morning of anger, I went to Cathedral Rock where I sat and gazed across the beautiful Sedona landscape at Twin Buttes. I sat quietly, cried, and prayed. Finally, I came to acceptance and said to myself, “OK. I have to do this. It’s the right way to go.” Then I asked the Divine to please help me. “Give me the courage to see it through, and let me do this with some dignity.” I felt better by the time I got back to my car, and on my way home I started to envision ideas to make fun headwear incorporating fabrics, hair pieces, and clip-on ponytails. I started making them when I got home.

As I went through my course of chemo, I looked forward to each treatment. I would be one step closer to being done, but more importantly – what was I going to wear? Laughter and creativity saw me through four surgeries, eight chemo treatments, and a slew of side effects that were difficult, yet manageable.

Mostly my journey was filled with love. The love and support of my family and friends is what I will always remember. The message was clear: Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff! And it’s all Small Stuff! The only thing that matters is Love. Love yourself, your family, love your friends, love those you don’t know, and those you have yet to meet. There I found the Big Stuff, the Stuff that Matters. It was a beautiful message, and I am grateful every day.

I journeyed to the land of Oz and it was beautiful, yet scary. My support system was full of love and went with me down the yellow brick road. The wicked witch was out there somewhere, but together with my family, friends, and medical professionals, we melted her. Her name was Breast Cancer. She was banished forever and every cell that makes up my body is a little, happy, bouncing smiley face, singing and dancing and whirling with joy. I love them!

It was 2013 when my mother’s doctors finally agreed to give her a hysterectomy. After years of battling endometriosis, her diagnosis of Lynch Syndrome made her desire a reality. Lynch Syndrome is a genetic condition that increases one’s risk of many cancers including colon and uterine. Therefore, to eliminate her cancer risk she would undergo a complete hysterectomy. Post surgery she was left with a gaping incision at her bikini line that required constant attention and vigilant care. She went home that same day.

A couple of nights later, my mother was sleeping on the couch. She had the urge to use the bathroom and decided to attempt this independently rather than wake up her husband. She shakily stood up, pain searing in her belly and down her legs. With her first step, she stumbled and fell, hitting her head on the coffee table before landing on the floor. There she lay until her husband found her.

My mother went to the ER where they performed a CT scan of her head. Her brain was fine, but they found a spot on her right eye. After a few more tests my mother was diagnosed with Ocular Melanoma. It was cancer…not one included in the list of cancer risks with Lynch Syndrome. She underwent radiation and months later was cancer-free. If she had not been diagnosed with Lynch Syndrome, a condition that took her mom and brother, she wouldn’t have gotten the scar across her belly. She wouldn’t have fallen and hit her head, needing a CT scan. The melanoma would have gone unnoticed, untreated, and taken her life.

It was 2013 when my mother’s doctors finally agreed to give her a hysterectomy. After years of battling endometriosis, her diagnosis of Lynch Syndrome made her desire a reality.

A couple of nights later, my mother was sleeping on the couch. She had the urge to use the bathroom and decided to attempt this independently rather than wake up her husband. She shakily stood up, pain searing in her belly and down her legs. With her first step, she stumbled and fell, hitting her head on the coffee table before landing on the floor.

My mother went to the ER where they performed a CT scan of her head. Her brain was fine, but they found a spot on her right eye. My mother was diagnosed with Ocular Melanoma. It was cancer…not one included in the list of cancer risks with Lynch Syndrome. She underwent radiation and months later was cancer-free. If she had not been diagnosed with Lynch Syndrome, she wouldn’t have fallen and hit her head, needing a CT scan. The melanoma would have gone unnoticed, untreated, and taken her life.*

Story told by Gina Galderio

16 years. That is how long my body belonged to something other than myself. I started being involved in gymnastics when I was 5. My parents wanted to sign me up for an activity and noticed how much I liked to somersault around our house, yard, or anywhere. Little did they or I know what that first gymnastics class would lead to. I showed an immediate ability to be able to move my body in all the ways gymnastics commands. On the bars, beam, vault, and floor - I excelled. It went so quickly. I moved up to more challenging classes and then onto the team. The practices got longer and more intense. As time went on less of my childhood was spent hanging with school friends or riding my bike around the neighborhood and more was spent at the gymnastics center. It was my home away from home and while I gained so much confidence, skill, and amazing teammates, I missed my real home. I missed my siblings, my pets. My life didn’t feel like my own.

By the time I reached middle school, there was already nationals and even Olympics talk. My life was not only wholly centered around gymnastics, my body was, too. What I ate, how I trained, proper recovery, and trying to make sure never to get injured. If God forbid I did injure myself, no one talked about how I felt and what I thought, but of how much it would set my progress back and how quickly I could resume normal training. My trainers always told me to listen to my body, but no one listened to ME. By 12th grade, I’d grown tired of the sport, of the routine, of the never-ending hours in the gym. But how could I tell my parents who had invested so much into this? My coaches, who had been there through all the hours and competitions? I pushed on. Surely this feeling would dissipate in college, I convinced myself. It did not. Everything only intensified. I felt trapped. More so than ever before because everything was skyrocketing to a higher level and getting more and more serious. More so than ever my body, my life was not my own. When I finally decided to quit it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There was nothing I could do to prepare for those conversations, those moments of disappointment. Thankfully my parents saw something in me then. They could see I was at my breaking point and that my life was actually in jeopardy. From that moment on, my life, my body has been my own. When I want to work out and train, I do so because I want to, not because I have to. Gymnastics will always be a part of my last, but now the future is open for me to plan my own path forward.

She got a kidney disease in her 20’s which essentially derailed her entire life. She had to get a transplant and luckily her sister was a match, so she gave her one of her kidneys. Because of this, Elizabeth is continuously on immunosuppressants and other medication. Additionally, she is unable to have children on her own, so went through a surrogate.

When you meet Elizabeth, you see a person who has a supportive husband, two kids, a job, a place in the Bay Area, all is well. The story of her illness, pain, living with the “What if..?”, feeling that the kids “aren’t really hers” is not on a surface, and everyone has these stories and baggage that is not visible at first glance.

When I was 19 and in college, I started having problems in my right eye. The doctors said it was a detached retina and subsequently, this caused three major eye surgeries. After this, I got diagnosed with cataracts in the same eye. My vision, while not perfect, was still functional.

One winter break, I came home from college to find my dad doing lines of cocaine on the kitchen table. I was 21. He died a year later of a drug overdose coupled with pneumonia. Whenever I see someone do drugs, it triggers my PTSD to the point where I start to cry, and I have to leave the room.

At 26, I had five strokes, and as a result, went blind in my right eye. Because of my strokes, I have massive anxiety, and this makes it hard for me to keep a job. I go to a trauma therapist and do EMDR every week to cope and heal from this ordeal. The residual effect of my strokes has caused social anxiety. I’m very quiet at times; my personality hasn’t totally come back yet. When you have strokes, you lose yourself and your body goes through a 360, and it takes a while to come back. I’m still waiting for that to happen. I connected more with my grandma because she also had strokes. We talked about it frequently, and we were on the same medication.

Depending on the day, my attitude will shift, but generally, I am happy, upbeat, and positive, and feel like a survivor. I’m newly engaged, and looking forward to the future, while still dealing with the aftermath of my strokes and my dad not being present in my life.

I was diagnosed as a Type 1 Diabetic two weeks before my 8th birthday. I had no idea what it would mean for my body back then. People of course made comments I didn’t quite understand at that time - that it was from me eating too much sugar, that my parents should have fed me healthier foods, that I could never eat fun foods again. The number of people who don’t understand this disease far outweighs those that try. And something they really don’t understand are the devices I wear on my body. The devices that have left marks and scars on my skin for over a decade. The devices that help save my life.

My parents, especially my mom, fought so incredibly hard for those devices against corrupt insurance companies and prescription providers. Until you have a chronic health condition that requires countless medications and are thrust into the world of fighting to get medicine and devices that are necessary to live, most people have no idea of the impossible struggle we are up against. Now I have to focus on finding a job with good insurance rather than possibly following a dream or a passion of mine. All of my decisions are focused on my disease. Every single day of every single month of every single year. I have to protect my body from the very serious effects of a condition I never wanted, and that will stay with me forever. These marks and scars will stay with me forever.

For anyone who was born a "normal" healthy baby boy or girl, it is almost impossible for them to imagine a life different than that. Imagine the heartache your parents felt when they realized their baby that they'd waited 9 long months to see had some sort of deformity. The deformity I was born with is called tubular breast. It is very rare and because of it, my breast tissue is restricted and creates a herniated appearance. This, as you can imagine, is not pretty. My breasts do not look like other women's breasts, my body does not look like a typical woman's body. Not only was my appearance different, the way I felt was different. My body never felt quite right, even on the inside. My deformity was always noticeable, if even only to me. I avoided any activity where the differences in my body would be seen - swimming, sports, dating. I couldn’t let myself be intimate with anyone for fear of rejection and embarrassment.

When I finally decided to have corrective surgery, I was hopeful my path forward would be clear and provide relief. Unfortunately, since the condition is so rare, finding a surgeon with experience in this type of surgery was much more difficult than anticipated. I waited years to finally find the right doctor, get cleared for the surgery, and undergo quite a difficult procedure. The recovery was long and painful. I wasn’t sure how I would feel when I was finally healed and what my new body would be like. My emotions were all over the place as I slowly healed and started noticing the changes in myself. When I started going out publicly, I was amazed at the newly-found confidence I had and the pleasure of being in social situations without having to hide myself. I take pride in my body now and realize that my journey, although long and emotional, has led me to an amazing place.

I was a girl who did not gravitate towards playing with baby dolls, but being a teacher or the boss of a company. I didn’t have baby dolls, I didn’t want a Cabbage Patch Kid. I had a life-sized doll named Pete that felt like a friend or companion.

Babysitting was not my thing. I tried it once and hated it - to me it was the worst thing ever and I never did it again. Little things like that started telling me maybe I shouldn’t be a mother.

I went to college and never thought or talked about marriage. I focused on what I wanted to be and went from being a jewelry designer to being a graphic designer in the end. I wanted to move to NYC but didn’t think about a family. I met my future husband and felt as much comfort as when I was with Pete. He accepted me for who I was. We ended up getting married and that’s where it all started…

It felt like I became my husband’s identity because I took his name. Within 3 months, people started asking about when I’d start having kids. Then my friends started having kids, and the pressure of that increased. People kept telling us that we should have FOMO. When we were 30, we had the talk, deciding if we should have kids - we both were honest and decided we didn’t want to have kids.

The external pressure from everybody else faded because we were on the same page with where we wanted our lives to go. All our relationships dissolved as friends had kids, especially for me when friends were conservative, but it was ok for my husband to keep his friends. Felt that it was ok for the men to have these friends, but the women were much more judgy.

At that point, we had to decide to tell people we were not having kids. Then people started saying what’s wrong with you? Why don’t you want to experience this?! It felt like something was wrong with me. People said I was emotionless, heartless, and selfish, but that doesn’t mean I want to be a mother. I think I’m doing the most unselfish thing by not having a child on many levels: environmentally, and psychologically, and I don’t want to be responsible for the happiness of another person, because I’m constantly working on my own happiness. I knew having a child would not make me happy.

Even though I’m happy with my choice, I’m sometimes lonely because it’s hard to meet friends. The first question is always “Do you have children?" As soon as I say no by choice, women tend to shut down on me. I could see if they were all stay-at-home moms, but many women who have careers just the same as me, don’t seem interested in friendship because I’m not a mother. It’s always upsetting to me that children seem to be the only connection that women seem interested in bonding over.

I end up having friendships with women 20 years younger or older than me. I ended up being too old to be young and too young to be old, just floating in this limbo within my own gender of not having a true friendship with women my age except my sisters.

If I develop friendships with women with kids, resentment often starts to kick in when they find out how you vacation, what cars you drive, and how you live. It starts to become “Well, we all can’t be like that,” and then women hold it against me for my lifestyle. I think life is always always trying to figure out who you are, when you have children, I think you stop that. At this point, I know exactly who I am and do not regret that day that I decided to not have children. Women have attached themselves to the identity of their children and when they have an empty nest, these women are so stunted in the understanding of who they are.

Jackie got breast cancer at the age of 50 and soon after had a lumpectomy. Her breasts were left uneven, but even so, she lived with this for many years paying little attention to the changes in her body. She had no reason to change it and felt ashamed anytime the thought crossed her mind.

One day she saw a photo of herself where the light hit her chest and she could really see the difference in the size of her breasts. From that moment, she decided to change the way she felt about her body.

At the age of 65, she decided she wanted to have a breast reduction to make her breasts the same size. She felt so ashamed that she wanted to get her breasts reshaped and decided that she was going to do something positive about this feeling. Not only did she get a breast reduction, but she also worked with a friend to design the most beautiful tattoo across her chest so that every time she saw herself from now on, she would feel proud of her journey rather than ashamed.

I had a big job and made more money than my husband, but never cared about any of that. He also had a big job as a police chief.

As I traveled a lot for work, we needed someone to take care of the kids. So we converted the basement into a living area and hired a nanny who didn’t speak much English, but would teach our sons to speak Spanish. Later, I found out that my husband was cheating with the nanny every time I went out of town on work trips. I was furious that while I was out working to support our family, he was going behind my back screwing the nanny in the house I was working so hard to be able to afford. So I called him out on it and he attacked me, punching me in the face. My mom happened to be there and pulled him off of me, and later told me, “It’s better to have a bad man, than no man at all.” But I could not live like that.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my life, but nobody recognized my achievements of being the only woman on the executive team of a Fortune 500 company. Growing up, these accomplishments weren’t seen as something my parents would be elated about because as a woman, I was expected to get married and have children.

Over the years, I’ve begun to feel like my body is mad at me. No matter how optimistic I am, my body tells me it’s angry with me and continues to say “stop” through injuries: a knee replacement, spinal fusion, and a hip replacement. At 74, this is something I’m still working on healing.

I had always struggled with the image of pregnant women - something about their bodies disgusted me as if there was an alien growing inside there. I never thought I’d get pregnant, never even imagined I’d want to be pregnant, but I found myself longing to have a family with my husband. I just…didn’t want to be pregnant, but, we wanted a baby, I wanted a baby. My husband knew I was scared to be pregnant, but we decided to try anyway…and try…and try. We struggled to conceive, and as ashamed as I was to even think this way, I secretly breathed a sigh of relief each time the test wasn't positive.

We decided together that IVF was the best option. After many rounds of treatments and thousands of dollars, it finally worked! My husband and I were ecstatic, but a cold fear prickled at the back of my neck that day when our fertility specialist called us with the news, and I struggled from that day forward in my pregnancy with my body image. What I’d always thought about pregnant women was now happening to me, in my body - that sense of an alien inside was always there, and I was overwhelmed with guilt. I wanted to be pregnant; but as my body grew, so did my feelings of fear. I hid my fear well, from my doctors who had tried and succeeded valiantly to help me become pregnant, and even to my wonderful husband, but still just thought my fear normal, something akin to cold feet. I couldn’t understand the dichotomy of what I was feeling - happy, and excited, but filled with fear and dread, and I was too ashamed to tell anyone.

In the days leading up to my due date, I slept often to keep the fear at bay. One late afternoon before my husband got home from work, I woke up with a start from a nap, realizing my water had broken. I waited the hour before I knew he would be home, too frozen with fear to call or text him, terrified of what was going to happen next. On the way to the hospital, I gripped the handle of my bag while silent tears rolled down my face. I nodded when my husband asked if it was from the contractions, but truth be told, I couldn’t even feel them. I was more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

The birth was surprisingly and thankfully quick, although I was so scared I can barely even recall the details. At some point, my body took control, and I heard my daughter cry. At hearing that sound, I remember feeling instant relief, like my nightmare was over. When the doctor placed our newborn daughter on my chest, I felt light as air. It was like every moment of fear that I’d felt for the last nine months had never even happened, and I laughed out loud because it immediately all felt so absurd looking at her tiny, pink face.

My husband and I fell in love with our daughter, and with being parents. We talked in-depth about the possibility of a second child, but since IVF was so expensive and the process was excruciating, we gave up on the idea and decided to leave it up to fate. When my daughter was a year and a half old, I found out I was pregnant again - just like that. No IVF, no struggle, but as soon as I saw the two pink lines on the test, the fear immediately reared its ugly head.

When we went in for my first ultrasound, we found out it was twins, and I almost had a breakdown. I didn’t think I could handle three small kids, and that feeling of being disgusted with my own body was back. I knew I would get bigger and bigger, and feel like there were now two aliens growing in my body. I knew this wasn’t a healthy position for me to be in, and this time I couldn’t do this alone. I sought the help of a therapist. She told me I had tokophobia, a condition where women fear being pregnant and childbirth. Hearing a diagnosis, hearing that it’s fairly common, that many people suffer from it, and that we were going to work on a plan was an incredible relief. Each week my therapist and I worked through how I was feeling about the changes happening to my body. My body still felt weird, but I was in such a better place mentally during this pregnancy, and it was a completely different experience than my first. I shared my previous experiences with my husband and doctors, who were so glad I found the courage to tell them. This time when I went to the hospital to give birth, I remembered the details and worked hard to be present.

The twins were born healthy, and our daughter is the happiest older sister to her younger brothers. I’m proud of my journey, and I know someday I’ll tell her about everything, and I will make sure she knows she was not responsible. I’ll tell her to never be afraid to speak up if her mind or body doesn’t feel right, and I’ll tell her to trust herself. I think of her as my miracle baby in more ways than one, and I think of her brothers as giving me double the strength to overcome my fears.

Julie was at work when two shooters entered her work and opened fire using AR-15 assault rifles. She dropped to the ground with a group of coworkers, trying to stay out of sight. The bullets hit the fire sprinkler and water began pouring down. As bullets and water rained down, she felt one of her friends go limp and another take his last breath. Julie was shot two times; one shot shattered her pelvis, and the other shot through her rectum - both scrambling her internal organs. Everyone around her died. In all, she lost 14 friends that day.

Julie technically died, but she was incredibly brought back to life. She was in the hospital for more than one month after the shooting and has since had seven surgeries to continue fixing her damaged body.

Julie used to loathe her body because she wasn’t skinny, didn’t have nicely shaped legs, etc… Since the shooting, she is proud of how strong her body is and so happy it didn’t let her down.

As a man, I did everything I was “supposed” to do. I went to college on a football scholarship, got married, and financially supported my family but I never felt comfortable in my skin. I went on like this for many years, having children, moving up in my company, and being a solid provider for my family.

My wife was my best friend, but we stopped connecting intimately. There was a lot of shame that perpetuated the separation from my wife. From there, it was a turning point in deciding where my life should go next. Through unpacking the shame, guilt, and disgust I felt in my body and with society, I confided in my therapist. This brought me to build a community with people who felt similar.

The discovery process took many years, but through the stories of my community, I was inspired by seeing these people’s agency in their lives and the happiness they were able to build for themselves. The underlying themes of conversations were acceptance, self-love, and self-compassion. I realized I could have this for myself too. This led me to explore the bounds of womanhood.

I had a ruptured brain aneurysm (SAH) 8 weeks after giving birth to my daughter naturally. It was also while driving on the highway, so a major event in more ways than one. I spent a month in the hospital recovering while my daughter was with her grandparents. As she rejected the formula, we were concerned for her and a friend (at the time an acquaintance) offered to pump for her. By the time I came home, I managed to keep my supply going, so we were both pumping for 6 months to get her through the milk phase of her life. It was a long journey to getting better, and I don’t think I will ever be 100% as I now have PTSD from the driving accident, and struggle each time I go on the highway (even though I still do it all the time).

I had two more children after, and to be on the safe side they were delivered via C-section. Their births were also scary because of the memories of being in the hospital after the accident were still a bit fresh (with my second child). The C-sections themselves went well, but I had some problems after the first where they did something which left me with tearing pain every time I got out of bed for quite some time. Now I have a bump… maybe not the worst thing ever and not super noticeable to others, but on the left side just above the C-section scar. This was where the muscles formed scar tissue, and it hurts when I exercise.

But, through it all, I learned a few major lessons. First, and this realization came while I was still in the ambulance being rushed to hospital before they even knew it was an aneurysm, I cannot control everything! And actually, I don’t have control over many things which can happen in life. This realization made me appreciate everything much more, as well as the life each living thing has. I won’t even step on an ant if I can avoid it, because all life, even if small or short, is so precious. And second, I can get through anything if I stay strong and believe in myself. With support from family, friends, and so much coaching/training with mental health specialists, I have come a long way. And I know I can do anything now.

My body is not what it once was, but I’m proud of it! I brought three beautiful children into this world, fed them, and nurtured them. And for me, my body didn’t give up. Some days are still a challenge and I still have panic attacks when I drive (if I’m not feeling 100%) sometimes but I still do it, I keep going. The experiences didn’t break me, they made me realize how strong I really am. I never asked, “Why me?” I was grateful it was me. I am a part of a blessed few who did not die, and I do not have any deficits. Pursuing my PhD now is part of my new mentality, sort of like, “What else can I do, how much can I push myself to make it worth it?”

This year (8 years later) was the first year I didn’t count down to the anniversary or think about it. So it took 8 years for it not to be present every day in my life. But I called it a life-iversary so look it it looks like a second chance.

Most days I don’t take much time to consider my body - the alarm goes off, my brain sends a signal, my arm reaches for the phone, my fingers press the button to snooze, I tell my husband it’s time to wake up. “Five more minutes,” he’ll say today, tomorrow, always. My feet carry me to my son’s room, “Mommy!” he’ll shout, “I need to go potty!” My ears receive the sounds, my brain seamlessly interprets the message. Both husband and kiddo are greeted with smiles, hugs, kisses, all coming so naturally and easily - for a body connected to a brain that never stops, I’m grateful these simple responses are something I don’t have to think about - they are the movements of love.

Love isn’t the word I’d use for how I view my body when there’s finally time to consider it. My body is more of a perpetual item on my to-do list, ever-present but always on the back-burner, in the category of an item that will never get fully crossed-off, hovering as guilt. “Lose weight, go for a two mile run, meal plan, count calories, rejoin Weight Watchers, start small…maybe one plank a day” - the constant internal monologue of the to-do list is change your body, never accept your body, love your body.

But there are moments where I find myself sneakily loving my body in the form it’s in now. At night, when we’re putting our son to bed, we lie in bed while he talks and sings, his small body moving about while he calms and inches toward sleep, his two little feet pressed against my soft belly, and I think about how those little feet used to kick inside my belly, how my body created this little person, and I am in awe. To hug my son, to feel the weight of his little body snuggled up next to me, to touch his cheek and rub his back, to see him smile at me like I’m his sun, and hear his little voice singing yet another song, far past bedtime, I can’t help but feel perfect love and acceptance, because I am a mother, how could I not be amazed by my body?

His singing starts to sound like a Walkman running out of batteries - slower and slower. He tosses a few more times, and settles with his head on the pillow. His eyes flutter and close, his breath slows, and our son is finally asleep. I shake my husband, who fell asleep half an hour ago. “One more minute,” he says, but gets up when I give an exasperated sigh. We walk out and gently close the door. “We did good,” he says, and I believe it without question.

My body didn’t change today, it’s still on the to-do list. But if I had an item on my to-do list to love and accept my body, today, I would have crossed it off.

As a child I was fierce and fearless. I was the oldest child of two young parents. When I was five, we moved from the countryside to town, and I entered school and the company of other children. Teachers and other adults worked to civilize me.

At 11, we moved from Iowa to Arizona, by 12 I was a young woman who was 5 foot 5 and looked way older than I was. I started realizing that others saw me differently than I saw myself. A grown man asked me to dance while my parents and I were at a nightclub at the age of 13. At that age, another flirted with me while I was waiting in line for a movie and then ran away when I told him how old I was. Life became dangerous as I realized that other people were looking at how I looked, and not who I was.

At 14, I had my first boyfriend who was 2 years older. He protected me. I was blonde, blue eyed with curves. I spoke in a mature way that was older than my age. My first drink in a restaurant was at 15. I was afraid.

At 15, I dated the valedictorian of the engineering college at ASU. His friends did not know how old I was until I told them. I was committed to being a good girl as I did not want to “have to get married” as my mother did.

My first sexual assaults occurred in my teens. They were not successful. I was physically tough, and trained by my father to defend myself. My mother showed jealousy towards me with her comments. She missed much of being a young woman by being married while still in school.

To not know if others want you for how you look or who you are inside leads to mistrust. I have lost my jobs, friends, and innocence because of it. I have been married 2 times and had a desperate secret that wasn’t revealed to me until later in my life. From listening to my friends talk, and from comments made by boyfriends and my husbands I realized that I was different. I wasn’t gay, but I reacted to physical, sexual affection differently. I didn’t know why. At first, I thought it was due to my lack of experience, their lack of experience, my lack of care or theirs. There was something missing. It was part of the reason that both my marriages failed. During my second marriage it came to me.

I was eight or nine years old and had outgrown my first bike. My grandmother gave me her beautiful bicycle. It was a Raleigh with a double bar from the front wheel to the back. It had hand brakes and a couple of speeds. It was too big for me, so I mostly stood on the pedals or hopped up on the seat when I reached speed. The kids in my group rode everywhere. We sped down hills, had races, played chicken riding against each other, we were rough and tumble.

One day we all were out on the street, and we started playing chicken. Two of us would start pedaling at each other and the first one to swerve away was the loser. I took my turn and we pedaled towards each other at speed. We hit hard and I fell off the seat of my bike onto the double bars, and then fell to the ground in agony. I didn’t know why I was hurting so bad, but I knew I would never tell my parents because I would be punished for being stupid. I forgot about the episode for many years.

I realized the crash had mostly dulled or destroyed the exterior nerves in my pelvic area. This is why my reaction to physical intimacy was different. Part of my nervous system was gone. It was before I had ever had a sexual life so there was not a before or after for me to compare.

Everything else was somebody’s story. My appearance is not who I am, or who anyone else thinks. Neither is my sexuality.

Every day I walk into work and have to put a smile on my face, be cheery, and enthusiastic, lead my team, and teach my students the best I can. They see me as the always happy and positive one. What they don’t see is that as soon as I’m away from school, the sadness and emptiness sets in. The loneliness. Ted and I were supposed to be living some of the best years of our lives. With the kids out of the house and us free to do more of what makes us happy, spend more time together. Instead, I’m picking up the pieces after his death. He took his own life, something no one ever thinks possible.

Now my life is completely different than I had ever imagined.

I’m alone. That is the thought that strikes me daily and I crumble. I’m alone in my bed. I’m alone to help my aging, ailing in-laws. I’m alone to take care of our adult children and help them through their grief. I’m alone to deal with the family business Ted ran while also having to keep my teaching job to pay the bills. I think of all the things I could have done differently to help Ted stay alive. I think the most important thing I’ve realized is everybody needs to be more open to conversations about mental health and be honest with those around them, especially men. Ted felt like he needed to be everything for everybody in his life; we all relied heavily on him, and we didn’t realize it was too much for him. If only he felt able to tell us and ask for help, then maybe I wouldn’t be alone and we’d be living the life we’d always imagined.

I didn’t want to stop coloring my hair, but a half-shaved head with a seven-inch incision and stitches covered by “bone wax” put an end to that form of vanity.

Those of us who have had this type of brain tumor surgery are called “warriors” and I’ve got the tattoo to prove it. I am also 100 percent deaf in one ear, have a severed balance nerve, and have destroyed taste buds on the left side of my mouth. And oh yeah, they couldn’t get the entire tumor, so…it can grow back.

It’s been two years since my nine-hour surgery and many days I still feel like I am still recovering. I get tired easily, I cannot distinguish where sound is coming from, some normal foods taste bizarre and I can lose my balance easily. It took five months to “recover” from this ordeal. During that time I had to use a walker for a while, couldn’t stand in the shower for two months because I had no balance, couldn’t read because my eyesight was wonky from the severed balance nerve, and food tasted horrible!

I learned to appreciate the healing powers of sleep because that’s about all I could do. It was annoying and frustrating because I wanted to do things but my body said NO! So I slept and slept and slept, and slowly started feeling like me again. The best day of recovery was when I could return to the gym and pottery class. I had to take a 3-5 hour nap after gym class for months and couldn’t do everything, but I was there! Same with pottery: nap before class and I was finally able to drive and lift a 25-pound bag of clay. I am still learning how to make lemonade from this very sour batch of lemons I have been dealt. It isn’t enough for me to just be alive. I need to thrive!

The body before you has been molested, sexually abused, raped, beaten, body ashamed, loved, and cherished.

At the age of six, my stepfather took this body as his plaything where he molested, sexually abused, and raped me three to five times a week until my preteens. At this time, I was taken from my family and placed into foster care, where I was led to believe that I would be safe. While in foster care, I became a punching bag for the people that were meant to keep me safe.

After all those years of being abused, raped, and beaten, I was ashamed of this body because of the way people looked at me. I hid my body as much as I could so no one could see me unless I wanted them to see me. I reduced my breast size from a HHH to a B. I found relationships in older men and women to find that lost adult protection, as I had no normal childhood.

My father rescued me and showed me GOD and that there is more to life than your past. I have two wonderful children that see this body as their mom. I have an amazing man in my life that sees this body as the most cherished body in the world. I am still working on seeing the body before you as the beautiful body it truly is.

The next time you see a person and their body, rather than just looking at it as an object, know they also have a story to tell.

I grew up going by Nena, which is a term of endearment in Mexico and other Spanish-speaking countries. It means 'little girl', though I didn't know that until later.

My father is Mexican (very dark brown) and my mother is white (Irish/German). I grew up knowing more about my mother’s family of origin, and their migration patterns, and using this whiteness to explain 'why I have freckles'. I was a lighter-skinned lil' lady, with thick brows and dark arm hair. I hated this when I was younger, and did as much as I could, as soon as I could, to lighten/remove my body hair.

I was pretty ashamed of being Mexican, and of my dad speaking Spanish. It’s probably why I was embarrassed to speak back to him. I had freckles and was tan enough where it was ‘exotic and cute’ (things I have since learned to roll my eyes at and despise), yet wasn’t completely seen as Brown. I think up until recently (i.e. in college), I probably assumed people thought I was white. Maybe I thought I was for a long time.

I am a bridge, in both personal and professional aspects of my life. There is a word in Nahuatl, the Aztec language: nepantla, meaning ‘the in-between’, a term said to have been coined by the colonized peoples of Mexico to describe their experience in the creation of a mixed culture. As I identify with being both colonizer and colonized, half-Mexican and half-Irish/German, I used to see the mix as oil and water - two separate parts of myself. I recognize now the strength and value of being a connector, raised with adaptation, flexibility, and fluidity. These characteristics have been especially prevalent in the cultivation of my lived experiences.

My history is one filled with grief and gratitude, change and healing, resilience and inspiration, adventure, and stagnancy. I am the youngest of four, a lover of books and the ocean. “I am a woman of the water, and I belong to myself.”

I was a sensitive child, a dedicated student, and often felt like an outsider. In my adolescence, I felt lost in my cultural heritage and was unequipped to process my capital B, Big Feelings, healthily. Additionally, I was bullied for being, ‘the chubby nerd with glasses’ in middle and high school, and equated my worth and likeability to thinness, and beauty. I internalized beauty remarks about my body hair and shape, and as I navigated the rough waters of social, familial, and emotional challenges, I sought control through food. A natural response to intergenerational wounds, gender violence, and racial trauma, my eating disorder brought me the emotional regulation I sought, though at an unhealthy price. Though it feels heavy to carry the lived experience of anorexia, I deeply know that I would not be the same emotionally intelligent, empathetic, and sensitive woman that I am today without it.

It was a gift, a box full of darkness, that I choose to now fill with light. Now, every day, I whisper ‘thank you’ to my body, for all that she is capable of. I feel grateful for all of the resources I was given, and the opportunities to continue to know and love myself as my body changes and moods swing. This chapter could be titled ‘grace’. In this body, I've also [newly] befriended the co-occurring depression/anxiety in fuller capacities & waves than I’ve ever known. It feels huge & hard to move through the world vulnerably & openly, and I commend us all in this existence. and still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. To feel fully is a gift that my ED robbed me of for too long.

Today, I find myself loving my brown skin. I love my tan lines, and getting darker in the sun. I recently grew out all my body hair for months and months, to challenge my own beliefs about femininity, and beauty, as well as to connect with the thick, fertile, dark hair I have been given by my Mexican ancestors. It was so hard, and I’m admittedly still self-conscious about it. For now, I’ll shave when I feel like it, and I pledge to never pluck my eyebrow again.

Looking forward, I think about having kids and wonder who I will choose to have children with. Will he be white? Will that be hard? Or will I fall in love with a man of color, a mixed man, like me? What challenges will I face either way? Such is a reality, a layer of my future life I’ve only begun to consider. I hope to be fluent one day in Spanish and raise my kids proud of the language, and their roots. I am constantly reminding myself that doing personal work is a way to finally decolonize a system that attempts to put us all in boxes. To love, to heal, to change, to integrate my identity with experience - it is all a political act.

I did not expect it to be this hard. Telling my story. I thought I knew, but I really don’t. What is real, and what is a persona I have lived? Is the collection of my past activities my story? Or is it the evolution of my perspectives over my life? For how much of my life did I even understand that there is a distinction between the activities and the perspectives? I realize that when I’ve told my story in the past it has always been created for a specific audience. My curriculum vitae, my family history, the places I have lived. Each element selected to demonstrate my relevance or expertise. But when it comes down to it, none of that is really my story.

A story implies a description of the past and the experiences that brought me to who I am today. But even describing who I am is not straightforward. Depending on how you meet me I might be a parent, spouse, child, friend, relative, yogi, business owner, PhD, sustainability professional, technophile, music lover, grieving parent, traveler, New Englander, Arizonan, cook, potter, student, teacher, mentor or neighbor. All of these have an imprint on who I am, yet even together they seem incomplete.

A close friend and confidant recently told me that I am like a flower you see poking through a crack in the sidewalk. No matter how much I’m trampled I keep re-emerging. There is no value in focusing on the trampling even though the memories linger. I can bloom again because I prefer to focus on the gifts I collected along the way. Not the physical things, but the feelings and memories. The best ones are being with my family. The intense love and laughter that I have had the divine pleasure of experiencing. Even though the people I have shared that with may no longer be here with me, their gift of being in my life remains. It is the best part of my story. And it lets me surrender to the knowledge that wherever life casts my next seeds, I will always know love.

The most addictive self-destructive drug I ever took was an SSRI, an antidepressant called Effexor. It was supposed to “heal and restore” balance to my brain chemistry, that was the false promise I bought into when I misplaced my trust in the medical system. At that time, I worked as an Art Therapist on a very violent psychiatric unit in Jersey City, NJ. The work, the life, and the pace, was all immensely stressful and took their toll on my body. I developed severe anxiety, chronic fatigue, and depression.

In retrospect, my symptoms were a natural response to unbelievably stressful circumstances.

Immersed in this world though, it seemed perfectly ok to medicate the symptoms to keep going. And I kept going like that for about 10 years. At first, the medication seemed “perfect for me,” gave me more energy, and made me less sensitive, less irritable, and less permeable to other people’s vibrations, but the efficacy didn’t last, and instead of upping my dose yet again, I decided to do things differently. I stopped taking my antidepressants, determined to live a more holistic life.

The side effects of the drug, which were many, began to dissipate, but I succumbed to a severe withdrawal syndrome that lasted almost 2 excruciating years. Severe PTSD, acute emotional dysregulation, panic attacks upon waking, thoughts of suicide, and a host of physical ailments including severe vitamin/mineral deficiencies, gastrointestinal disorders, and crippling insomnia. I couldn’t work anymore and ended up in bankruptcy. In the last 4 years, I’ve focused on intensive detox cleansing and rebuilding my body. I’m finally starting to feel healthier, although I still can’t sleep. It's been almost 7 years.

Nicole moved to California with her family in her early teens and quickly became taken by the culture of Southern California. What first started as an innocent admiration, quickly turned into an unhealthy obsession with a superficial lifestyle. Some of these interests included celebrity chasing, dating older men for money, and most of all, plastic surgery.

When she was 18, she used her student loans to buy a nose job, something she’d begged her parents for, and they had always said no. Around the age of 20, she went in to get a BBL (Brazilian butt lift). Although she already had an attractive figure and a pretty face, she thought she needed more. She wanted to be more noticeable to the celebrity men she was chasing.

During the consultation for her Brazilian butt lift, her doctor told her he noticed some “premature wrinkles” and she started to get Botox and fillers. She was unhappy with the results for her butt and felt the doctor botched her. Over the next several years she would spend time and money she didn’t have getting surgery readjustments. She was never happy with the size. She ended up taking her frustration and insecurities out on her friends and family and lost many friends and relationships.

Now in her mid-forties, she’s had plastic surgery on nearly every operable part of her body, each surgery coming with some complication that causes her to seek a way to fix it. Men want to be with her, but it’s always a certain type of man, and she hears the whispers from other women. A part of her wishes she could stop, could go back and decide not to fix what wasn’t broken in the first place, but she already has another surgery scheduled, and it’s impossible to get on the doctor’s schedule. She promises herself every time it will be her last.

I had just finished my first year of college and moved back home. After a few weeks, I decided that living at home was no longer a viable option. I found a roommate and an apartment in the city. My brother, Chuck, worked at a furniture store and offered me a job on Saturdays for $50 in cash (a reasonable sum of money for a day’s work back then). My job was to sit at a desk in the front of the store and handle all the cash sales.

It was about 11:00 a.m. when the line in front of the cash register was already twenty deep. In my job training, Chuck explained that twice a day he would collect the cash in the drawer and move it to a safe. He said that taking in $15,000 in cash on a Saturday wasn’t unusual, so this was for my safety. Having been away at college thinking about things that weren’t part of hardcore reality, it sounded like a solid plan to me. That day, Chuck had already emptied the drawer once.

At about 11:10, roughly 30 minutes after Chuck removed the cash, there was a loud noise, and everyone in line dropped to the floor. Suddenly, three men stood in front of me shouting and waving guns: pistols, a sawed-off shotgun, and a large pump gun. When I said there wasn’t any cash, they threw me to the floor and leaned over me, and pointed a gun at my ear. As they bellowed and shook, I realized their dilated pupils were signs of drug withdrawal. Alone in the front of the store with no sense of what to do, but realizing they were escalating in their frustration, I said I would find my brother, who knew where the cash was.

When I shakily stood up, I saw bodies covering every square inch of the expansive warehouse. It was complete pandemonium - people were hiding under pieces of furniture, and people were crying. The gunmen pushed me forward, walking over people in my path, yelling, “Bitch we are going to kill you.” Suddenly, I was frozen in survival mode and crying for my brother to stand up!

When Chuck stood up, they rushed over, shouting and waving their pistols. Before leaving the building, they walked back to where I was and hovered over me as a way to intimidate me. They fled through the front door of the building. As if in slow-motion, we stood up to comfort and console one another. The landline phone wires had been cut and the alarm tripped. In the chaos that followed, strangers hugged and cried together. It was as if we had this instant bond. All of us survived what could have been catastrophic.

The police eventually arrived and in repeating our stories, they said the following: “All of you are very lucky that this young woman kept it together. If she had freaked out, they would have killed everyone in this store.” It wasn’t until weeks later, after looking through mugshots, that the story unfolded as the criminals turned on one another. This was explained as an “inside job” with the mastermind being an employee who worked on the dock unloading furniture. He knew approximately when the Brinks security people would pick up cash for the daily deposit. What he didn’t know was that I would be starting work that day and that my brother would be removing the cash from the register earlier than usual.

I’ll always remember that as the day I lost my sense of safety.

Sue was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 47. She underwent a double mastectomy and had reconstructive surgery once her body had healed. She went through rounds of chemo and radiation that left her sick and exhausted, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying life.

Her family was incredibly important to her, and she would always think of them before she thought of herself. Spending time with them was critical to her, and even though she wasn’t feeling well, she spent as much time with them as possible, traveling, laughing, and making memories. She was the glue that held her family together.

Sue’s body had undergone many changes from her surgeries and the side effects of different treatments. In the beginning, she mourned what her body used to look like, comparing herself to others, and thinking her feminine beauty was gone. As time went on, she embraced how her body had changed, and recognized that her feminine beauty was indeed still there, and always had been, regardless of what the cancer had done to it.

Throughout Sue’s treatment, she never questioned, “Why me?” While her diagnosis was devastating, she still found a way to show love and grace to others, and clung to her faith in God, no matter her circumstances in life, and no matter what the future held. This was such an incredible gift she gave to friends, family, and strangers alike to witness.

For a while, it seemed Sue’s treatments were effective, and she carried on with work and family events, welcomed her first grandchild, and witnessed graduations and marriages. At the beginning of 2013, she received news that her cancer had spread to her liver and her bones. While she tried a new treatment to slow the cancer, it didn’t work. Sue died in the spring of 2013 at the age of 51 at home with her family surrounding her. Sue left behind a legacy of what it looks like to love and honor God in all circumstances of life, and what it looks like to fiercely love one’s family.

Story told by Jessie Carney