Reflections

None of Your Business: Bodily Autonomy and the Power of Being a Woman

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Salt-N-Pepa were yelling truth through my headphones when this essay started writing itself in my head.

“If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight, it’s none of your business!”

I wasn’t just listening—I was lip-syncing, stomping around my home like a woman possessed. That song doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t play nice. It kicks down the door and makes space for a woman to say, I belong to no one but me.

And as I sang those words loud enough for the neighbors to hear, I realized: this is it. This is the whole damn point.

Women get practically nothing in this world—not full safety, not full respect, not equal rights. But if we don’t even get our own bodies? Then what do we have left?

I’m not totally hopeless. I wish I could say I believe the patriarchy will collapse in my lifetime, but I don’t know. Maybe it will—and if it does, I’ll probably cry and pee myself out of pure joy. But until then, I want to be crystal clear about one thing:

A woman’s body belongs to her. No one else.

Let me say it louder:
I’m a grown-ass woman, and what I do with my body is none of your fucking business.

Objectified at Birth

From the moment we’re born, people start telling us who we are based on how we look.

“She’s so pretty.”
“Look at those eyelashes!”
“You’ve got a little heartbreaker on your hands!”

Compliments before we can walk, before we can speak—and they’re always about our appearance. Pretty. Cute. Beautiful.

Have you ever heard someone walk up to a baby boy and say, “He’s so handsome, he’s gonna break hearts”? Not really. Boys are strong. Boys are tough. Boys are smart. Girls are pretty.

And so it begins—this quiet but constant training that tells us our worth lives on the outside. That we are here to be looked at. That our bodies are not just our own, but for others to comment on, rate, touch, control.

By the time we’re old enough to notice, it’s everywhere.
Dress codes. Street harassment. Politicians making choices about our reproductive rights.
Our bodies have been claimed by everyone but us.

And that is terrifying. That is infuriating.

Silenced in Real Life

It’s not just politics. It’s not just headlines. It’s in my friend groups. Especially with my guy friends.

I try to speak—talked over.
Try to share—told to shut the fuck up.
Try to exist—mocked, ignored, laughed at.

And when I yell—because sometimes that’s the only way to be heard—I’m called dramatic. Crazy. “Too much.”

What am I even doing there, then? What’s the point of friendship if I’m just background noise?

I try to explain patriarchy. I try to talk about gender and fairness and equity. But I’m treated like I’m making it all up. Like I’m the problem. Like I’m speaking a language they’ve already decided not to understand.

It’s isolating.
It’s exhausting.
It’s one of the reasons I’ve wanted to die.

Not the only reason—but a big one. Because when the world constantly erases you, it’s hard to feel like you matter. Like you belong.

And then there’s the confusion. Am I here to be pretty or respected? Do I have to choose?

Add autism to the mix—undiagnosed until 32—and people still act like they know me better than I know myself. “You don’t seem autistic.” “Are you sure?” Yes. I’m fucking sure. I’ve spent years untangling this. I’m still learning. We all are. But people don’t even try.

And still—here I am.
Saying it out loud anyway.

The Power They Can’t Take

For everything this world tries to strip from us—our voices, our safety, our sanity—it still hasn’t found a way to take the one thing that lives deep in our bones: our power.

It’s not the kind of power written into law.
It’s older than that.
Wilder. Quieter. Unshakeable.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

If reincarnation is real, I’d come back as a woman again. Every time.

Because even though this world tries to make it seem like being a woman is a disadvantage, there’s something we carry that can’t be touched. A generational fire. A knowing. A legacy.

I think of all the women who weren’t allowed to speak. Who weren’t allowed to choose. Who weren’t allowed to dream—and still, somehow, they survived.

They fought. They wrote. They whispered truths. They lit the path. And now I’m here—pissed off, alive, and writing this.

Sometimes I think about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and it all clicks. She holds the power of every girl before her. She fights because they fought. That’s what womanhood is to me.

Yes, I’m tired.
Yes, I’m angry.
But I am not alone.

Hope That’s Bigger Than Us

I don’t know if I’ll live to see the day women have full autonomy.
But I hope someone does.

I hope some girl grows up in a world where her voice is not just tolerated, but expected.
Where she doesn’t have to choose between being pretty and being respected.
Where her body is hers and hers alone.

Where no one tells her she’s “too much” for daring to take up space.

Where she’s free to be loud.
To be weird.
To be whole.

That world may feel far away.
But hope is power, too.

Sometimes it’s just the decision to keep going.
To write. To scream. To speak anyway.

Because even if they don’t listen—
We’re still here.

And I’ll keep blasting Salt-N-Pepa, stomping through my house, saying it as loud as I need to:

“It’s none of your business.”

My body. My rules. My life.

Try and take that from me—and see how loud I can be.

🎭 Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired) (Unmasking, One Post at a Time)

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“Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired)”
 🧠 An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry One

Before I knew I was autistic or ADHD, I just thought I was working really hard at being a person.

Turns out, I was masking.

Masking is when you hide or camouflage parts of yourself so you can pass as “normal.”
It’s mimicking facial expressions, tone of voice, posture.
It’s copying how other people laugh or how they make eye contact.
It’s forcing yourself to suppress stimming.
It’s scripting conversations in your head before they happen.
It’s smiling when you want to scream.
It’s laughing when you’re confused.
It’s staying quiet when you’re overwhelmed.
It’s pretending you’re fine so no one thinks you’re difficult.

I’ve done it for so long, I used to think that was my personality.

When you’re autistic or ADHD—especially if you were socialized as a girl or assigned female at birth—masking becomes second nature.
We’re taught to be accommodating. Quiet. “Not too much.”
So we make ourselves smaller. We mirror people. We blend in until we disappear.

And sometimes we’re praised for it.

“She’s so mature for her age.”
“You’re so adaptable.”
“You always seem so calm.”

Calm? No. Just dissociating professionally.
Adaptable? Maybe. But at what cost?

Masking isn’t just exhausting. It’s identity-erasing.

I’ve walked out of social situations completely unsure who I was.
I’ve said “yes” when I meant “no,” just because it felt easier.
I’ve been praised for being chill when I was actually melting down inside.

People didn’t see my burnout—they saw “grace under pressure.”
People didn’t hear my sensory overwhelm—they heard “sensitivity.”
People didn’t notice my panic—they saw “perfectionism.”

Masking works… until it doesn’t.
And when it breaks down, it looks like depression. Anxiety. Burnout. Shutdown. Rage.
It looks like “what’s wrong with me?”
It looks like “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

And honestly? That’s where I was when I started unmasking.

Unmasking is not always peaceful.
Sometimes it’s letting people see you stim or cry or say something awkward.
Sometimes it’s choosing not to go to a thing—even if people expect you to.
Sometimes it’s saying “no” and feeling that old panic rise up… and doing it anyway.

It’s slow. It’s scary. It’s freeing.

I’m still tired.
But now it’s the kind of tired that comes from becoming, not disappearing.

If you’re masking, and you’re tired too—
you’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
And you’re allowed to rest.

🌀

Closet Full of Feelings

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I’ve always loved fashion. Not just the aesthetics or the thrill of putting together an outfit—but the language of it. Clothes have always helped me express who I am, how I’m feeling, or who I want to be that day. Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s bold. Sometimes I get dressed like I’m building armor. Other times I dress to soften the edges of the world.

Fashion has always made space for me. For experimentation. For mess. For transformation. And lately, I’ve realized: emotions deserve the same.

Feelings, like fashion, are constantly shifting. They change with the seasons, come back into style when you least expect it, and sometimes hang around long after they were supposed to be packed away. I’ve started to think of emotions not as something to fix or fear—but as something to wear. To try on. To move through. To appreciate for what they are, even if they’re not what I would’ve picked off the rack that day.

As someone who loves fashion—all of it—I don’t believe in ranking styles, and I feel the same about emotions. I don’t think one kind of feeling is better or more “appropriate” than another. Some days are high heels and bold lipstick. Other days are sweatpants and hoodies and unbrushed hair. All of it is valid. All of it is beautiful in its own context. You can feel joy in neutrals. You can feel heartbreak in glitter. You can wear sadness like a velvet robe and still love yourself in the mirror.

Take anger—it’s like a power suit. Structured, sharp, unapologetically present. It doesn’t have to be loud to be strong. Worn right, anger can be protective. It says “no” when you need it most. It gives you back your edges when the world tries to smooth you out.

Or sadness—it’s an oversized sweater, stretched at the cuffs, a little frayed, but so soft it feels like a hug. I don’t mind wearing sadness when it shows up. Sometimes it’s the only thing that fits. And I’ve learned not to rush to take it off. It passes. It always does.

Joy is sequins and silk scarves and the shoes you swore were impractical but wear anyway because they make you feel alive. Joy doesn’t always wait for the perfect moment. Sometimes you reach for it on purpose, like wearing your favorite outfit even when you’re feeling low. And sometimes, joy surprises you—shows up like a pop of color, a forgotten accessory that suddenly pulls everything together.

Anxiety, for me, is a utility jacket with too many pockets. Every one of them full. It’s not cute, but it’s functional. It means well. It wants me to be prepared, to plan ahead, to survive. I’ve learned to wear it differently. Loosen the buttons. Roll the sleeves. Let it be part of the outfit without letting it define the whole look.

And nostalgia—oh, nostalgia. That’s a vintage piece. Something that smells like the past, that reminds you who you used to be. It’s bittersweet and beautiful and, like all fashion, it can come back when you least expect it.

I’ve moved through every emotional outfit there is—sometimes in a single day. And the thing I’ve learned is: you don’t have to judge the feeling to wear it. You don’t have to love it to let it pass through you. You just have to honor it. Give it a hanger in the closet of your life. Try it on. Move with it. Let it teach you something.

Emotions don’t always fit perfectly. Some are too tight. Some are oversized. Some need tailoring. But all of them are part of the collection. And the most important thing? You are always allowed to change. To restyle. To reimagine who you are and what you’re feeling, again and again.

I still get dressed with intention. I still love putting on an outfit that makes me feel like myself—or helps me find myself again. And I’m learning to feel the same way about emotions. They don’t have to match. They don’t have to be easy. But when I let myself wear whatever shows up, I start to feel more like me again. The whole me. Not just the pretty moods. All of them.Because really, that’s what fashion and feelings are both about: expression, experimentation, and reminding yourself that you get to decide what looks and feels good on you.

Warmth Isn’t a Job Title (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

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“Warmth Isn’t a Job Title”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Two

People always tell me I’m warm. That I’m “such a light.” That I make people feel seen. I’ve been called sunshine in every workspace I’ve ever entered—schools, sorority houses, law firms, even part-time jobs I barely lasted in. It’s said with affection, usually. Admiration, even. Like it’s a gift I bring into the world. And sometimes, it feels like one.

But it’s also something I’ve learned to weaponize against myself.

Warmth became my strongest asset—and my greatest liability.
Because it kept getting me hired, but never saved me from burning out.

When I was a teacher, I was the one who made kids feel safe. The one they ran to when their parents were in jail or they’d had nightmares or just needed a snack and someone to notice they were hungry. I was the one my coworkers vented to. The one who stayed after meetings to talk through things, who remembered birthdays, who made people feel like they mattered.
And I did mean it. I do mean it. But warmth doesn’t protect you when the roof of your school is literally torn open and your classroom is flooded and no one seems to care that you’re drowning too.

After Hurricane Sally, a piece of metal was hanging off the building, swinging in the breeze. I made a joke one morning—something like, “Maybe it’ll finally come loose and decapitate me, and I won’t have to go inside.”
Everyone laughed. So did I.
But I wasn’t really joking.

I didn’t cry in my car. Not once. That’s not really how it shows up for me. I’m autistic, and my relationship with emotions is complicated. I didn’t sob or scream or punch the steering wheel. I just drove. Every day. Over the same bridge. Past the same water.

And almost every morning, I thought about veering off.

Not dramatically. Not emotionally. Just…logically. Like my brain offering a clean escape hatch I couldn’t stop noticing. If I just angled the wheel slightly to the right, maybe I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t have to go back into that building with the flickering lights and the flooded carpets and the trauma pouring out of kids too small to carry it. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pretend to be okay.

Because that’s the thing about being warm: people expect it from you constantly. When you’re the “light,” there’s no room to flicker. When you’re the one who makes everyone else feel safe, no one stops to ask if you are.

So I kept going. I kept showing up. I kept being the warm, glowing presence people had come to rely on. I smiled. I made bulletin boards. I remembered everyone’s favorite personal things and their personal home lives. I played music and danced around the classroom and made my students laugh even when I felt like I was disappearing inside myself.

And it worked.
That’s what’s so messed up—it worked.
I was dying inside, and people just kept telling me how bright I was.

Later, when I wasn’t teaching anymore, the settings changed but the script didn’t. I worked at two different law firms—one big, one small—and in both places, I was the first voice people heard when they called for help. I worked intake, which meant I talked to people on some of their worst days. Car accidents. Medical trauma. Deaths of loved ones. Insurance nightmares. And just like in the classroom, I became good at making people feel safe. Like they could trust me. Like they could exhale.

People opened up to me quickly. I think they could tell I’d listen. That I actually cared. That I wasn’t in a rush to push them through a checklist and onto the next call. I asked follow-up questions. I remembered names. I let people be human with me.

And again—it worked. People praised my “people skills.” My empathy. My warmth. My magic touch on the phone. And again, I was glad to help. I wanted to be good at something that mattered.

But warmth is exhausting when it’s always flowing outward and never back in. You can’t keep handing people pieces of yourself and expect not to go hollow eventually. I was the “bright spot” on every team. The calm voice in chaos. The one people came to when they were upset, even if they outranked me. Especially then.

And I think what hurts the most is… it did matter. It always mattered to someone. But it never felt like enough to matter to the system. Not to capitalism. Not to the structure that chews people up and spits them out as long as the metrics are met.

I could be a ball of sunshine, but the sun doesn’t get PTO. The sun doesn’t get to quit. The sun just rises again—every morning, even when it’s burning out.

I’ve been working since I was 14. Babysitting. Retail. Food service. Odd jobs. Customer service. Admin work. Teaching. Law firms. You name it, I’ve probably done it or something close. At some point, it stopped being a way to grow and just became a way to survive.

And the longer I did it, the more I started to feel like my entire personality was a resume skill. Organized. Compassionate. Adaptable. Emotionally intelligent. A team player. A people person. A fast learner. A warm presence.

Which is to say: marketable. Not whole.
Not really me.

Because no matter how many jobs I did, no matter how good I was at them, they never seemed to lead anywhere. Or maybe they did—but the “somewhere” was just more of the same: burnout, detachment, fleeting praise, and the slow erosion of my inner world. The truth is, I don’t want to spend my life being someone else’s good idea of a helpful person while quietly fantasizing about escape.

I don’t want to be so damn useful that I forget I’m also a person.

And maybe that’s the part I’m still grieving: how many years I spent thinking that being good at work would make me feel like I had a purpose. Like I had a path. Like I was building something that would eventually feel worth it.

But mostly, it just made me tired.
And confused.
And so, so alone.

It’s taken me a long time to realize that burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s often just the natural outcome of being deeply human in systems that reward detachment.

And I’ve always been deeply human, even when I couldn’t name it. Even when I didn’t cry in the car or melt down at work or fall apart in the ways people expect. I just kept going, quietly breaking down in ways no one could see. But that’s starting to change. I’m learning to notice the cracks before everything caves in.

I’m also learning that being warm isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s not a “soft skill” on a resume or a trait to downplay so I seem more professional. It’s a kind of wisdom. A strength. A way of moving through the world that brings connection, not just productivity. And while it’s been used against me—extracted, expected, taken for granted—it’s still mine.

I don’t know what my next job will be, or if I’ll ever have a “career” in the traditional sense. But I’m not chasing titles anymore. I’m chasing alignment. Sustainability. Reciprocity. Joy.

I don’t want to be the sun that never gets to rest. I want to be a candlelit intentionally—glowing gently in the spaces where it feels good to be seen, and safe enough to dim. Because warmth isn’t a job title.
But it might be the most honest part of who I am.