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Category: Real Stories

Consent Is Best: Let’s stop shaming mothers into breastfeeding

Consent Is Best: Let’s stop shaming mothers into breastfeeding

by Jacinta Nandi I never thought about breastfeeding until I did it myself. Until I failed at it myself, I suppose I should say. Twenty-four years old, I was a young mother with a tiny scrawny baby at my breast, screaming himself purple. Nurses who wanted to help but were also getting impatient were grabbing at my nipples, scrunching them up into triangles, brutally stuffing them into his mouth. He didn’t suck, he just screamed and screamed and screamed and…

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Our Devices, Ourselves

Our Devices, Ourselves

by Andrea Crowley-Hughes The day I went to get my MacBook, the commuter train that connects Newark, New Jersey to lower Manhattan was packed and slow. Although it was only the beginning of spring, I remember the overwhelming heat, exhaustion and lightheadedness that caused me to crouch on the floor when no seats were available. A woman who looked to be in her late 20s or 30s—about my age—was being helped by paramedics when we got to 14th Street because…

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These Doc Martens Have Been Trouble From the Start

These Doc Martens Have Been Trouble From the Start

By Lauren Hudgins Bringing my Doc Martens was the worst decision I made while packing for Japan. In Japan it’s customary to take off your shoes when you enter somebody’s home, along with some other indoor spaces. I went to see a dermatologist and was required to remove my boots as I went into the building. The first thing I saw when I entered my new, tiny metal box of an apartment was a red paper sign on the floor,…

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The Eyes of Faith

The Eyes of Faith

by Amy Barnes I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see “Amazing Grace” I didn’t want to fail my mom again. Or fail the pastor. I pushed down harder on my eyelids. I had already failed at speaking in tongues. I needed to see the red healing light with my eyes closed. The hymn playing in the background was Amazing Grace. And yet, I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see red. Or light. Or a…

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Life begins at 50, and age doesn’t define me

Life begins at 50, and age doesn’t define me

by Gretchen Hanson I have always hated my birthday. Not just hated, loathed, with a deep visceral anathema that is far more complicated than sheer vanity. And before you even ask, no, it is not obscenely old and I don’t look too much off what you would probably guess if you were being kind. I don’t hail from an age where a lady never said how old she was, or only appeared in the paper three times in her life….

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