SEXUAL PRESSURE. WOMEN DO IT TOO.

He’s laying on his side. I inch over to him and push my body up against his, hands wandering and groping, as I graze my cheek gently along his back. He doesn’t move, whispering something about having eaten too much at dinner. It’s a line I’ve heard many a time before. Sometimes I push harder, verbally chastising him for not being “normal,” in an attempt to scrape what remains of my ego up from the floor. But, it’s been nine years of rebuttals, and I’ve gradually given up. Tonight, I roll over, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to create closeness from within, and silently weep into my pillow, feeling the cotton beneath saturate with tears, the rest of my face dampening as the moisture spreads. I’ve committed forever to this man, I struggle with how to serve a life sentence devoid of the physical intimacy that sex extends.

But, I chose to marry him, already acutely aware of this deficit. We were “normal” in the beginning, and in my youthful naivety, I told myself things would eventually remedy. He says it’s not me. He says he thinks I’m beautiful, sexy even. Maybe I believed him years ago, but I’ve lost my emotional footing by now. I’m lonely, and I doubt myself. We’ve got other problems, and I wonder if he’s lost interest because of the tension and mounting contempt, or maybe I suck in bed, or maybe his hormones are whacky, or maybe…. I could go on forever.

I pressure him consistently, laying guilt whenever I can, undoubtedly making it worse, but I’m desperate and feel physically abandoned, so I justify it. We’re incredibly affectionate in every other way, always touching, to a point of excess, which only adds to my confusion. I crave affirmation that nothing is wrong with me, more than anything else. It never comes. And, eventually our marriage ends, problems snowballing year after year. I’m left only able to speculate where things went wrong and how much I had to do with the unfolding.

I’m eager, upon our split, to confirm that I’m not unattractive or broken. Friends agree I should go out and “get some” as soon as possible. That’s all I need to hear. A short-lived relationship ensues that serves every purpose it needs to. Purely physical in nature, it lays the foundation for me rediscovering myself as a woman. Maybe I do know what I’m doing? Maybe there isn’t something wrong with me after all? But, I’m still terribly insecure. It wouldn’t take much to reduce me back to the pile of flesh and doubt that I was a mere month before.

I meet my current husband while in this space, feigning confidence via short hipster sundresses, a killer tan, and long, flowy hair. He’s unaware of any self-doubt on my behalf because I’ve mustered up an attitude, born of self-protection, that reflects a woman who gives no fucks. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

He doesn’t fit the mold of “stereotypical guy”, a fact of which I am still unaware. He’s not looking to put out. I’m crushed in every way when he denies my advances to go further, painful emotions reminiscent of my marriage flooding in. I’m that lonely, less-than girl all over again, unloved and unworthy, searching for acceptance the only way I know how. It was never about sex, just a feeble attempt at reclaiming confidence. I can’t let myself go there, the wounds still too raw. My ego steps in to do the dirty work. I admonish him for not being manly. That doesn’t work. I guilt trip him for hurting my feelings. Nope. I try to be as hot as hot can be. Uh-uh. I’m rude, inappropriate, disrespectful, and I don’t take no for an answer, a total asshole. Nuthin. We eventually part ways, and I swear him off. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

But the truth is that I do like him, more than I’m willing to admit. He’s smart. He has values. He knows how to communicate. He knows who he is. He’s interesting. He’s stubborn. And, he can’t be manipulated (by boobs or otherwise). So, a couple weeks later, when he seeks me out (Who even knows why? Maybe it was the killer tan, or maybe (for sure) my hard ass act was completely transparent), I relent from my anger and reconnect with him. He’s decided to lend me the Flight of the Conchords DVD’s that I’d previously been denied, for fear of them never making it back home, an obvious ploy to see me again. His version of this story doesn’t cast me as a total jerk. In fact, he hardly remembers these moments I refer to. My insecurities colored my perceptions into an individual tale, riddled with pain and rejection. Spoiler alert: He put out, but he did it on his own terms, when he was ready. Unbeknownst to me, I required that momentary pause (whether I wanted it or not) to stew in my feelings, to recognize that my value to him, to myself, wasn’t just in what my body could do. Years of being rebuffed had skewed my worth. He was in it for more. Although, we’ve never grappled with sexual issues or disparities in desire, recovering my self-esteem has been a long road, because I came in with lots o’ baggage, but here we are, and I feel very loved. I have a marriage with connection, on all fronts. My trust wasn’t built in a day. It took a lot of demonstration on his behalf, to create safety, and emotional vulnerability on my own. None of it came naturally. It’s a daily choice to be present and naked (emotionally, this time).

I share this because life is tricky, life is grey, love is complicated, ego is a force to be reckoned with, and sexual pressure isn’t exclusive to the male variety. There’s a story behind every heart and every reaction, sometimes even every asshole.

Now, let's read this story with he and she interchanged. I encourage you to take note of your difference in interpretation and shifts in sentiment. The revised version follows.

She’s laying on her side. I inch over to her and push my body up against hers, hands wandering and groping, as I graze my cheek gently along her back. She doesn’t move, whispering something about having eaten too much at dinner. It’s a line I’ve heard many a time before. Sometimes I push harder, verbally chastising her for not being “normal,” in an attempt to scrape what remains of my ego up from the floor. But, it’s been nine years of rebuttals, and I’ve gradually given up. Tonight, I roll over, feeling dejected and alone. I’ve committed forever to this woman, I struggle with how to serve a life sentence devoid of the physical intimacy that sex extends.

But, I chose to marry her, already acutely aware of this deficit. We were “normal” in the beginning, and in my youthful naivety, I told myself things would eventually remedy. She says it’s not me. She says she thinks I’m handsome, sexy even. Maybe I believed her years ago, but I’ve lost my emotional footing by now. I’m lonely, and I doubt myself. We’ve got other problems, and I wonder if she’s lost interest because of the tension and mounting contempt, or maybe I suck in bed, or maybe her hormones are whacky, or maybe…. I could go on forever.

I pressure her consistently, laying guilt whenever I can, undoubtedly making it worse, but I’m desperate and feel physically abandoned, so I justify it. We’re incredibly affectionate in every other way, always touching, to a point of excess, which only adds to my confusion. I crave affirmation that nothing is wrong with me, more than anything else. It never comes. And, eventually our marriage ends, problems snowballing year after year. I’m left only able to speculate where things went wrong and how much I had to do with the unfolding.

I’m eager, upon our split, to confirm that I’m not unattractive or broken. Friends agree I should go out and “get some” as soon as possible. That’s all I need to hear. A short-lived relationship ensues that serves every purpose it needs to. Purely physical in nature, it lays the foundation for me rediscovering myself as a man. Maybe I do know what I’m doing? Maybe there isn’t something wrong with me after all? But, I’m still terribly insecure. It wouldn’t take much to reduce me back to the pile of flesh and doubt that I was a mere month before.

I meet my current wife while in this space, feigning confidence. She’s unaware of any self-doubt on my behalf because I’ve mustered up an attitude, born of self-protection, that reflects a man who gives no fucks. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

She fits the mold of “stereotypical woman”, a fact of which I am still unaware. She’s not looking to put out. I’m crushed in every way when she denies my advances to go further, painful emotions reminiscent of my marriage flooding in. I’m that lonely, less-than man all over again, unloved and unworthy, searching for acceptance the only way I know how. I can’t let myself go there, the wounds still too raw. My ego steps in to do the dirty work. I admonish her for not being sexual. That doesn’t work. I guilt trip her for hurting my feelings. Nope. I try to be as hot as hot can be. Uh-uh. I’m rude, inappropriate, disrespectful, and I don’t take no for an answer, a total asshole. Nuthin. We eventually part ways, and I swear her off. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”

But the truth is that I do like her, more than I’m willing to admit. She’s smart. She has values. She knows how to communicate. She knows who she is. She’s interesting. She’s stubborn. And, she can’t be manipulated. So, a couple weeks later, when she seeks me out (Who even knows why? Maybe (for sure) my hard ass act was completely transparent), I relent from my anger and reconnect with her. She’s decided to lend me the Flight of the Conchords DVD’s that I’d previously been denied, for fear of them never making it back home, an obvious ploy to see me again. Her version of this story doesn’t cast me as a total jerk. In fact, she hardly remembers these moments I refer to. My insecurities colored my perceptions into an individual tale, riddled with pain and rejection. Spoiler alert: She put out, but she did it on her own terms, when she was ready. Unbeknownst to me, I required that momentary pause (whether I wanted it or not) to stew in my feelings, to recognize that my value to her, and hers to me, wasn’t just in what our bodies could do for each other. Years of being rebuffed had skewed my worth. She was in it for more. Although, we’ve never grappled with sexual issues or disparities in desire, recovering my self-esteem has been a long road, because I came in with lots o’ baggage, but here we are, and I feel very loved. I have a marriage with connection, on all fronts. My trust wasn’t built in a day. It took a lot of demonstration on her behalf, to create safety, and emotional vulnerability on my own. None of it came naturally. It’s a daily choice to be present and naked (emotionally, this time).

I share this because life is tricky, life is grey, love is complicated, ego is a force to be reckoned with, and sexual pressure isn’t exclusive to the male variety. There’s a story behind every heart and every reaction, sometimes even every asshole.

-Angi

I WENT TO THE WOMEN'S MARCH. NOW WHAT?

I dragged all three kids to the local Women's March this weekend. As we were driving, passing uterus hats by the dozen and searching for a parking space like it was Christmas time at the mall, I tried to explain why we were there.

The best I could muster was that women deserve equal pay, should be able to do what they’d like to with their bodies and sometimes are the victims of men doing things to them that are unwanted. While articulating this, all I could think was that we inherently deserve these rights, but don't we already have them? Was I missing something?

Is abortion illegal? More difficult in some states, but still our right.

Sexual harassment. That’s not legal.

Equal pay. Well, you gotta ask for it. And it’s pretty likely you’ll get it if you appropriately self-advocate, cus discrimination n’ stuff.

Maybe my own confusion as to what this march truly represented made for a lame conveyance. The conversation was admittedly puny in comparison to our talks about racism, the Nazis, gender, and sexuality. Those topics garner a lot of questions, but this one fell flat. I could tell the kids weren’t impassioned by my spiel, and neither was I. In all honesty, I didn’t feel the pull to show up for myself. My motivation was purely parental in nature. I want my children to be politically aware and empowered, interested in whatever issues are relevant when they come of voting age.

I had to go home and Google what the hell I was marching for, because I thought maybe I'd left something out, but my search query didn't offer up any new cause I was previously in the dark about.

I felt disappointed that, as a woman, I couldn't drum up more enthusiasm, that the intent of the march felt indefinable. None of it seemed actionable and this left me unsure of my place in it. I needed to know, what next? 

The place I've arrived at is that continued progress, on all fronts female, is going to have to be an inside job. The legislation is in our favor, but we've got to utilize it to feel its function. This involves pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps and getting a bit uncomfortable. T-shirts, hats, and signs aside- it’s time to do battle. Laws are in place that will offer a veil of protection for our endeavors.

We aren’t going to get raises if we choose to stay in our cubicles and pray for them while stewing about the inequity. We’ve got to march into the boss’s office, make our well-informed arguments, and demand that shit.

We aren’t going to end sexual harassment by all wearing black dresses to the Golden Globes. What the hell was that anyway? Did someone’s third-grader suggest matching outfits? Impact=zero. Cheese factor=off the charts. Thank God Oprah was there to say some real stuff.

The longstanding silence of women (and men) in Hollywood, who were assaulted (or made aware of it), by Harvey Weinstein, etc. (and quite frankly didn’t need the money- Gwyneth, et al.), didn’t help anyone’s cause. It’s going to take a little more grit if we want our rights to work for us. Like, I dunno, maybe all the multi-millionaires could ditch their black gowns and agree to boycott the film industry until leading women are guaranteed equal pay to leading men? It would last about 12 minutes- problem over.

If we’re going to make an actual impact, we need to pick a thing and cause some disquietude. Risks need to be taken. Civil rights didn’t happen without an upheaval and civil disobedience. Women and disobedience? Don’t get all squirmy on me, cus that’s gonna have to happen. Holding hands, carrying quippy signs, wearing pink, naming names, and singing Kumbaya will only get us so far.

It’s all well and good that we are “making men aware” of our plight (and maybe instilling fear, guilt, and confusion as to what is acceptable?), but we don’t need to be rescued. That disempowers us, robs the movement of its efficacy and fundamental message of equality. Ladies, we’ve got to be our own heroes. Isn’t that what Girl Power is all about? Not needing any Prince Charmings to ride in on white horses and save us? Even if there are a lot of men (and women) who don’t “get it,” does it really matter? We live in an incredibly divisive country where people are on vastly different mental planes at all times. If we all wait for each other to agree before we feel supported enough to act, we’ll die unrequited. It’s up to us to teach men how to treat us, or at the least, get used to the new normal. They aren’t going to do this for us, whether we’ve been socialized to surrender or not, because ultimately, it’s not their battle, and let’s not give it over to them, even if, historically, they had a major hand in causing it. We got this. Feminism.

While recognizing that discussion has to happen and explorations must occur to prevent further bigotry, raise awareness, and give voice to victims, I’m pretty weary of hearing about the whys of it all. I’ve never been much for psychoanalysis or empathy in lieu of action, preferring not to waste too much time on disproportionate excavation and fruitless tears or anger. More of a cognitive behavioral fan, I advocate for changing some shit to get the ball rolling and moving forward. The more we hide behind the whys, waiting for apologies and understanding, changes in everyone but ourselves, the longer we stand victims. So, what now?

-Ask for what you want, again and again. That’s what men do, and it works. Yeah, I know, society has sculpted us into appeasers. How’s that working for us? As a whole, we’re going to have to take some major responsibility here and muster up some big ole’ guts.

-Teach our daughters about sex, relationships, their bodies (which don’t exist solely for male pleasure and objectification) and all of the confusing stuff that comes along with that, through open conversation AND personal demonstration. (Read: Your Daughter's Bedroom by Joyce McFadden). Teach them how to say no, how to ask for what they want, and that our personal power comes from choosing our responses to the shitty things that happen in our lives. Let’s show our girls that anger isn’t enough. It is the oft-born agency that anger breeds which institutes progress. Don't donate your power to your oppressor by embracing paralyzing enmity or fear. Keep moving, be better. If someone tries to pull rank on you at work, take a stand, file the complaint. Quit the job, be broke, keep your dignity. Fight. Not for the faint of heart, I know, but if enough of us do it…..

And if enough of us don’t, then nothing changes, even if we keep wearing our uterus hats.

-As a privileged, white, educated, American (I can't even scratch the surface of the injustices occurring to women outside of our country) female, I am better off than many of my sisters. The responsibility, therefore, falls upon me and those in a similar position, to stand even taller when given the opportunity, because there are many among us that cannot afford to do battle. They are hanging on by a thread, and we can ask no more of them. For those women, we fight.

Your day in the sun may never present itself (we're fortunate to have had many courageous predecessors do the dirty work). You don’t even have to go out in search of it. Just be ready. If we’re all prepared to rally ourselves or our friends and daughters, change will come.

-Let’s march for improved maternity coverage and subsidized child care. Then we can be better mothers with less worry. We can reduce our work hours and spend more time parenting our future voters. Many of us won’t need to get those abortions we’ve had to fight so hard for the right to. How many days do you think we’d have to strike to pull that off? According to the Department of Labor, we account for 47% of the workforce. Even if just the people who marched on Saturday, nationwide, went on strike, the impact would be so grand as to be almost inconceivable. It would send a message to government officials pretty quick.

-Acknowledge our differences from men. We aren’t biological equals. We make babies and require time off from work to do so. That may result in climbing the corporate ladder at a slower rate. That may also result in some hard choices about whether to continue doggedly pursuing career aspirations or to reel it in for the sake of quality parenting. This is a fact inherent to being a woman, and it’s not going to change. Men will always be at an advantage on that front, unless we choose to be childless, or Dad stays home. But, we do have the choice, and cheers to that!

-Recognize that we can’t end rape or domestic abuse. The curse of our smaller stature will always leave us preyed upon. We cannot stop it any more than I can keep my 8-year-old from wrestling my 5-year-old to the ground to confiscate the LEGO that probably wasn’t rightfully his. Walking alone at night will never stop being scary.

-Keep marching. Teach our daughters that women are proud and worthy and can yell just as loud as men. That we can gather en masse, creating an inspiring energy, but remind them that is only the beginning of change. We must carry that inspiration with us and use it when needed to plead our case, to take what’s due to us. My tirade isn’t about whether or not these problems exist. They’re undeniable. This is about self-empowerment and the courage to elicit real change. It’s about breaking from stereotypical female responses to find our inner heroines if and when the opportunities present themselves.

It may feel like my sentiment lacks compassion, but I submit that the greatest gift one can give to self and others is belief in the capacity to move forward.

Commentary and disagreement are welcome. This is a personal subject as much as it’s a national issue. School me- discussion grows us. Unrest from recent events has opened up this rich dialogue, and I have absolute deference to that process and the unfolding thereof. I hope the ephemeral nature of humanity doesn’t fan the flames too quickly.

-Angi

Included below is the inspiring biography of Jo Ann Robinson, a real-life heroine who changed the face of civil rights with one courageous, uncomfortable decision.

Jo Ann Robinson
Rebecca Woodham, Wallace Community College, Dothan
Although not as well-known as Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King, Jr., Jo Ann Robinson (1912-1992) was perhaps the individual most instrumental in planning and publicizing the 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott, proposing the idea more than a year before it was implemented. Robinson was also active in the Montgomery Improvement Association and the Women's Political Council and was an English professor at Alabama State College (ASC, now Alabama State University).

Jo Ann Robinson
Jo Ann Gibson was born on April 17, 1912, in Culloden, Georgia, the youngest of 12 children of Owen Boston Gibson and Dollie Webb Gibson. Unusually well-educated at a time when educational opportunities for African American women were limited, Gibson was valedictorian of her high school graduating class and became the first person in her family to graduate from college, earning a bachelor's degree from Fort Valley State College (now Fort Valley State University) in Fort Valley, Georgia. Robinson then took a teaching position in Macon, Georgia. While there, she was married for a short time to Wilbur Robinson and had one child who died in infancy, prompting her to end the marriage. After teaching for five years in the Macon public school system, Robinson earned a master's degree in English from Atlanta University (now Clark-Atlanta University) and later completed a year of doctoral study in English at Columbia University in New York City. In 1949, Robinson accepted a teaching position in the English Department at Alabama State College and moved to Montgomery, where she joined Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, later pastored by Martin Luther King Jr. At ASC, Robinson befriended professor Mary Fair Burks, who had founded the Women's Political Council (WPC) in 1946 to inspire African American women to become more politically active.
Robinson's awakening to the realities of racial segregation occurred in 1949, at the end of her first semester at ASC. Preparing to leave Montgomery for Christmas vacation, Robinson boarded a city bus carrying only two other passengers and sat in a section reserved for whites. Lost in thought, Robinson was startled to find that the driver had stopped the bus and was standing over her, yelling at her to get up from her seat. She left the bus in tears. Robinson had shown little interest in the WPC prior to her ill-treatment on the bus. When she returned to Montgomery and discussed the event with other WPC members, however, she was shocked to find that they considered the incident unremarkable and commonplace in segregated Montgomery. In response, Robinson resolved to improve the treatment of African Americans in Montgomery. She met with attorney Fred Gray, who was also eager to challenge the city's segregated bus system. As she came to know Gray and his wife, Bernice, Robinson began to think more about ending segregation in Montgomery. Robinson became president of the WPC in 1950 and began urging women of the organization into more activist roles.
In the early 1950s, Robinson and other members of the WPC met with Montgomery mayor William A. Gayle and several of his staff. The WPC members found the mayor and his staff responsive to their request for dialogue on various issues affecting African Americans in Montgomery until the subject of integrating the buses arose. Robinson and others wanted drivers to be more courteous, to stop more frequently in black neighborhoods, to allow blacks to pay and board the bus at the front, and to reserve more seats for black patrons. With little cooperation from the mayor's office, and few African Americans able to vote in the city, Robinson came to envision a boycott by the city's many African Americans, which would severely affect the bus company's finances and perhaps prompt integration.
After Rosa Parks was arrested on December 1, 1955, Robinson and others saw their opportunity to take action. She authored the text of a flyer calling for African Americans to boycott city buses, and she and friend John Cannon, who was chair of the Business Department at ASC, in addition to two of her students, mimeographed thousands of flyers calling for a one-day boycott to start the following Monday, December 5, and distributed them throughout the city.
The success of the boycott convinced local civil rights leaders that it should continue until conditions improved, and that evening local civil rights leaders formed the Montgomery Improvement Association (MIA) to oversee the boycott, with Martin Luther King serving as its president. Robinson did not take an official position in the MIA for fear that doing so would endanger her job. She was, however, appointed to the executive board and, at the behest of King, wrote and edited the weekly MIA newsletter. She also participated in the carpool system that made the boycott possible.
Despite Robinson's efforts to maintain a discreet role in the boycott and the MIA, she was arrested as one of the boycott's leaders (but never stood trial) and targeted with violence. In early 1956, a police officer threw a rock through her window, and shortly afterward, acid was poured on her car. In the late 1950s, Robinson and other instructors at ASC who were rumored to have participated in the boycott were reportedly investigated by a special state committee, and state evaluators routinely attended classes and observed instructors to intimidate faculty. In 1960, when ASC students staged a sit-in at a segregated snack bar downtown, Robinson resigned her position rather than face the continued tensions at the institution, later accepting a position at Grambling College (now Grambling State University) in Grambling, Louisiana. After teaching there for a year, she moved to Los Angeles and worked in the public school system until her retirement in 1976. In 1987, Robinson's memoir, The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It, was published by the University of Tennessee Press. She remained actively involved in her community and in local politics until her death on August 29, 1992.

Additional Resources

Robinson, Jo Ann Gibson. The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It: The Memoir of Jo Ann Gibson Robinson. Knoxville, Tenn.: University of Tennessee Press, 1987.
Walker, Robert J. Let My People Go! Lanham, Md.: Hamilton Books, 2007.
Williams, Donnie, and Wayne Greenhaw. The Thunder of Angels: The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the People Who Broke the Back of Jim Crow. Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books, 2006.

COMPARISON AS A THIEF OF JOY? MAYBE NOT.

Through my back legs, I can see her, one knee balancing effortlessly on her elbow, ponytail gracefully suspended in space, legs extended mid-air, like scissors ready to slice through the atmosphere. Lithe muscles flexing, her perfectly executed side crow demonstrates dedication and likely, years of practice. A drop of sweat hits my mat as I take a deep inhalation.

On my fifth day of hot power yoga, there are moves that I can’t maneuver and moments when I feel like a poser amidst these bendy yogis. As I try to balance my knees upon my elbows, my toes awkwardly touch the mat at irregular intervals, arms gently shaking. Even the elderly woman next to me is firmly rooted in her crow. I wonder how many people notice my misplaced feet and wobbly posture. Maybe I felt a touch of pretension when I unrolled my Target yoga mat, adorned with small chunks pecked away by tiny fingernails... glances in my direction and then quickly off into space.

Shooing away the insecurity with my next exhalation, I remind myself that they once were me and take note of how blessed I am to be here. In spite of a decade-long desire to start a true yoga practice (that wasn’t the result of a YouTube query) the stars had never aligned for me until now, and it was instant addiction on day one.

Instead of shrinking beneath the talent in the room, I find myself inspired. I want that for myself, and with each glance around, I feel empowered to push a little harder.

We’re told not to compare ourselves to others, not to want what others have, but I’m calling bullshit on that notion. There’s a time and a place.

Without comparison, how do we know how much further we can go? When a friend mentions an accomplishment, I’m reminded of my own capacity. When I watch a mother with her children, I take mental notes, using them to improve my own parenting. If handled appropriately, comparison can serve as motivation towards self-improvement. Most feats of greatness are considered unachievable until they’re achieved, and then many follow in their footsteps, pushing the bar further still.

Stagnation is the byproduct of never letting your eye wander to the girl next to you, of not trying the new healthy eating routine your friend feels like a million bucks on, of not attempting that book you always dreamed of writing.

The line gets drawn in the sand when your self-worth is hinged upon how you’re perceived by others. Make sure it’s progress that you want for yourself, not of the variety that keeps you in the loop with the cool kids.

Don’t be deterred or deflated by what you can or can’t pull off. The goal isn't to beat yourself up, but to use comparative inspiration to propel you forward. Try and try again. Tell yourself you can do it, and if you can’t right now, know yourself well enough to call it a day. Sometimes our plates are just plain full. You’re good enough exactly as you are in this moment, worthy of all the Love the world has to offer.

Having said that, part of Self-Love comes with pushing forward, getting a little uncomfortable, having enough confidence to challenge yourself, to believe in what you’re capable of, and being willing to give it an effort. Look fear square in the eye and then push past it, because you know how damn great you’ll feel when you do.

Growth is one of the most loving things we can do for ourselves.

So, I look over to her again, as she rounds the class out with a headstand, feet to the sky, shoulders harnessing massive amounts of energy, while the rest of us roll up our mats. True to the spirit of Namaste, I see my future self in her, heart already swollen with pride.

-Angi

HI, MY NAME IS ANGI, AND I'M ADDICTED TO MY CELL PHONE.

I slowly sink down into the tub with an audible sigh, the warmth tucking me in. Slithering forward until the back of my head is submerged, the sounds become muffled as water surrounds my ears, the buzzing forcibly muting thoughts of anything else, sucking me into the moment at hand. I rest there for a minute, taking slow, cognizant breaths, eyeing the ceiling, noticing details I previously had not, like the peace that silence extends and, of course, things that need cleaning.

A few times per week, I take baths. Quiet, warm, and cozy, they’re my winter indulgence. Typically, I grab a book, a bathrobe… and my phone. The intention is always to read, but often I don’t make it there, planning to quickly check email. Mindlessly and with inevitability, my fingers walk from Google to Facebook to Instagram … And then 20 minutes have passed as quickly as they came, my body too warm to stand another second, face damp with sweat, I emerge having squandered my bit of reprieve and solitude.

But what is it, the payoff? To disconnect from life? Responsibility? Or the alternative- connection and the search for stimulation? In all likelihood, a bit of both.

On days when things are rewarding, the phone doesn’t receive a second thought, banished to the darkness of the nightstand drawer for hours on end. Those moments, when my entire family is home and together, brimming with interaction and activity, it acts as an enemy, overwhelming me, reminiscent of a heavy rock strapped to my back. Even a text message can feel like an assault.

Other days, it’s akin to a best friend, offering comfort and distraction amidst the predictability of weekday chores and schedules, a lifeline instead of a burden. 

How can this dichotomy exist, and with such emotional polarity?

The missing link appears to be purpose. But, the to-do list of motherhood IS purposeful. Laundry, cleaning, cooking- all purpose laden because they involve an enormous role that we’ve taken on. We can’t omit them from our weeks. They are part of parenting, but so is going to the park with your husband and children and climbing the treehouse together, or confiscating your five-year old’s scooter to ride as fast as you can downhill.

The difference is that those things are fun, they’re fulfilling. My heart literally feels full after moments of that kind, a balloon slowly inflating, and my chest stays swollen for hours beyond.

Laundry, not so much.

But, we can’t run off all the time in search of satisfying interactions with friends and family. The purposeful drudgery has to happen, to remind us of how sweet the alternative is, and so your son can get back into his favorite sweatpants after you do it, his face lighting up and inflating your balloon of a heart a lil', on a Tuesday morning.

It’s okay to sometimes lose yourself in the phone. The folded underwear and rumpled shirts in front of you won’t mind. Inspiration and information abound on social media, even if a lot of sifting is required to get there. Embrace the connection that can be found as you sit on a to-do list that isn’t nearly as fun as riding fast down a hill or racing your son and losing fair and square with a belly laugh. 

But, on this to-do list day in the tub, my phone was at 1%, so I set it aside and noticed my senses, experienced being unstimulated, and got my hair wet. These moments, alone and silent, shouldn’t be stolen by mindless social media surfing. There's a discomfort with idleness that we've all come to feel because stimulation is consistently at our fingertips in a plethora of forms. Birthing, allowing, and nurturing occasions of nothingness can help center us and rebalance that habitual restlessness. Instead of finishing the bath sweaty and heavy, I felt dewy, light, and uplifted; ready to conquer the list, to answer the calls of the crock pot below, to be present with my daughter and the boys, after they returned from school.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s not about good or bad, yes or no. This isn’t a black and white issue. Sometimes we need that connection, even if it’s vaguely false in its cyber nature. But, it’s important to protect the moments that we can fill up without it, guard them with our heart balloons so that we can be walking on high as often as life permits.

-Angi

*Tips for helping with phone addiction:

-Turn your phone to grayscale. Pictures aren’t nearly as interesting in black and white. Just press the home key 3 times to switch back and forth.

-Move your apps that prove to be the greatest offenders around, so your fingers can’t mindlessly wander to them.

-Commit to keeping the phone in a drawer for the first 20 minutes upon waking. Starting off on the right foot can set the tone for the rest of your day. Of course, this requires nixing it as an alarm clock.

-Make certain rooms tech-free, like the bathroom. (You might have to think in there. Gasp!)

-Give yourself 10 minutes with it at night, and then agree to tune into your spouse instead.

-Never while eating, and please, never with friends.

I AM NOT YOUR GURU- Sometimes when you let go, the people around you grow the most.

When I met my husband, I was well read in the virtues of new age spirituality and quick to run my mouth off about it. Alas, the walk didn’t match the talk. I’d done little to actually integrate anything I’d learned.

In my defense, reading had brought me to a point of understanding my beliefs about the afterlife and not left me with much in the way of how to live the one I was still in. It was like knowing my ABC’s but not yet how to read. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to see that part in the books. Having recently come out of a failed marriage, personal progress was less of a concern than survival. If your energies are tied up in an emotional battleground, whether with yourself or another, stagnation is a typical byproduct. Even though I was out of that situation and in something healthier, I was still finding my footing, regaining my confidence.

Sean, my now husband, found all of my spiritual mumbo-jumbo to be just that. He wasn’t interested, having chosen Christianity of his own accord in high school, and practicing with friends for a few years. There was skepticism about religion as “big business” and blind obedience to socially ancient political agendas. I saw that willingness to question established dogma as a crack in the foundation that I could weasel into.

I used my newness with him to push my perspective, dropping books in his lap left and right. Out of kindness and respect for me and our still novel relationship, he kinda read some of them.

It should come as no surprise that he found them to be absolute bullshit. He wasn’t looking for anything. They weren’t calling to him like beacons in the night, the way they had to me. He’d come with his own vision for spirituality, but I’m an infamous know-it-all, relentless to a fault, so I kept pushing. Cue the annoying girl at the party, forcing drinks down everyone’s throats, “making” them have a good time. You know my type, you’ve met a few of me before, probably nursed hangovers because of the me’s in the world.

I’m going to fast forward six years, because it was all more of the same, but with a slow and subtle decline in pushiness. Three children later, a lack of time had robbed me of my ability to care very much about other people’s life choices, a brilliant and much-needed thievery.

The afterlife part was concreted for me, it was nothing I needed to hash out and didn't receive much attention anymore, being of little bearing on my todays and tomorrows. The reading continued, but with emphasis on how to live in a fulfilling manner while owning my own shit. Self-help books instead of Sylvia Brown books riddled with countless trips to psychics, trying to wrangle information from them that could dismiss me of personal responsibility for the outcome of my life. I never did end up with those two sets of twins promised by the chain-smoking, botched plastic surgery faced Gerry.

But that husband of mine, I still couldn’t get him to agree with me, dammit, in spite of all my reading aloud from Earth-shattering books (poor Sean). There were fights, lots of them. He was slightly broken down. He didn’t really subscribe to his previous beliefs, but he wasn’t buying in to mine either. Full disclosure- he’s stubborn, and I’m pushy. This can be difficult, on an array of fronts. (I will not ever try to buy him clothes again.)

And then I just gave up.

I decided to quietly believe my shit and leave him alone. In fact, I decided to do that with everyone (except in my book club on spirituality, cuz that was a proper venue).

I don’t know if his beacon was calling to him or if me shutting up made space for him to see it, but something incredible happened. He started to believe. All by himself.

He didn’t read any of my books. He bought his own, decidedly more pragmatic in nature, but at their core, the same damn business. They weren’t about the afterlife. That’s of zero interest to him. Nothing too “woo woo,” but all in the same vein as my core beliefs: You are but the product of your thoughts and because of that, you have control over your responses and can manifest greatness and abundance or their opposites (in a teeny tiny nutshell). He even started eating healthy and waking up early. Gasp. Wtf. It’s 5:30 am and Sean is currently downstairs meditating, doing yoga, and gratitude journaling, while drinking Bulletproof coffee. Seriously, wtf.

I’m not pulling any “told you so’s.” I’m just giddy about it, in awe of the coalition that has arisen from this coming together, the strength that we possess as a unit, now rooted in personal power and responsibility. I respect that he’s come at it from a completely different angle than me, for his own purposes, to fulfill his own desires, and answer his own questions. I’m growing leaps and bounds through our mutual points of view of varying origins, through enlightening, empowering dialogues, and cohesive desires.

But, I needed to give him the space to get there. There being wherever he needed to be. I shouldn't have had expectations, or projected my "right." Constant chirping didn’t sway him. The ideology may have cracked the door a little, or slightly opened his mind to unconventional credos, but ultimately, this seems to be where he was always meant to land, with or without me. 

Having witnessed this process within my own marriage, friend and family relationships, and studying the art of allowing people to just do them, something that doesn’t come naturally for me (I know I’m such a weirdo… the why’s of that are a whole other blog), I’m slowly learning that everyone gets wherever they need to be eventually, whether in this life or the next, emphasis on slowlyyyyy- it’s that difficult for me to de-invest from other people’s lives. I’ll never stop sharing information because you can lead a horse to water… it’s the make them drink part that I’m working on.

In life and at parties, no more pouring drinks down anyone’s throats. Just some clinking of glasses over the beauty of our differences.

It feels good, not shouldering the weight of other’s choices, a self-imposed burden I was never meant to bear.

-Angi