One of my earliest memories was watching my mom get ready. She was always beautiful, but somehow she was more beautiful when viewed from the edge of her bathtub, with my legs hanging off of it, using a towel as a cushion as I watched her do the frenzied art of womanhood.
Womanhood for me at that time happened a few times a month when my mom and dad would go out for date nights. I remember all of it; the sound of her heels clicking up and down the hall, the soft pockets of musky perfume that hung in the air behind her, but the best part was her vanity. It was messy in a way I still associate with womanhood, with small tangles of jewelry, soft brown dusty eyeshadows, and loose cotton balls. She had silver tubes of Mary Kay lipsticks that came with their own beaded cases, one had a little mirror on the side and I thought it was the most glamorous thing I had ever seen.
I couldn’t wait for womanhood then, I was tired of my everlasting girlhood, its simplicity. I longed for the production of womanhood, the drama, and the beauty of my mother on a Saturday. I begged for a grown-up purse, something I could one day perpetually clutter and re-organize like my mother. I was tired of playing pretend in princess dresses, I wanted heels without plastic soles to fit me.
I’m not sure when it is that we suddenly become women. On my worst days, I think we don’t graduate from girlhood like I once dreamed, but instead, it is ended for us by heartbreak.
Who knows what the first one even is: wearing a bikini like you always do but it suddenly feels different, your body becoming this sort of weapon used against you for the first time, the dread of slipping a woman’s body around your shoulders too early, when you have to start proving yourself, when you sort of know that you’ve never actually been taken seriously. And it continues, in small and big ways: learning what feminism is when you’re fifteen, realizing not everyone is one when you’re sixteen, getting called a bitch and realizing that no matter what it will always hurt, someone you love becoming one in four. Realizing that the women around you are all hurt in their own ways, and you can’t do anything about it, not really.
It’s this line you walk that you don’t know you’ll walk when you’re watching from the tub.
And you wish it were that easy again, that you could go back and unmake that deal. That you could watch womanhood before you knew it was a performance of self-preservation, before you knew it was a performance at all. Before, when the most dangerous thing was worrying your mom would poke her eye out with her eyeliner. When you used to actually dream of shaving your legs before you realized it was a pain you’d have to put up with for the rest of your life.
But somehow, within all that pain, I find that womanhood is also little small loves. The very same love that kept me rooted to my spot when I watched my mom. I still only put eyeliner on half my top lid because that’s how she did it. I still tap in Glossier cloud paint with my pointer and middle finger because that’s how I watched my friend Caroline do it when we were eighteen, two fingers tapped to her cheeks. I can picture it, us, scared to start college, pretending to know more than we did. When my friends visit we still bring all our makeup into one room to get ready together, trying to crowd all our faces into one mirror, asking who knows how to do hair, who has a Dyson Airwrap. I still call my friend Bryana every time I get a zit, and we are suddenly sixteen again, smearing homemade remedies on our faces and trying not to be overdramatic (impossible). My friend Brenna always offers me a spritz of whatever perfume she has and I will always say yes, even if I’m already wearing perfume, even if it clashes, just so we can smell the same. So we can share even that.
Every day when I get ready, the women I know, the women who have made me, whisper their tips, their tricks into my ear. I blot my lips the way the internet showed me, I wear my grandmother’s face and my mom’s old eyebrows before she over-plucked them, and spray hairspray on my brush because a girl I went to a sleepover with when I was thirteen told me it was a tip for flyaways.
Just that little bit of love, given freely and kept for nearly half my lifetime.
I do what all women must do: I ignore the heartbreaks. I ignore the cliche curse of womanhood. I resent that I have to be my own wet blanket. I resent that I sound like a broken record, patriarchy this, oppression that, rights this, bodily autonomy that. I worry that things will never change while I pluck out stubborn chin hairs, I worry that being a woman is impossible. I worry that it will always hurt.
And like all the women before me and the women who will come after me, women who fill their purses with receipts and melted chapstick and so many maybe-just-in-case-cases of miscellaneous crap, who put their womanhood on through tears, with shaky hands, and sometimes, with hearts full of love and hope. Women who wear their womanhood like a loaned sweater, worn in at the elbows, patched a thousand times over.
This issue is that, whatever it is, represented by the contents of our purses, the contents of our minds, the thousands of heartbreaks, and millions of loaned pieces of love that come together to make womanhood, womanhood. To all the little versions of ourselves still staring from the bathtub, still dreaming of a life where womanhood is beautiful, exciting, and as lovely as the woman staring back at us through the mirror.
— Rachel Loring
CONTRIBUTORS & CONTENTS
Macy Kissel
Chesney Jensen
Alissa Donovan
Alex O’Brien
Kiley Parrish
Rachel Williams
Rachel Loring
Chase Clough
Catherine Trouillot
Brenna McWha
Alissa Donovan
Rachel Loring
Danny Diaz
Rachel Williams
Danny Diaz
Macy Kissel
Hallie Cain
Rachel Loring
Olivia deMontmorency
Macy Kissel
Brenna McWha
Macy Kissel
Rachel Williams
Pieces of Advice From Real Women
I Am The Women That I Love
In Honor of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Return
Flying Over the Alewife Drain
Oh How I Love Being A Woman
Dancing Gave Me All Three Eating Disorders
Menstruation Media
How To Be A Well-Read Feminist
Floridian Girl Romanticizes Winter in New York
My Life Designed By Women
A Fashion-Designer-Turned-Lawyer’s Guide to Corporate Style
SHITS & GIGGLES
Pitch Meeting: Products for the Modern Woman
POETRY
“Lessons From My Grandmother”
“I’m A New Woman”
“Frustrations In The Romance Section”
“My Hair”
“My Favorite Ways to Say, “I Love You,” to My Favorite Women”
THE PUBLIC SQUARE
Sabrina Carpenter, Sex, and Politics, Oh My!
Twelve Hours at an Abortion Provider
MUSIC
“Ya Poor Little Fool!”
“Favorite Female Musicians”
PUZZLES & GAMES
Name A Woman! Wordsearch
COVER
Fish Girl Portrait, Oil Pastel 12x16
Executive Editors Macy Kissel and Rachel Loring
Enjoy the journey.
The days feel long, but the years are short.
Tara, 52
To my gorgeous gorgeous girls- it all fades. The trends, those days that it feels like it couldn’t get any worse, the worst case scenario you’ve obsessed over that never comes, or maybe it does, and you handle it anyway. What you have is you- your light, your passion, your excitement, your soul, your joy. Coming back to you at the end of the day should feel like home, a soft space to land and a warm place to welcome all. Be gentle with yourself, be kind, explore, say yes to the adventure, and no to the self doubt. Start there, and the rest will always figure itself out.
Delaney, 26
Time with yourself is the most important part of healing the soul. Let yourself play, learn a new skill, eat a whole cake— there’s a little girl inside of you who wants to be your friend.
Olivia, 24
I found that if you love life, life loves you back. April, 56
You don’t have to drink to be social. Nobody woke up from a night out of drinking and thought “I was the best version of myself last night.”
Macy, 24
Nothing that’s meant for you will pass you and if you don’t feel good, put on some sneakers and walk until you feel better. Rachel, 25
Everyone has their own sparkle. It is unique, original. Don’t let anyone dim your sparkle! Be original, be you , and shine bright! Davida, 52
PIECES OF ADVICE FROM REAL WOMEN
There are infinite ways to fill your cup and 99% of them can be found in a hang with your friends. Hallie, 28
Live for you, love will come, no rush! Carin, 54
The only way to be happy is to stop trying to change the person you are and instead accept your whole self. Let go of the urge to feel responsible for yourself, and acknowledge that you are merely earth through which a river flows to form canyons; your environment shapes you in many ways. Utilize this knowledge going forward. You cannot change the person you are, only what you allow to shape you.
Melanie, 25
Try to go for a walk every day. Bonus points if it’s with some friends or family. I walk every day (I have dogs) and I feel like it’s a great way to connect with others and clear my head.
Isabella, 25
You’re worthy of amazing friends, sometimes it just takes a while to find.
Saviana, 25
Every day is a special occasion, and the answer is always no until you ask.
Chesney, 25
Nothing good happens after two a.m. Raquel, 57
You will never be this young and beautiful again--enjoy it and take lots of pictures! And moisturizer and sunscreen are your best friend. Christiane, 59
We are on a floating rock. Stop overthinking and let it be.
Olivia, 24
Be loud and unafraid of being criticized. Learning to take this advice- but it feels way better to speak your truth than to make yourself small to please others. Also, NEVER CHANGE for a man. They’ve been allowed to act without regard for others for FAR TOO LONG. Do the same to them. Also also, be unapologetically pretty. Being a girl is so much fun. Sophia, 24
I recommend focusing on continually improving your communication skills in your personal and professional relationships-actively listening more than speaking, and being direct and clearly expressing your boundaries, while remaining empathetic and compassionate. This includes not worrying about what others think, instead of being genuine. Paula, 59
Trust your intuition and listen to your gut. And lean on the women around you! Brenna, 25
If not, my simple answer is don’t keep a compliment to yourself, specifically with other women. It will make someone’s day in a second and you’ll instantly feel better too. Far too often we avoid talking to people, we hid in our phones, we dissociate. We need to stay present, grounded and spread a little positivity when we can.
Sarah, 29
SABRINA CARPENTER, SEX, AND POLITICS,
by Rachel Loring
Iwas at dinner with two of my best friends from high school back in December. One of the things I love most about when we get together is how deeply we can analyze (one might say overanalyze) and discuss. It’s how we bonded in high school: they were the first people I really started talking to about feminism with, the first people with whom I felt comfortable saying, but maybe it is that deep. The curtains were never just blue to them, and anything could be linked back to patriarchy, exploitation, and larger themes and ideas. I’m not saying we’re some kind of holier-than-thou group of philosophers, nor were we hitting on especially revolutionary ideas, but I always felt like they understood my desire to examine, critique, and explore. Which is why on that December dinner date, I asked them their thoughts on Sabrina Carpenter.
Over the last year, Sabrina Carpenter’s rise to fame has interested me while simultaneously making me uncomfortable in a way I’ve had trouble fully articulating without worrying that I just sound like a bitter prude or even worse, your friend that’s too woke. It wasn’t just the borderline Lolita aesthetic of it all (I’m a Lana girl), it wasn’t just the sexualization and innuendos of it all (I watch Drag Race), and it wasn’t even the infantilization of it all (I too thrift lingerie to wear as dresses). It was something bigger, something that when taken all together seemed insidious and representative of larger issues for women.
OH MY!
Now to be clear, I in no way am saying any of this about Sabrina Carpenter the person, in fact, I like Sabrina Carpenter the person; she seems very chill and she’s extremely talented. However, when we talk about celebrities, we tend to forget that a large part of their persona is artificial and purposefully curated (Swifties who fight with me I’m looking at you). Sabrina Carpenter the person is not Sabrina Carpenter the celebrity, and the things Sabrina Carpenter the celebrity does are symptomatic of larger issues she has not created nor could she ever really change. She is just the vessel through which I want to examine and look at the regressive sexual politics I have seen leading into 2025.
Now, I know what you’re about to say: but Rachel, Sabrina Carpenter LOVES sex, isn’t that inherently progressive? And to that I say, not exactly. It’s complicated.
The way Sabrina’s branded persona talks about sex is with a coyness and flippancy that I think actually negates a lot of the good of sexual liberation. Sexual liberation is more than just…making dick jokes. Something about her brand of humor feels like when middle school boys make corny innuendos and the girls laugh along despite the jokes being at their own expense. The jokes assume that sexual power from women comes exclusively from men. How big a man’s penis is, how much you love said penis, how “good” you are at sex, how hot you are on your
knees, it’s comical but somehow still feels…degrading and limiting?
And this has only continued, for as much as fans will claim Sabrina’s brand is for the female gaze, none of it really focuses on real female pleasure. It’s the glossy, flexible, hairless brand of female sexuality you’d see in a barely legal porn. It would make fun of me at a sleepover for having pubes, it would shave daily. It’s a sexuality that feels regressive because of its immaturity and inability to interact with sexuality in any real, meaningful way. But, I really can’t blame her for it, escaping the male gaze is near impossible.
There is always a man watching, even in your own head like Margaret Atwood said. And, just to be clear, not all femininity has to be feminist, nor does it really even have to be for the female gaze. Sometimes sexuality is regressive, sometimes male attention is the goal, sometimes women do things that aren’t feminist, and sometimes that is fine. We exist in patriarchy and it pollutes and bleeds. However, the way we have decided that we must moralize Sabrina Carpenter’s gimmicks as feminism is concerning. The ways we have decided that her wearing exclusively babydoll-esque lingerie, recreating scenes from Lolita in photoshoots, making a huge deal out of being small and childlike (let’s not forget the infamous nina/ casita outro), and harkening back to 1950’s trad wife aesthetic can and does exist outside the context of those acts and the implications of them is choice feminism at its finest and intellectually dishonest. Unfortunately, we don’t exist in a reality in which women are free from the confines of the male gaze, and without acknowledging that, aren’t we catering to it? Female sexuality does not exist in a vacuum, it’s tied very deeply to misogyny, violence, objectification, and fetishization.
And I hate that as much as you do.
A wise woman once said: you exist in the context. So when I look at Sabrina Carpenter’s tour, her teenage-like coyness about sex, her heteronormative, male-centered sex positions on stage, the constant sexualization of EVERYTHING she does, the cool girl monologue of it all (she’s a cool girl, she LOVES blowjobs), her song about wanting to get impregnated Juno style, it feels somehow wrong at a time where reproductive rights are getting smaller and smaller and misogyny is on the rise. You are always in conversation with all that came before you and all that is happening now. There’s something ominous to me about seeing a stadium of women singing along to Juno when sex is only getting more dangerous for women, when forced pregnancy is becoming a very real reality. It feels tone-deaf when lawmakers are actively proposing national abortion bans. Getting “Juno’d” could be a death sentence soon. And that feels
weird to champion as sexy, especially without any sort of acknowledgment of that reality, especially when simultaneously referencing aesthetics from a pre-Roe time. And not that she’s necessarily obligated to, but when has Sabrina Carpenter or her brand ever mentioned reproductive health? When has she ever mentioned crucial parts of sex like consent and boundaries and safety? Isn’t that an important part of being sexually liberated? Isn’t being a sexual woman inherently not a-political? This is something her contemporaries are doing; Olivia Rodrigo gave out free contraceptives and donated tour revenue to reproductive rights organizations.
I guess it’s all to say that female sexuality has always been a touchy subject, more than that it’s complicated, interwoven, and never the fault of one woman. Being sexual and being a woman is nearly impossible, and I do think our acceptance of Sabrina Carpenter shows a level of sex positivity that
is good. But, somehow, I feel like Sabrina’s brand is slipping into being regressive and counterintuitive to whatever point she is trying to make. In a time where sexuality is being weaponized against women in an insidious way, it’s strange to see this new stage of self-objectification, and I’m not entirely sure it’s progressive or empowering. I also worry about my own biases, am I libbing out too hard? Have I become a Portlandia skit in my efforts to understand my trepidation about Sabrina Carpenter? Put simply: am I the drama? Maybe, but when I think about what Sabrina Carpenter is selling in today’s sexual landscape, unlike the icons before her, it’s not revolutionary, it’s not gritty, or real, it’s not risking anything and it’s not provoking anything. It reinforces what society has always deemed of women: we are worthy as long as we are performing and we are sexy as long as we are pleasing men. But hey, that’s just that me espresso I guess.
I AM THE WOMEN THAT I LOVE
by Chesney Jensen
My mom has always had a knack for listening. She opens not just her ears, but her heart (and arms when needed) to not just me, but anyone who walks into our home. My family’s home kitchen is the world’s most inviting space because she crafted it to be that way. She is the hostess with the mostest, but also the friend that everyone needs. Whenever I open my apartment door to someone, I try to channel her. I want to be the person she was to me and everyone around me, for those I continue to bring into my circle.
I love the way my sister can talk to anyone and make them feel valued, loved, and important. She dives head first into every project on her plate and works through the night to make sure every detail is perfect. When I’m working on a big project, I try to nail the details down just like Sam does. She’s also the person who brings out the silliest, goofiest version of myself. I have so much fun being me when Sam is around. I hope that I can make those around me feel the same way
that I get to feel when I’m with Sam.
I met Hayden in 2nd grade in my FOCUS class. We made matching penguin puppets for the class puppet show, solidifying a lifelong friendship. She has the best taste in books (and honestly everything else) has introduced me to my favorite stories. Even though we live on opposite coasts, these silly fantasy books are kind of like the puppets we made 20 years ago. A little touchpoint that leads me to one of my favorite people.
Kenzie has a tough exterior, but she’s actually a big softie. She loves in big ways, like texting your favorite author begging him for a signed copy to give you as a secret Santa gift. While Pierce Brown may not have responded, the picture I have of her holding her Instagram message is one of the greatest gifts I’ve received. I want to love my friends in the big ways that Kenzie does.
Madeline loves her friends fiercely and laughs often. My parents always knew when she came over because they could hear her, followed by the rest of the “high school girls” laughing at something absurd, huddled around the same kitchen table that we’ve been playing cards at for years. Madeline is honest and loyal and loves her friends in every form that we show up as.
Madison always shows up. While she’ll never forget to remind us how early we made her wake up (sorry you had to set your alarm before 11am!), she is there for her friends consistently, and she has been such a wonderful constant in my life since middle school. She’s along for every ride and there whenever I’ve needed her. Madison is a friend
who constantly shows up for those around her and only years later will tell you that you never really needed to ask for a ride because she always planned to pick you up.
I met Cheech while studying abroad, but it wasn’t until I moved to New York that she became a real best friend to me. It’s sometimes fun to meet a friend through the eyes of those you love before getting to know them yourself. Cheech, to those around me, was wise and confident and always stood up for those she loved. While they gave a perfect introduction, she’s also hilarious and brings joy into every room she’s in. She is the friend you can celebrate with during the highest highs, and she’ll sit on the ground with you when rock bottom hits. I try my best to bring her listening ears and accepting arms into all of my relationships.
Divya loves her friends so warmly. She is inviting and inclusive and loving with her time and space. There’s also not a plan I could throw her way that she would turn down. Her circle is constantly opening for new people and she welcomes friends of friends of friends with open arms and her big smile that we all love. She constantly shows up for her friends and I hope that I channel some Divya to do the same.
Delaney is down for anything. She will drive an hour out of the city for a Chili’s dinner in Jersey, follow me to Maine for a last-minute Fourth of July trip, and also, just sit in silence with you when that’s all that’s needed. She makes sure that everyone knows how loved they are and can always find the right words to tell them how and why they are so loved and valued. I have tried
to channel that in these words, and also in all of my friendships and relationships since we met at that galentines party years ago (Happy Anniversary Del!).
I met Macy when we were interns in 2021, but Macy became a best friend when I dropped my phone off a bridge. I never asked her to accompany me on the journey of scaling the wall next to FDR, she just did it without question. Because that’s who she is. She’s been by my side for nearly every journey since then. Macy is the kind of friend that I hope everyone gets to have. She meets me at whatever level I’m at. From sharing her secret stash of memes so I can get some group chat glory or a quick Facetime so we can both just cry out whatever has been racing through our individual stressed-out brains, I hope to be there for all of my friends like Macy is so consistently there for me.
Hallie loves her friends so loudly. She wants everyone to know the names of those she loves and declares her favorite parts of her favorite people to everyone around. I’m currently channeling my inner Hallie, like I do so often. She’s also one of the bravest people I know, standing up for and loving herself and everyone around her.
The women in my life are the building blocks of me. I wouldn’t be who I am without them, and I love myself because I get to see my favorite people reflected back.
All my love to all of you,
Xoxo Ches
IN LIEU OF FLOWERS
a short film by Stacey Torkelson releasing at film festivals, summer and fall 2025 followed by Entertainment2Affect Change streaming channel (on Roku and Apple TV)
In Lieu of Flowers will be my directorial debut, a love letter to the women in every season of my life, who continually redefine the word “friendship” through their own individual languages of goodness, love, and care. This film is written to celebrate and amplify the emotional depth of The Teenage Girl - the one that lives inside each of us long beyond our adolescent years,. It is especially written for those who were told they were “too much” at a young age. I strive to capture the essence of the young women I long to see on screen, free to exist without being deemed “likable” by studio definition and embracing their mess with compassion. Through intimate set-decoration and shared moments of weakness, Frances and Taylor will navigate their sheltered, childlike memories as they learn to process grief and a loss of innocence together.
IN HONOR OF THE VICTORIAS SECRET FASHION SHOW RETURN
by Alissa Donovan
The return of the VS Fashion show comes during a time when, once again, thin is in. Over the past year, we have once again begun glorifying thin bodies while turning away from “body positivity” and “body neutrality.” The trends of the early 2000s came back, as did the obsession with hip bones, collarbones, and “pilates arms.” Although this seemingly seismic change within the industry initially frustrated me, I eventually swallowed a hard truth: the fashion industry was never body-positive, and I was kidding myself to think it ever was. Let’s take a walk down memory lane. There are two memories in my extremely short fashion “career” to prove that Devil Wears Prada was accurate in at least one regard:
fashion is created for the thin.
The first instance was during my freshman year of fashion school. Within the first week, my class was told to select our very own dress form which would be ours for the remainder of the semester. On the surface level, dress forms are the body-like figures that fashion designers use to design clothing (i.e. mannequins). But selecting a dress form felt like an intimate experience; I understood that this dress form would be my sole companion on late-night studio visits, I would drape my first designs lovingly against its curves, and I would pin and unpin pieces of muslin with pencil ticks of measurements across it until the tips of my fingers bled. To me,
the dress form felt like far more than a piece of equipment—it felt like the first tactical proof that I am a fashion designer.
I wanted to design clothing that I could wear, so I selected the largest dress form from the batch—a lonely size eight among a sea of size two and fours. I reasoned that I could make the clothes loose on the form and maybe I could squeeze the designs over my own body (rarely did that work). At the time, I was a size 12, a few sizes smaller than the average women’s dress size (which is somewhere between 16 and 20), and even as a size 12, I did not have a model form that reflected my own body. The result was that I, as a young fashion designer, was taught only how to dress a thin body. This is a truth that did not resonate in my mind at the time, as I was preoccupied with the unfairness that was pointed at me—a designer unable to create clothes for herself! Imagine!
The second instance was my senior year of undergrad when I worked as a Fashion Week intern at a popular Chelsea showroom. I was paid $20 a day for two weeks to help dress models, manage appointments with buyers, and primarily to make coffee for anyone who asked. (It is important to note that I would only receive my payment of $20/ day if I survived the full two weeks, which many interns did not). The showroom as a workplace was endlessly toxic. It felt that everyone was constantly on a diet—the only food to be found in the office was green juice (the team’s breakfast of choice), black coffee (made by me), and a large green salad that was catered for the interns every single day (a protein-less,
light dressing salad which we ate while standing up because we were not allowed breaks).
But, to me, the most toxic behavior was not how we were overworked and underpaid (illegally, might I add); it was that we were required to wear the sample designs of the showroom, all of which were a size two. When the owner of the showroom told the interns that we would select something from the extra samples to wear every day, every intern but myself squealed with excitement. When the others peeled off from the meeting to get first dibs on their favorite samples, I pulled the owner aside. The conversation, to the best of my memory, was as follows:
Me: The designs are beautiful, but I noticed that the sample size is a two, sometimes a four. I won’t be able to fit into that. Is it okay if I wear a black dress instead?
Owner: No. You are a fashion designer. Get creative.
One featured designer offered a “one size fits all” shirt which resembled a shapeless artist’s smock with a row of buttons trailing down the back. This is the item I selected on the first day, but after my hair got caught on the buttons (forcing a model to cut a chunk of my hair off with scissors after a buyer insisted that they wanted to see the shirt in the color I happened to be wearing), I decided I would wear my own fucking clothes. If they wanted to fire me, they could; I was sure I could find another way to make the whopping $200 I’d miss out on.
All this to say that fashion has
always been for the thin. These stories happened during the peak of the body positivity movement in fashion. I started fashion school the same year that Ashley Graham was featured as the first plus-sized model in Sports Illustrated. I worked as a Fashion Week intern in that Chelsea showroom one year after Christian Siriano announced that he tripled his sales by offering extended sizing. The fashion industry was celebrating body positivity! size inclusivity! body neutrality! fat acceptance! Apparently, those working within the industry did not receive the good news.
It is easy and romantic to look back and sigh with longing for the ‘body positivity” phase of fashion. (“How can we go backward? Look at the progress we made!”) But that phase never existed—at least, not in a way that I experienced. Just like any other trend, body positivity fell off and the industry is free to continue its blatant celebration of thin bodies.
And let me be clear: the fashion industry as one unit does not reflect the views and real progress of individual designers, models, influencers, and conscious consumers. The fact remains that there is a large desire for extended sizing, and some designers are doing an incredible job filling that gap. For example, last week I attended an event where Sam Edelman and his wife, Libby, discussed the Sam Edelman brand’s path to success. An audience member asked how the brand’s devotion to size inclusivity played into the brand’s success (Sam Edelman has carried extended shoe sizing and wide calf options for years). Sam and Libby both noted that size inclusivity was everything
to the brand’s success—there is a large percentage of shoppers who require extended sizing for shoes, and stepping up to fill that gap in the market is what helped the brand to succeed. Why, then, does a brand such as Sam Edelman who understands the power of size inclusivity in shoes refuse to offer above a size twelve in clothing? As Sam and Libby pointed out, the numbers show that inclusive sizing is a lucrative as well as socially important path for businesses, and it is endlessly puzzling to me that fashion companies still refuse to follow the money towards inclusive sizing in clothing.
In what tone should I wrap up these tangled thoughts? Renewed inspiration? Hopelessness? Exhaustion or indifference? That, I am not sure. What I will leave you with is this: the fashion industry does not like bodies that are not thin, but maybe asking the fashion industry to change its taste is a fool’s errand. Yes, the fashion industry’s view of bigger bodies is problematic: Anna Wintour called plus-sized women “little houses” and Karl Lagerfeld famously said, “no one wants to see curvy women.” However, the body positivity movement was not meant to be enveloped within the messy confines of the fashion industry; the fashion industry merely tapped into a social movement that it viewed as a trend with a capacity to make the industry money. I do have hope that as a society outside of the fashion industry, we are becoming more tolerant of all bodies. I am hopeful that we will raise our daughters in a more inclusive environment than the one we came into. But expecting to find body positivity in an industry that does not want us to love our bodies is misguided.
LESSONS FROM MY GRANDMOTHER
by Danny Diaz
Of all the lessons I have taken from my grandmother, there are perhaps few that taste better than that of love as the ultimate cooking agent. It is not store-bought and cannot be found in the drive through; it is home grown. It cannot be learned from cookbooks, and cannot be mimicked for commercial purposes. It is passed from generation to generation in the kitchen, through keen eyes looking from below, too short to reach the countertop, and hands that want to help but don’t yet know how. It is found in the way one waters the leaves of the ají dulce, and the way one peels the garlic for the sofrito. It is in the eyeballing of salt and oil always, for what good would a measurement do you, when you don’t know how many guests there could be? It is in always “doctoring it up”. It is in the repeated taste test of the avena until it is just sweet enough. It is in the marrow of the bones of the wings and the porkchops-where flavor sits strongest-never to be left to waste.
It’s in the way you press down on a panini, not too hard but just enough to leave impressions on the bread, while we wash our hands. It is in the way you hid away oreos, brought out when I watch everyone else have the cake. It is never being left out- no matter the dish and no matter the place.
PITCH MEETING: PRODUCTS FOR THE MODERN WOMAN
by Rachel Loring
Personal assistant to swipe through your dating apps
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OH HOW I LOVE BEING A WOMAN
by Kiley Parrish
I love the little things. Even more so, I love the little things about being a woman. It’s the knowing glance to your best friend that says everything without saying a word. The random Thursday night that somehow became legendary. Or hours spent on FaceTime because honestly, the company matters. To the women who make this life unforgettable, here are a few of my favorite things about girlhood.
Three Girls, One Mirror, 23 Outfits
There’s something euphoric about blasting music, three girls crammed in front of one bathroom mirror, and trying on 23 outfits before settling on the classic black shirt and jeans. This getting ready ritual is an unspoken tradition in girlhood and one that sets the perfect tone before entering the night ahead. By the time the final spritz of perfume is sprayed, the room looks like a tornado hit, and there’s a small army of curling irons that no one can quite remember if they’ve unplugged. Isn’t it sad men will never know the thrill of pre-game glam?
When Music Speaks, Women Listen
Men can appreciate music, sure, but the way women connect to it on a deeper level is something that should be studied. Example A: No man will ever know what it’s like listening to Nobody Gets Me by SZA, and honestly, that’s all I have to say about this topic.
Every Day’s a Movie If You Let It Be
Girls have a subconscious talent for romanticizing the simplest moments. That boring walk to your local coffee shop? Suddenly, it’s a scene from a movie, and we’re the protagonist, just waiting for a lifechanging conversation to unfold. The rain? It’s never just weather— it’s an excuse for a London-themed outfit and the soundtrack of our inner monologue. Honestly, I think it’s a gift—seeing the beauty in the ordinary because, with this mindset, every day has the potential to be epic.
The Post-Event Breakdown
Oh, you went on a date? Saw your crush at the bar? That’s cute. The real fun isn’t the event itself - it’s the debrief. “Did you see the way he looked at me?”, “OMG, you’ll never believe who I ran into”, “What do you think he meant when he said that?”
It’s the hours spent dissecting every moment, analyzing every word, and giving dramatic reenactments while rotting away on the couch that might be one of the best parts of girlhood.
The Art of the Voice Memo
Years later, this Apple feature still feels like sharing a secret, kind of like when we used to care about Snapchat conversations disappearing back in the day. It’s not just easier than texting; it’s storytelling. Please note: This feature often overlaps with the debriefing session when you and the girls are rotting separately—bringing us together even when we’re couches apart.
Girls
Healing Girls
It’s fun talking about the silly, carefree moments of girlhood, but there’s an undeniable power in the way women heal each other. Sometimes it’s sitting together in silence, knowing exactly what the other needs, or offering a hug that says everything words can’t. We know exactly when to push each other forward or when to be the safe space for tears. The beauty of it is no matter what life throws our way, we always have each other’s backs.
So to the girls who make the ordinary extraordinary and life a little brighter every day—love you, mean it.
TWELVE HOURS AT AN ABORTION PROVIDER
by Olivia deMontmorency
Abortion is normal. It’s life-saving, life-starting, and safe. It’s not a bad word. The health centers and physicians who provide this care are respected, intelligent, and thoughtful. So why is it all so taboo to discuss? Because anti-abortion extremists thrive on misinformation, silence, and fearmongering. This article follows my experience volunteering at a health center that provides medicated abortion, procedural abortion, and birth control consultations, among other gynecology services.
For the purpose of security and privacy, experiences have been condensed to fit one day, and any patient details have been left out.
It’s Saturday morning, and my alarm wakes me at 5:50 a.m. I’m not normally such a morning person, especially on the weekend. I get up, brush my teeth, throw on some athletic wear, and grab
my purse. I arrive at the health center around 6:40 a.m., and drive by the first wave of protesters setting up their signs. It is still dark outside, and I have to veer around them standing in the road.
One car parks as close to the property as it can get, with its back hatch open facing me. A television sits in the back depicting a video of what I presume to be a dead fetus in a womb — the actual content is unclear — and a bunch of physical posters surround the TV. A group of anti-abortion women stand at the main entrance of the building in what seems to be their ‘Sunday Best’ church clothes. They chat with one another, waiting for the rest of the congregation who are scheduled to protest to arrive this morning. A man carrying loads of pamphlets flags me down aggressively as I pull into the parking lot. While anger toward these people is the automatic first reaction, I have found through
one too many flipped birds that giving no reaction is more effective.
I head inside and pass the brave escorts who arrive early to assist patients with getting from their cars into the building, keeping them out of harm’s reach from anti’s false information or constant berating. As soon as I enter the health center’s doors, the energy is much calmer and more secure. This morning, Twilight is playing on the waiting room television.
I grab all of the things I need to begin my greeter shift. The greeter sits outside the front door as a security checkpoint to make sure everyone entering is a patient and has an appointment. For the next few hours, I check people in, including staff, doulas, and volunteers.
Ages often range in regard to patients, however, to defy many misconceptions on abortion
demographics, these patients seem to be predominately in their 30s and 40s. Oftentimes, they already have at least one child of their own. Antiabortion groups portray all patients to be young teenage women or twenty-somethings who are making “rash decisions”. Young people do get abortions, but this is not the sole demographic at this provider.
As patients arrive, they can be quiet or somber. This decision is often a complicated and emotional one. The clients are allowed to bring one other person with them, whether that’s a parent, partner, friend, etc.
One time, a patient walked up with her partner to my check-in desk. I handed her the paperwork after taking down both of their temperatures, a post-covid precaution. Her partner was looking over a pamphlet in his hand. “Do you want to keep that?” she asked him. He looked at me. “Do you need me to throw that out?” I said. He nodded. After granting them access, I pulled the pamphlet out of the trash and realized it was from the protesters outside. The cover is plastered with a photo of a newborn baby sleeping, but the inside shows a photo of an alleged dead fetus. The content was mostly Christian bible verses and completely falsified side effects of having an abortion. The pamphlet packs a lot of false information into a trifold. It is a scare tactic.
I was horrified reading this information and thinking about a patient showing up to this clinic, possibly nervous or stressed about having to take time out of their day, being away from work, school, finding childcare, some of them also going under anesthesia which can
be nerve-wracking; to then arrive and have a disgusting pamphlet stuffed in their face as protesters shame them for making a decision that has nothing to do with them.
This is a common experience as a greeter; patients often walk up baffled or overwhelmed by the protesters who forced their way into their personal space. While I wait for the last patients to arrive that morning, the nurses and medical school student volunteers assist in giving patients their pre-procedure pregnancy test, medication, and ultrasound.
It’s time to move to the recovery shift. I now enter the second portion of my Saturday morning at the health center: taking the vitals of patients and getting them clothed immediately after the procedure. For this, I put on a set of scrubs (provided by the center) then another volunteer and I enter the small recovery room – a hospitallike room with two beds on wheels, gowns, sheets, blood pressure cuffs, and other supplies for this station. While a smaller space than a hospital room, it is equipped as such. We prepare the station while we wait for the first procedure to finish.
The procedures do not take long, and only having two surgical rooms creates a fast turnaround. The doctor is almost finished with the first abortion, so we roll the gurney over to the door. I enter the room as the doctor walks out to complete postoperative forms. The CRNA assists the other volunteer and I as we transfer the patient (often groggy or asleep depending on if they have a local anesthetic procedure) to the mobile gurney. This is when we take charge.
We are responsible for waking up the patient while placing the blood pressure cuff on her arm and the oxygen cuff on her finger. As the other volunteer writes these numbers down, I let the patient know we are going to check her bleeding and place a new pad in her underwear. While the patient is normally very out of it, it’s important to let them know what is going on. After this, we move to dressing the patient back in their clothes and assist them in walking to the next recovery room. The first part of recovery is completed.
A common misconception about these procedures is recovery time. These are not invasive lifethreatening procedures, and other than moderate cramping and a bit of blood spotting, the side effects are not long-listed.
In the second part of recovery, patients sit in recliner chairs, much like the ones you sit in while giving blood. Volunteers provide them with a choice of pretzels or animal crackers, and water, ginger ale, or juice. This can keep nausea at bay. The next fifteen minutes are often spent talking to them, keeping them from falling asleep or assisting them in any way to make them more comfortable. Each chair has a heating pad, helpful for the cramps that can ensue immediately afterward. If they haven’t taken Ibuprofen before the procedure, we can provide it to them now. We retake their blood pressure to make sure the numbers are regulating to their normal range. It is during this point where I often had my most interesting conversations. Many of these women already had at least one other child, and so we
talked about their kids’ interests, TV shows like Love is Blind, or what they were doing that weekend.
However, to be expected, some patients do find this experience to be emotionally overwhelming. The doula, who is trained in this sort of patient recovery, will assist them with processing what has taken place. It is a very comforting environment, the walls are painted a pastel blue, there is art on the walls, gifted by different abortion funds around the area. A radio sitting in the corner can be turned on to have background music playing. At the end of this checklist for recovery, volunteers check the bleeding of the patient one last time, and depending on the outcome (often little to no bleeding occurs), the patient is ready to go home. Whoever is driving them home will sit in the waiting room or downstairs in their car, and one of our nurses or assistants walks them down.
It may seem a bit repetitive, but checking things like blood pressure and bleeding allows us to make sure everything is healing correctly before the patient leaves the center. At this point, I normally leave for the day, but I stick around to set up some of the medication packets for those waiting for medicated abortions (Mifepristone and Misoprostol).
The health center I volunteered at is in the state of Virginia, where as of January 2025, abortion is legal up to 26 weeks. However, Virginia is surrounded by states where the laws are far harsher. In South Carolina, abortion is banned after six weeks, and North Carolina after 12 weeks. Abortion is completely banned in West Virginia. Bans are more common than not in
other surrounding states. For this reason, I witnessed multiple patients who traveled from other states. They had to book childcare if they already had kids, purchase a plane ticket, and fly hundreds of miles away from the comfort of their homes to access care.
When I leave the clinic, most of the anti-abortion protesters have scurried away as the sun rises, and the day is even more beautiful than when it began. While a few stragglers stay behind to promote false information, it is easy to find joy in the work that I participated in. It is through this first-hand account of volunteering at an abortion provider that I aim to destigmatize what happens on the inside. It’s not just an abortion health center, it provides the ability for a woman to choose. Patients are cared for and heard. No one is forced to be there, and the staff is there because they genuinely care about a person’s right to make decisions about their future and what they do with their body. Abortion providers are a safe haven for women. The real pain and fear exist outside of the clinic doors, from the anti-abortion protesters.
Resources:
Abortion Finder:
https://www.abortionfinder.org/ Miscarraige & Abortion Hotline: https://mahotline.org/ Access Plan C Pills from Home: https://www.plancpills.org/ Need Funds for your Abortion? https://abortionfunds.org/needan-abortion/
Other resources: https://reproductivefreedomforall. org/resources/resources-foraccessing-abortion-care/
YA POOR LITTLE FOOL!
stone age love and strange sounds too... by your favorite women of rock
CHERRY BOMB
The Runaways
BLACK SHEEP
Brie Larson
BAD REPUTATION
Joan Jett & the Blackhearts
BARRACUDA
Heart
HEARTBREAKER
Pat Benetar
EDGE OF SEVENTEEN
Stevie Nicks
SOMEBODY TO LOVE
Jefferson Airplane
CALL ME
Blondie
HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO
Bonnie Tyler
FLYING OVER THE ALEWIFE DRAIN
by Alex O’Brien
15,
and you don’t even realize how precious it is. You won’t get this teenage love again. This scrunchy swapping, after-school secret sharing, Jennifer’s Body quoting, girlhood love.
Before the heartbreaks and the betrayals and the horrible bad and the bullshit, there was this.
And this was pure.
“I love this song! Don’t you think Pete Wentz is kinda cute? In a dad way?”
Before the crying on your birthday and the anti-aging straws and the Venmo requests from the night before, there was this.
And this was hard. It was so hard and we knew it.
“Let’s walk to Towd today.” Laura wore a bikini outside the safety of her own backyard for the first time that day. It was pale pink with little yellow flowers. We got whistled at by some men in a work van. It made us feel dirty, and so began the slow corrosion. We didn’t have
a thick enough shell yet, and it hurt, but we didn’t admit that to each other or ourselves until years later. We just cursed the van after it drove off and held hands for the rest of the walk.
“Just wrap yourself in your towel, we’re almost off the main road.”
We got to the bridge over the Alewife drain and stopped to look down. The water was deep, but I still remember the way the midday sun reflected off the schools of silver fish below us. Just brief flashes of tiny grey scales, gone in an instant and returned back to the cold dark water.
“Remember to tuck your knees in so you don’t get caught on rocks or fishing hooks.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be, you’ll feel like you’re flying.”
“1… 2… 3! Ahhhh!”
What a rush.
27, and I still catch glimpses of 15. I feel the spark of it in lip gloss recommendations and FaceTime debriefs from the party last night, in moonlit ocean dips, and in loaning an umbrella for the train ride home.
“You’ll get it back. I’ll see you for brunch on the 14th?”
And it’s all so hard. It’s so hard and we know it.
After the abrupt end to my college experience, I came home with my tail between my legs to a town I
didn’t recognize anymore. It was a Friday, and liquor stores were one of the only businesses that profited from the pandemic. I bought a bottle of pinot grigio for Laura and I to split while we discussed our unemployment and instability and how hard it is to live with our parents. Still freshly 22, I reached for my ID.
“No need, you look of age to me.”
The boy in front of me couldn’t have been a single day over 18. My cheeks felt hot. Of age? To you? I smiled, although I wish I didn’t, and put up my hood while he ran my card. I guess the frat parties must’ve given me crow’s feet. I guess the late night cramming for finals must’ve given me greys. I guess I grew up—I guess I grew old.
“Hey Laura, since when are we old?”
“You’re not old and neither am I. They just want us to hate ourselves.”
She was right, of course. I just needed to be reminded that the enemy can look different every day. It’s so hard, but sometimes you need an old friend to tell you that it’s hard in order to believe that you’re not the problem.
I love being girls with her.
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop chasing the prickly sweet feeling of 15. The kind of spirit that you lose yourself in, the energy and the joy that only girlhood can bring. Insecure and honest and naïve and free. I’m still trying to fly, even if only for a second.
What a rush.
I’M A NEW WOMAN
by Rachel Williams
I’m alchemizing
I’m excavating
So that I can proudly reflect who I am
So that what is inside
Looks as shiny and happy and fun
As the outside
I’m cleaning
I’m scrubbing
The gunk that is built up
In all of my veins
So that I am lighter
So that I might fly
So that I can be free
I’m opening
I’m dancing
My limbs are unchained
My heart floating, bouncing
Diving head first
Into my new world
DANCING GAVE ME ALL THREE EATING DISORDERS
by Rachel Williams
In seventh grade, I joined a pre-professional ballet company. We practiced Mondays through Thursdays from four to eight pm every week, and sometimes on Saturdays when we had shows coming up. Every day, from four to eight pm, I stared in the mirror watching my body until I graduated high school.
My ballet teacher would make comments like or “suck in your stomach” to 14 year-old girls. That last one was a comment I heard too often, so he would make me go home after a full day of practice and do “stomach exercises” like planks, crunches, and sit-ups to fix my stomach that stuck out too much. I would sit in school and practice sucking in my stomach all day. Once, there was a photo posted of my best friend and I eating a pizza together at a sleepover. Our ballet teacher didn’t speak to us for the whole week because one of the ballet moms had shown him the photo, and he was disgusted that we were putting something so greasy into our bodies. For years, I grew up thinking I was nothing more than what my body looked like. Of course I stopped eating after that.
“how beautiful, you can see her ribs”
I took a break from dancing my freshman year of college, but got back into it sophomore year when I joined the college dance team.
Being in a revealing uniform isn’t exactly a safe environment for someone who has an unchecked eating disorder. It just took on a new form. I would go to Texas Roadhouse or Outback and eat a giant ribeye. I would make a whole point of eating it so that people wouldn’t notice when I skipped all three meals the next day.
After I graduated and stopped dancing, I started eating regularly. But that didn’t mean I was automatically healed. I hated myself. I saw every pound I put on in the mirror. I tried gua sha-ing my new face shape away. I ran and cycled and did 12-3-30 all in hopes of returning to the same body, thinking I was healed because I was eating now.
I eventually came around to my new body, not really because I wanted to, but I accepted that this was how it looked when it was properly fed. I threw out my full-length mirror, never to be seen again. I stopped engaging in conversation around “eating better” or losing weight.
I am worth so much more than what my body looks like.
Slowly, I started to love this body that had endured years of starvation and abuse, that this body could survive after all the wreckage. That this body was beautiful because it was healthy.
Fleabag
MENSTRUATION MEDIA
by Rachel Loring
We’ve all been there before: fetal position, heating pad, bottle of ibuprofen in hand, bargaining with the period gods for a moment of relief. Periods suck, but if you’re like me and your monthly bleed makes you particularly yearn for some comfort media, here are some of my picks of shows, movies, and books that will make you feel less like your uterus wants you dead.
It’ll pass, and by it, I mean your period, not whatever Fleabag and the hot priest had going on.
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (or movie)
And not just because you’ll be able to relate to that one scene where Amy smears blood all over herself
9-to-5 by Dolly Parton
For when you have to actually go into the office while cramping, and Dolly makes everything better
The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides (or movie)
For this quote alone: “Obviously, Doctor,” she said, “you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.”
Normal People (the show not the book)
For a good cry, why not relish in the dread
The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue
The main character gives accidentally bleeding through your favorite pants energy
Derry Girls
If you need a laugh, plus there’s a great Carrie reference in season two that will feel especially relevant
Uptown Girls
Molly Gunn would offer you the last tampon in her purse, I just know it. Plus, the iconic spinning scene is how I feel reflecting back to a time before I had a period
Bojack Horseman
Cartoons are good for the soul, plus it’ll make you feel all cool and edgy
Love, Rosie
A classic mushy rom-com, Sam Claflin, and a reminder to be thankful that you aren’t pregnant, what’s better than that?
HOW TO BE A WELL-READ FEMINIST
10 Books Everyone Who Cares About Women Should Read*
by Chase Clough
Whether you’ve been a feminist since you were 13 or just starting to dig deeper into what the patriarchy really is– these books can help you see the world in a whole new light. You don’t have to read these in the order I chose, but some thought was put into their placement. I highly recommend starting with Hood Feminism as it’s a great introduction to the concept of intersectional feminism.
*Open minds and a willingness to understand the part you play in a misogynistic society are needed.
FLORIDIAN GIRL ROMANTICIZES WINTER IN NEW YORK
by Catherine Trouillot
Iwas under the impression that December in New York would be magical. Like those Pinterest boards that make you believe everyone in this city lives in a sun-exposed brick apartment, with a curated mix of vintage furniture, and can order a latte just by staring at one. To demonstrate, I’ve written an excerpt from what I expected a typical day here would be:
Monday morning. It’s snowing in New York, and everything feels cozy, like a scene from Love Actually. I leave to go do some studying and stop by the Rockefeller tree, which, naturally, is only surrounded by a few people. I stand there and gaze at it until my coffee is finished. A snowflake falls on my nose, and I giggle. How silly!
On my way out, I bump into a massive wall, nearly falling into the street. Did I mention I’m wearing a leather mini skirt and knee-high boots with an oversized sweater (I’m not cold at all)? Surprise! The massive “wall” isn’t a wall at all, but the rock-hard abs of a 6’4 man. He has facial hair that’s just the right level of rugged but well-kept, and his outfit screams “I make six figures, but I’m not a finance bro.” He’s the kind of man who owns a vintage record player and a dog named Atlas (his dog carries the weight of the world).
Naturally, he apologizes for nearly knocking me over. He’s so polite, explaining how he didn’t see me there (I’m so very small). As our eyes meet, I feel the electricity
between us—like actual sparks. He tells me I’m beautiful in a way that doesn’t sound rehearsed, then adds, “I saw you reading alone at the Rockefeller tree and I just knew you were different.” How unexpected! (I’m very unique.) “Can I take you out to dinner?” he asks. (I’ve already been on three dates this week and it’s only Monday, but I’ll make an exception because maybe this one will be different.)
Then I stroll off to a quaint little café (L’Ami Pierre) to ‘get some work done.’ And by ‘work,’ I mean spending a solid 30 minutes scrolling through TikTok with my email open before heading to an overpriced restaurant for lunch where the only thing I’ll remember is the bill. (I’m drowning in money.) Afterward, oh look at that—I still have time for pilates. (I have an unlimited membership.)
By the time I leave pilates, it’s only 5 PM, and it’s still so sunny out— I’m practically a morning person. So I head home, pour myself a glass of wine, make a pasta dinner for one, and get into bed by 9 PM. Also, my mom walks into my room to tell me to pack my things because she’s sold me to One Direction.
My point is I romanticized moving here a smidge. It’s currently 3 PM, and I’m sitting on my couch, feeling a bit guilty about the purchase I made this morning; I bought a light on Amazon that’s supposed to mimic natural sunlight. It was $40. I genuinely feel like I just bought a cybertruck. Shocker, my time here is not going how I expected it to. It’s stranger and a bit lonelier than I thought it would be. I think, maybe, it’s exactly what I needed.
FRUSTRATIONS IN THE ROMANCE SECTION
by Danny Diaz
Why is so much art borne of heartbreak? Are there no dance albums of perfect unions? Are there no couples therapy EPs? Why does the man always cheat? Where is the nuance in the texts she sends? I want a soliloquy on what your stomach feels like when you meet her dad. I want an improvised saxophone solo on the way my mother’s judging eyes pierce through all first impressions. Why in these narratives can’t they work it out- for the sake of that poor kid? Do they know what debt they will be paying? A prenup is very real, but I see no poets talk of rationing possessions. I want a painting of exchanging kids for the weekend, right there at that gas station. Where is the ballad on what to do with her leftover jacket? I want a movie on who keeps the fish. Where is the documentary on the late-night texts we don’t send? I want a music video on all the fights they do get through. I want the pages of the novel messy with the dialogue pouring out; no one ever speaks eloquently when crying. Who is the one telling these directors people still meet in places like that? Where is my short story on fighting over the last word? Who, ever in history, got to leave an argument getting to drop that devastating of a finishing line?
The worst part is always the endings. Why on Earth would they ever get back together? For christ sakes, can’t they, just once, get back together?
MY HAIR
by Macy Kissel
As a child, I was bleach blonde
The chlorine of the Florida inground pools stained my locks green and sun-kissed golden tresses framed my wide gap-toothed smile as I ran rampant and played outside
In middle school, my hair muted
No longer was it bleached, but tawny dirty blonde
The texture rippled and frizzed
So I straightened it
Everyday
Strands pressed between two hot plates and originality organized into flattened fibers
In college, I dyed it for the first time, balyage blonde
Reminiscent of those happy childhood days that brought happiness to my darker times
Throughout these changes, the theme was the same I longed for hair that wasn’t mine for genetics that created cascading honeylocks or a pin-straight golden-brown I never appreciated what I had
My mother has rich, ebony, bouncy curls, and always has and I love my mom’s hair
As she gets older, her coils unravel she uses a wand to bring back the life to her curls and tells me how lucky I am
Now, although I treasure a meticulous blowout with a supermodel quality, recently I have been loving to let my hair dry naturally
Adding some mousse to hold my organic waves and I feel so beautiful because I look so much like my mom
DAY DREAMING
Aretha Franklin
COME AWAY WITH ME
Norah Jones
GOODBYE
The Sundays SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER Ella Fitzgerald
I’LL BE SEEING YOU
Billie Holiday
MANHATTAN
Blossom Dearie
SHE DANCES
Billie Marten
TROUBLE SLEEPING
Corinne Bailey Rae
VAMPIRE IN THE CORNER
Magdalena Bay
MY LIFE DESIGNED BY WOMEN
by Brenna McWha
My friend Rachel came to visit me at my childhood home for the first time over the holidays. She walked in, dropped her bags, and I began giving her the “official” home tour. I walked her through the multi-colored living room filled with art and mosaics, the blue kitchen with LED-lit cabinets and fiesta dishware, the backyard with dinosaur lawn ornaments and windchimes littered throughout, and finally to the corner bar bought from Facebook Marketplace with a neon sign reading “Julie’s Bar” above it. After the tour was complete and we had settled down for the evening, Rachel turned to me and said, “You can tell this house was designed by a woman.” I agreed, finding the sentiment accurate. But it got me thinking, why are some things so viscerally “woman,” and what gives them this quality? Is the essence of womanhood so potent that it bleeds into the space we occupy, the energy we emit, the homes we create?
Growing up, it was just my mom and me in our home. Until I was 18 years old we shared a bathroom, a kitchen, a living space, a life. One of the things I find most special about my childhood, as well as into my adult life, is how close I am with my mother. We are best friends and confidantes, comparable to the likes of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore. As I reflect on my home, I feel as if I need to give it its due credit for the closeness I feel with my mom. I wonder now if the physical closeness of our shared space is partially what made us feel so close emotionally. If the space around us can do so much as to bring two people together, it’s no wonder that it can encapsulate the essence of the people within it.
As the only two people in our home, and both of us women, I think there was a sense of comfort between my mom and me in doing what we liked with our space. My mom’s personality is so prevalent in our home because she felt confident inserting her point of view into it. This is a luxury I think many women who share a space with a man may have to compromise on. My mom never had to dull her design for the fear of a man not “getting it,” or feeling emasculated by her use of color or artwork. Having authenticity in your space is something that allows you to truly feel at home, as
it’s an outward representation of yourself. This leads me to surmise that “a woman’s touch” is simply an expression of a woman being herself, unconfined. My mom’s house isn’t perfectly manicured or “Pinterest perfect,” but it is a visual representation of what she unapologetically loves. It showcases her varied interests and exemplifies her individuality in a way that I think women so often seek to do in a world molded by the patriarchy.
Another way I find that spaces women create are so identifiable is because oftentimes these spaces are created directly for other women to recognize and enjoy. Historically, women have always yearned to create spaces where they can commune to discuss trials and tribulations that are unique to womanhood. It’s something we as women have grown accustomed to- carving out spaces in industries that don’t want us, societies that don’t respect us, and situations that don’t prioritize us. To survive we build these sanctuaries to shield ourselves from an oftentimes dangerous and scary world. I think the idea of “homemaking” that women are so often associated with should not be valued only in the traditionalist sense of making a space comfortable for a man, but instead with the notion that we build and maintain homes where ourselves and other women can find community and respite. I was fortunate enough to have a space like this growing up with my mother.
I was even luckier that I was able to build another women-centric space when I moved away to college. I had the privilege of turning my generic Tallahassee apartment into a home with three other women. This
space had the same uniqueness as my childhood home, in that it felt so representative of everyone who lived there. We had a Twilight composite, birthday tassels that hung year-round, pastel place mats, and Cher posters. As my roommates’ decorations went up, I got to see more and more of who they were. I could see their personalities splayed across our walls, folded on our couch, and magnetized to our fridge. And the more I saw of them (the “them” being what they contributed to the space, as well as the women themselves), the more it felt like home. Throughout that year living together I tried new things (cooking, crafts, dancing), opened up emotionally in ways I hadn’t with others before, and affirmed a lifelong friendship with the best friend I could ever imagine (shoutout Julia). This growth I fully contribute once again to the comfort I found being in a home full of women, who made the space so conducive to being my authentic self.
Fast forward to now, and for the first time in my life, I live in a space with all men (a male cat and dog included). I love my current home
with my incredible fiance, but I think the time I’ve spent living with women was so integral to being able to form an authentic life with a partner today. We have a space that feels genuine to me, I think partly because when I look around I see pieces of all the homes I’ve lived in before. The clock on my wall from my college apartment, the painting above my couch that was in the same location at my mom’s. All of these components that came from homes before, that have traveled with me here and helped to maintain this feeling of “home” within the space I reside in now. All physical items that I’ve brought with me, but embedded with the spirit of the spaces themselves. The legacy continues on, and home becomes an amalgamation of the women I’ve been lucky enough to share my life with.
When I think about my life, my being, I think of how the women in it have shaped me. And how in turn, I shape my space. To me, being a woman is characterized by depth, warmth, creativity, and intellect. All of which I find wherever I call home to embody. My mix-matched pillows represent my varied interests, my collected pieces of art remind me of my appreciation for beauty. My hand-painted walls make me think of my penchant for creating, and the animal figurines on my mantle showcase my sense of imagination. The contents of my home mirror my sense of self- my sense of womanhood, which is something so strong that it carries weight into everything we as women are, everything we create, everything we put out into this world. That sense of safety and acceptance that accompanies a home created by a woman is ultimately what I
think Rachel felt when she came over to my house over the holidays, and what I have been fortunate enough to feel with the women I’ve lived with for so much of my life. It’s something I’ll cherish and take with me into my life with my partner, my pets, and whatever person I end up being shaped into. It is a constant reminder of the strength of spirit that we as women contain, and pass on throughout the duration of our lives. I think it’s quite beautiful that women don’t need to be “homemakers,” because instead, we are home ourselves.
I got you a coffee. Oat milk, right? Is that a new top? I love your haircut. I saw your story!
I’m making your birthday gift, so it might be late. Can we do a craft night? Should we make dinner and watch together? Let’s go get piercings.
What shampoo do you use?
Anyone have a hairstylist they love?
Has anyone tried the TJs butternut squash mac and cheese?
Do you like your gyno?
Goodbye! Love you!
Get home safe. Text me when you make it.
Where are you? She’s almost here, I’m tracking her location. Come if you want to! You should come!
Collecting seashells and laying them out. Trying on rings at the flea market. Lining shelves with trinkets. Because she saw something and it made her think of you! Sitting in silence.
Crying side by side at the movie theater.
Trading clothes. Packing communal bags for vacations. Passing drinks around the table, ceremoniously taking sips of each. Letting a man buy a round. Giggling about him afterwards.
Can I come over? I don’t want to be alone. Are you home? I Door Dashed you something. Check your email.
Ew. He sounds like a loser.
I’m so sorry love :(
MY FAVORITE WAYS TO SAY, “I LOVE YOU,” TO MY FAVORITE WOMEN
by
Hallie Cain
A FASHION-DESIGNER
-TURNED-LAWYER’S
GUIDE TO CORPORATE STYLE
by Alissa Donovan
On days when I struggle to find something to wear, I hear my mom’s voice: “It’s not a fashion show, Alissa Camille.” And true enough, work is not a fashion show–even more so since I traded my career in fashion for one in law. Nevertheless, the saying “dress for the job you want, not the job you have” rings through my mind, and I am stuck gazing at the reflection of myself, pondering precisely what I want in an outfit and life at large. Does this dress say “law clerk” or “managing partner”? And do these shoes say “small business owner” or “mother of two”? I am left with cyclical thoughts akin to Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy, a trail of drool dribbling down my chin, and a watch unhinged at my wrist showing a time that is already ten minutes late.
All this to say: getting dressed in the morning is a puzzling sort of existential crisis, made only worse when your chosen career forces you to toe the line between personality and professionalism.
I started law school with the intention of never sacrificing
my personal style for the rigid structures of law firm dressing. The thought of a wardrobe filled with navy and black suits and a handheld steamer at the ready was too depressing to consider. However, over the years of corporate fashion faux pas (i.e., showing up to a fashion law conference wearing a Canadian tuxedo when everyone else in attendance took the “business fabulous” dress code to mean a slightly lighter shade of navy suit), I was forced to confront the reality that my daily wardrobe could use a touch (just a touch!) of professionalism.
Thus, I present: a fashion-designer-turned-lawyer’s guide to corporate style.
Tip One: Refer to the handbook This step is a literal, not symbolic, suggestion. Refer to your office’s handbook. Sometimes there will be helpful hints (“business casual,” “business professional,” or the one to be very afraid of: “wear whatever you are comfortable in!”). Take those buzz words to the bank (Pinterest) and see what you can cook up. A good tip is that offices
typically do not consider Canadian tuxedos to be formal wear.
Tip Two: Look to your co-workers for inspiration Taking note of what your peers are wearing is a great way to feel out what you can get away with. You have to be extra careful with this one, lest you wind up hitching your wagon to the office idler. (In other words: do not place too much stock on what one person in the office is wearing, particularly if that person does not seem especially good at their job). Get a feel for what your coworkers, as a collective, are wearing and take the same creative liberties they take.
Tip Three: Color within the lines (this is not a Sex and the City Reference) Coloring within the lines means to take the “bones” of corporate dressing (trousers, blazers, button downs) and make them fun. Making them fun, of course, means letting your personality shine through, whether this is done by eccentric patterns, bright colors, or interesting silhouettes. This also includes starting with a basic corporate outfit and adding an interesting accessory (statement earrings, headband, interesting shoes).
Bonus Tip: Remind yourself that it is not that serious What’s the worst that can happen by pushing your fashion wardrobe into the realm of *gasp* fun? So long as your fashion risks do not land you in a tough situation with HR (I urge you to refer again to Tip One), there is little reason to deprive yourself the joyous pleasure of expressing yourself through clothing, at the workplace and beyond.
PUZZLES & GAMES
DEPT.
NAME A WOMAN!
by Macy Kissel
ANGELOU, Maya 1928–2014, Author
ANTHONY, Susan B 1820–1906, Activist
AUSTEN, Jane 1775–1817, Author
CURIE, Marie 1867–1934, Scientist
CLEOPATRA 69 BC–12 AD, Ruler
EARHART, Amelia 1897–1939, Aviator
FORD, Betty 1918–2011, First Lady & Activist
GINSBURG, Ruth Bader 1933–2020, Lawyer & Justice
GOODALL, Jane 1934–present, Anthropologist
HAMILTON, Margaret 1936–present, Created the Apollo Code
