Fleeting Woman

A Short Story

Photo credit:  Aaron Mello

Photo credit: Aaron Mello

She lives in your subconscious. She’s the poem that inspires you to write your own. You only wish you had half the spine of the notebooks she vastly occupies on your desk, never finding the courage to utter a word to her. Not one. She gives words real currency: all those nights tirelessly spent trying to recapture her. The nights you become a ransom writer.

A flicker of thought.


In the rain.

Muted colors.

Chasing her mirage.

Echoes of the unsaid.

Stubborn pavement.

Sweeping mind.

Highest frequency.





The Self-Acceptance Movement for Women, 'Women Who Look Like Me'

I recently wrote about my journey as a woman unapologetically passionate about saying goodbye to the unrealistic standards of beauty and leaving more room for what feels authentic. Fully present in that empowering revelation, I felt compelled to do something to promote the diverse composition of women further. What began as a simple idea for a t-shirt has since sparked the movement on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, to unite and urge women everywhere to embrace themselves as they are through the sharing of self-acceptance stories.

“I don't have realistic expectations or unambiguous descriptions of beauty. Why? Beauty isn't clear-cut. Beauty is versatile enough to be whatever I want it to be. I have the power to invent my own brand of beautiful. Beauty gives me that.”

At a time when equality and visibility (without shame) is crucial to our ongoing plight, treatment, and condition as women, this is my contribution to our active voice as both a collective and as individuals. To our revolution. By virtue of love, respect, acceptance, support, encouragement, and the gratitude to daily inspire one another, our wars are best fought and won, together. 

Join me in this sisterly movement to connect with ourselves and embrace women all over the world. As we are.

Buy the shirt here.

I'm Every Woman, Not Some Sub-Par Headlining Act

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I remember cringing the first time someone told me I was a “beautiful woman”: post-shower, naked, and completely vulnerable before her. In retrospect, it wasn’t so much being called “beautiful” as it was hearing it paired with “woman.” Not that I was ashamed of my womanhood or being seen in a full-blown feminine light, but in that moment I realized that I had previously only ever been made to feel marveled at as some kind of core aesthetic. Overlooked, pacified. A mute screen of woman. It was the first time I felt fully embraced as a valid representation of a woman and not hindered by my androgyny.

“My only purpose is to be the most authentic representation of myself I can be. If any or all of what that looks like makes you uncomfortable, I’m not sorry. For some, my message will be lost on. I won’t be for everybody and that’s okay. To those who see ME: Thank you.” 

I’ve been embracing myself more and hiding less. I feel empowered in my skin. On this journey of freedom, I feel a neutralized sense of gender expression notwithstanding the insistence to label me with little to no room for fluidity. I feel secure enough in my sexuality to intimately explore the full-spectrum of women—having only ever dated hyper-feminine women—as my attraction to more masculine-presenting women blooms. This transparency—still one-hundred percent human—invokes a heightened sense of vulnerability:

“How will I be responded to?”

I’m immediately reminded that I’m not anyone’s boxed perception of me—synonymous only with my propensity to leave room to redefine myself, and again. And again.