When you make it to Friday and then realize you still have to make it THROUGH Friday.
Chronic pain and fatigue can drain all the energy you have available to you. And yet you still get up every day, go to work, do your job, and sometimes even smile.
YOU, dear friend, are a warrior.
Dear Teachers: as you head back to school, remember that you are a human being with a job. You do not have to give up your life for your job. You do not have to feel like you are supposed to have passion and selflessness. Creating a safe and welcoming space where learning can take place and the curriculum can be delivered and assessed does not mean you can’t leave work at work and live your best full life. Teaching is a profession like any other. It does not have to be your calling. You do not have to devote your life to your students. You have to do the job you are being paid to do just like any other career. I LOVE teaching and I am passionate about Special Education. That doesn’t mean teaching is my everything. Work-life balance is just as important for teachers. Boundaries with students extends to boundaries with their families, with colleagues, with worklife. You, dear teacher, are not a superhero. You are a perfectly imperfect human like everyone else. Don’t forget about yourself and your needs in these next few intense weeks (or months!) #teacher #teachersofinstagram #specialeducation #speced #specialeducationteacher #backtoschool #selfcaresunday
Can we be okay with fat bodies simply because we can be okay with all bodies?
Can we just accept fatness instead of explaining why fat is okay?
Messages that fat is beautiful, fat is sexy, curves are sensual, or that “men like curves”, all tell me that my right to exist is based on my attractiveness to others.
I am worthy because I am alive. I am fat. I don’t need that to be explained away with other descriptors.
The body positivity messages I am receiving are that it is okay to be fat if I am either sexy or beautiful.
What if I am neither of those?
Does that mean I am excluded?
I don’t have to be beautiful to be worthy.
My appearance and my value are not dependent on one another.
I don’t need to be told that I have a pretty face, or nice curves, or that I’m not fat I “have fat”, because my body does not define me.
No one has to be beautiful. From one spectrum of the BMI to another, you are not required to be beautiful. I am not “beautiful” I am simply a perfectly imperfect human.
Body positivity means actively accepting all people in their rawness.
I Am My Scars
I used to hate my scars. I found them embarrassing for several reasons. Mainly, because they are blemishes on my skin, because they draw attention to specific parts of my body, because they lead to questions about what happened, and because they force me to admit that I am imperfect in appearance and in action.
Today I looked at my thigh. I saw the wrinkled skin that looks like a fat slug. I remembered all the ways I used to try to hide it. And I realized that now I embrace my scars. They are like tattoos; permanent reminders and celebrations of where I’ve been and what has made me who I am. My scars are my life story told in flesh.
I am my scars.
I am the cartwheels on a shard of broken class in Newfoundland. The sharp knife in the dish water. The shattering glass of the screen door. The scissors I used to cut leather. The jagged metal on the hearth when I painted my Mother’s walls. I am the small lines on my elbows and knees from playing in the woods. I am clam shell cuts and fish hook pokes. I am calluses from crocheting, knitting, whittling and woodworking, bare feet summer hikes, Birkenstocks, and flip flops. I am my finger tips on my first steel string guitar. I am sharp pebbles in red jelly-shoes.
I am I-don’t-know-what-happened, and where-did-that-come-from. I am falling off bikes, slipping in ballet slippers, leaping before looking, tree climbing, and unprepared balancing acts. I am chickenpox but everyone else has it too so we have to go to school anyway. I am surgery and too many IVs.
I am tears and snot and pain. I am joy and laughter til my belly hurts. I am adventures and risks. I am warning tales and funny stories.
This body has carried me and allowed me to do, to play, to create, to try, to feel pleasure, to love. This body is marked by moments in life that shaped me. It tells the stories I’ve tried to hide, the stories of things I’ve forgotten, and the stories shared over endless cups of tea.
This body has been tortured by me and yet it is still here. Still waiting to be loved. Still waiting to be taken care of. Still willing to let me keep trying. To keep living.
This body is how I came to be, where I have been, who I am now, and where I am going. This body is my home. This skin is my story. These scars are me. Unapologetic, imperfect, blemished, me.
As Pride Toronto approaches, I am reminded of how much further there is to go. Global violence and persecution of LGBTQ+ people continues to be legal, accepted, and/or ignored. Closer to home, whether it is transphobic acts of violence, a serial killer in Toronto’s gaybourhood, a mass shooting in a Florida nightclub, or a kid in a school yard using the word “homo” as the ultimate insult, LGBTQ+ people are not free. We are not safe. We are not accepted. This Pride Parade, we are encouraged to wear black as we watch the celebration. At the end of the parade, the barriers will come down and we are invited to flood the streets in a March of solidarity to both honour those we have lost, and to visibly show that we will not disappear. We are here. For more info see: http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/pride-safety-campaign-1.4680673
That fine line between flying and falling,
and the struggle to notice the difference.
