Wednesday, May 25, 2016


Yesterday when I picked up my son from school, we walked past a few of his female friends from class. They were plotting something nefarious together, and all I overheard was “Okay so I’m gonna dare George [not his real name] to date YOU Milly [not her real name] and so he’ll HAVE to be your boyfriend.”

These girls are barely 10 years old.

My son tried to talk to one of them and she did her fake “ha ha oh that’s funny” patronizing laugh.

I could feel my lower molars creating new grooves in my upper ones. I took a deep breath.

“Dude, did you hear what they were talking about?”


“Ugh,” I said. “They’re planning something awful.”


“They’re going to manipulate your friend George into dating Milly. Like you guys even know what dating  is.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they’re going to make him do something that he may not really want to do. And, let me stress, that is a HUGE NO when it comes to dating. You cannot force someone to do something AT ALL in that context. You can’t make someone like you who doesn’t. You should ask them and if they say no, people cry and you just move on. Ugh.  Hey dude, do you even know what dating someone is?”

“When you have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend.”

“And do you think you’re old enough for that?”

“Well, I don’t know. Am I old enough?”

And I knew I would have to face this question sooner or later. I figured and hoped it would be much later. But I took a few more steps. After all, we know that the outright ‘NO WAY’ answer just leads to sneaking out windows and doors at night and hiding stuff. With my son, you have to frame it in a very logical way, like he’s Mr. Spock with enthusiasm.

“OK, dude. Here’s the deal. Dating isn’t just having a boyfriend or girlfriend. There is much more than that. Any monkey can hook up with someone else.”

The word ‘monkey’ elicits peals of laughter.

“It’s true. But if you really want to show someone you think they are special, then you have to be ready to do special things for them. Like cooking. What sounds nicer? Taking someone out to eat at McDonald’s or making them a meal from scratch like they do on MasterChef?”

“MasterChef! Those kids are awesome!”

“Right, because any monkey can pay for a meal. You really show someone you care when you take the time to make food for them. And then you have to be able to take care of yourself. Nobody wants to date someone who can’t wash their face or brush their teeth. Wait, your friend Gina who was talking to Milly, she’s in Daycare, right?”

“Yeah. And she has a boyfriend.”


“Yeah, she told me.”

“Well listen, dude. Do you think it’s right that Gina, who is still in Daycare, which means she cannot look after herself or be alone at her house, is ready for a boyfriend?”

“But she has one.”

“That isn’t what I asked. Think about it. Gina’s parents can’t leave her alone to make decisions about her life. That’s why she’s in Daycare. She’s not ready or old enough to be responsible. Does that sound like someone you’d want as a girlfriend?”


“That’s the other thing, dude. Once you can take care of yourself, be responsible for making sure your face is clean, teeth are brushed, you can make yourself a meal, and you have your own money – because you don’t want to use my money to pay for your date, right?”


“Because that means your date is my date because I’m paying.”


“Exactly, dude. So once you can take care of yourself, cook a meal, and have your own money, you’ll be old enough to date. That could be next week. It could be well after you’re 45. But if you can do all of that, then you can show someone else the same respect you are showing yourself. Make sense?”


“Oh, and you can’t tell Gina you overheard her talking. You can, however, tell George that those girls are manipulating him. And then if he still wants to go ahead, you can always just tell Gina's father about her boyfriend."

I have no idea how I'm going to explain Tinder...

Sunday, February 21, 2016

What's Wrong With You?

I’m not sure why we don’t talk about when we’re not well. I mean, we will complain about minor illnesses –colds, flus, stomach flu, headaches – but we hardly ever talk about serious illnesses. We’ve only recently begun to discuss cancer (recent in the grand scheme of things), and even more recently we’ve begun to discuss mental illness.

I get it though. We don’t want people to worry about us or fuss. Sometimes that causes added stress. Unless you like attention, then you probably talk about  your hangnails you get on a daily basis.

There’s a lot of stuff going on with me most of you have probably seen via Instagram, Snapchat, or otherwise. There have been hints on Facebook. But only a handful of people know what’s really going on. And normally, I’d prefer to keep it that way, because nothing stresses me out more than people asking me if I’m okay every single day, or every other day, or every hour.

So let me start off by saying I will be fine. I am working on everything, with medical professionals.

The reason why I’ve decided to open up is because, well, I don’t want anyone else to go through what I am going through. I mean, we are all unique in how our bodies deal with illness. And some people talk about their illnesses for attention. The last thing I want right now is fucking attention. But that’s part of the reason why I’m in this mess in the first place. 

My official diagnosis is anxiety-driven hypertension. If you are an intelligent person (and I hope you are, if you are a reader of my blog), then you know that diagnosed anxiety is not just someone kvetching about a hangnail.

But how did I get here? Can I pinpoint the second? That’s part of the stuff I’m working on. When I find out, I’ll let you know. But I can say this much. My hypertension is a result of a few things that I used to pride myself on, but were leading to my demise:
  1.  No sleep – when you have creative ideas burning a hole in your brain needing to get out of your fingers, and you have no time to get to the page, you save it up until you just about burst before you let it out. I believed I did my best creating at night. I was getting maybe 3 hours of sleep a night or less for at least five years. Yes I wrote several novels, but only one of them is finished, and we won't talk about what's happening with that just now. 
  2. “You want something done, give it to a busy person” – I wouldn’t say no. I could always take more on because I can get through a lot of things quickly. I could always relax later. Later ended up being in the emergency ward with an IV drip on my arm, staring at a BP monitor spiking to 225/118.
  3. “You’re such a strong person” – said everyone. And I would always say I wasn’t. And in that very polite way we have, people would say “Oh yes you are,” and go on to tell me how strong I was, because they thought I needed to hear it, or perhaps they needed to say it. In fact, I need to hear the opposite, because all I have ever wanted it to just be weak. To feel okay to not hold it together. Everyone made that out to be so negative – “we admire your strength”. Don’t. I was just doing what had to be done, and I have needed to collapse and be supported by someone other than myself for a very long time. See point 2.
Not only that, but my mother and my son suffer from high anxiety. I was in an Anxiety Sandwich. There was no escaping, really.

So my words to you are, if you aren’t dealing with your own anxiety or hypertension or both, and you feel like you’re invincible, because you’re young, you’re smart, or you’re old and you passed by middle age without encountering a breakdown, you eat well…be careful. Watch that ego. Watch that you don’t take on too much. But most of all, watch that you don’t try to escape yourself OR immerse yourself in too much. Balance to life is key. Be strong but be weak. Be smart but let there be times where you do stupid stuff. Always do your best, but accept that there will always be someone better than you. Ask for help but don’t clamour for attention.

Take time to breathe.

Monday, February 1, 2016


Remember back in Kindergarten? School was the first place where you were on an equal level with everyone. In Kindergarten, everyone started out being friends with everyone else.

Then, as we grew older, we learn the hard way that not everyone is our friend.

Some people were obvious about it. It hurt at the time, but looking back, the people who were overt about their dislike of us were the most honest. They told us point blank they didn’t like us. They didn’t try to be nice. They didn’t feign any social grace. It was clear.

Some people were grateful to show us how much they did like us. They were always with us, we were always with them. We liked the same things, we had no problem going to their house, they had no problem going to ours. These friends were longtime friends – a friendship that could only be broken if something really bad happened, like betrayal. If they moved away, you tried your best to stay in touch, and you probably ended up finding them again on Facebook, picking up where you left off when you were kids.

Then there were those people in the middle. The ones you would like at school but not outside of school. Or vice versa – the ones you couldn’t talk to at school but were friends with once you left the property. These are the 'friends' that probably ended up in your “whatever happened to…” pile.

In person, friendship is earned and maintained accordingly. Giving someone your friendship, or them giving it to you, is a mark of respect. You’ve looked that person in the eye, you know where they live, you know where they work, and you possibly know what they look like puking in a public washroom. But you know these people, inside and out, because you have chosen to give each other your friendship, which is an honourable mutual bequeathal.  

Social media has modified this concept of friendship. You don’t have to meet someone face-to-face in order to be their friend anymore. You sign into your social media platform, and you're in Kindergarten once again. You find yourself in a group of people sharing one or more common interests, and everyone is your friend. From  there, you discover people who dislike you, or people who only want to talk to you in the context of the group, or people who you hit it off with well and start to contact them via DM, Skype, or IM. You get to know each other and realize that this person is a decent and cool human being. You’ve found a new friend.

But sometimes toxicity that rarely comes out in person emerges freely from behind the keyboard.

Social media friendships have allowed people to say and do things to people they call “friends” online that, were these same things attempted in person, would result in anything from a cold shoulder and a drink in the face to a restraining order.

First there are the group of ‘friends’ who only want to hear about your good news. They don’t want to know about your bad news. They will block you if you complain about your life “too much” – though they never do tell you how much is too much. While it’s admirable for people to want to maintain their positivity, the only way to appreciate the good in your life is by enduring the struggle of those things that can often be negative, and not allowing the disappointment and destructive feelings that accompany them to overtake you. And sometimes you just need to know you’re not the only person who prefers poofy cheesies to crunchy cheesies.

Then there are the group of ‘friends’ who leech onto your negativity. If you are having a sad day, they are there with the “I hear u” and “OMG so am I”; if you’re complaining about your latest breakup, they inundate you with “here 4 u with #cookiedoughicecream” and lend you their ears for you to vent and cry to, seemingly encouraging of your expression of pain when all they are doing is feasting upon your low points, because it makes them feel superior or justified about the ills in their lives that they refuse to change. The second you start to feel better or indicate a brighter outlook for your life, they do one of two things – they stop talking to you (until you go through another bad spell) or they gaslight you into believing you are in denial about your actual state of mind. Sometimes they do both.

Finally there are the group of creepazoids. I can’t think of a better word. Those friends who you first start chatting with about casual interests, then you find out that they have a problem, or perhaps you need to vent a problem to someone who isn’t quite a stranger and yet not a close friend so you get some perspective. They are helpful to you or you are helpful to them. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, that person gets the idea that you’re interested in them, and the conversations become uncomfortable, and often times inappropriate. You try distancing yourself from them, hoping they will get the hint, but they stalk you on social media. They try to get your attention with little comments, at first trying to be cute and funny, and when that doesn't work, they try hurtful, personal, and often nasty passive-aggressive statuses or messages. They don’t attack you or troll you directly, but because of the conversations you’ve had, they know exactly how to push your buttons, and you react. They don’t respond in a respectful way when you tell them to stop bothering you. They’re not quite harassing you, because they aren’t relentless, but you dread opening your social media in case they’ve tried to contact you. You end up having no other course but to block them because all they’ve done is creep you out.

When you do find special friends on social media, those people who you are happy to Skype with, to send messages of comfort and support and encouragement and maybe just something silly to make them laugh, and they do the same for you, you’ve found a friend for life, and it doesn’t really matter if you end up meeting them in the real world – though it would be amazing to meet someone who has brought something special and unique to your life, sometimes it’s difficult to travel to their corner of the planet. And your friend on the other end of the line understands this.

So why am I spending tonight writing a blog about something that may seem painfully obvious to everyone? Because January brought to the forefront all of these categories of “friends”. I have learned who belongs closer to my heart and who does not. I have been hurt and disappointed by people who I thought were good souls, and I have been greatly surprised by the outpouring of support from people who I thought were just casual acquaintances.

The worst has been people who have acted like spoiled brats clamouring for my attention at a time when the last thing I wanted to do was be harassed, stalked, latched onto, or patronized. I could have just blocked them and be done with it. (I have done to some and still may to others.) 

But I don’t think I’m the only one who’s gone through this friend reevaluation, in real life or online. And that’s why I’m writing this today. For anyone who feels gaslighted, cornered, stuck in a rut, or in a position where you try your best to be a kind, respectful, and even  nice person and yet always end up with leeches stuck to your legs after you go wading through the swamp of social media. I’m here to hand you my salt shaker. Call people out when they bother you, and watch their true selves appear before you. They will either be reasonable and respectful, or they won’t. And you will know what to do. Because you learned how to deal with this in the schoolyard a long time ago.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Gods are Immortal

The sun came in just as I took this shot. I think it was David.

Where do I even begin?

I feel like I’ve lost a parent. I HAVE lost a parent. David Bowie was the creative father to so many of us. He felt like a part of my family. I woke up this morning to tens of condolence messages, as did so many Bowie fans today. Not just “Oh Damn”, but, like so many others around the world from what I have seen on the news, people leaving messages for all big Bowie fans feeling pain for our loss.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to find words today. After all, it is a nightmare when the first words you hear upon waking is “David Bowie is dead.”

It’s a joke. A hoax. Another death troll. And then there was this:

It had been his 69th birthday on Friday. A milestone. For those of us with senses of humour.
Inasmuch as I am broken right now, I am so grateful that David Robert Jones decided to pursue art. Decided that the fight that took the vision from his eye and left it paralyzed did not stop him in pursing what he needed to do to live. Music. Acting. Art. Regardless of how much or how little it sold, how successful or unsuccessful, how much people liked or didn’t like it, he continued. He did what he wanted to do his way, and he made it all so fucking cool.

David Bowie was cool because he was. He didn’t try to be cool. He was just himself. To an extent. He kept his real self hidden deep below the personae he portrayed in public. That led to serious substance abuse, self-doubt, naiveté when it came to the business side – remember, this is the man who lost EVERYTHING because of scoundrels in the music industry. This was the man who got sole custody of his son in 1978 at a time when judges didn’t even contemplate that a mother could be a poor influence. This is a man who wasn’t afraid to say he was gay or bi or wear makeup or have long hair at a time when much of society had never even seen a gay or transgendered person.

And he got it all back. His money. His confidence. After years of being someone else on stage, he finally showed his face, but it was still the face we wanted, and often needed, to see. Even in the last video for Lazarus, with his well-worn face, it was the visage we needed for reassurance that all was not lost in the world of originality or creativity. We would not be washed over with monotony. His last light to shine, while the last thing he kept from us was the cancer that was taking him away. 

In the background I have a bootleg going of the 1995 Outside tour with Nine Inch Nails. This is still one of the best live extravaganzas I had the honour and pleasure of attending. How much has young Trent grown in those 20 years. How much did that tour confirm that Bowie would always be the master of the rock and roll stage?

There are a million tributes to Bowie in as many languages today. They started last week with the release of Blackstar. And what a way to go – Bowie entered our collective consciousness on his own terms, and he left on his own terms. How many people can say that?

For me, Bowie wasn’t just a schoolgirl or teenage crush that fades. My love, admiration, respect, and adoration for Bowie grew as I grew. Whenever I have been stuck creatively, I don’t look to other writers as much as I look to musicians, and of those, it’s David Bowie I go back to, time and time again. WWDBD. Absolutely.

Bowie wasn’t afraid to fail. He took those failures and turned them into lessons learned. He helped other artists to know not to make the same mistakes. He went with his creative gut instinct no matter how things turned out.

All that and more comes out in Blackstar. That poor album is going to be dissected to death like some type of Shakespearean play now. Don’t get me wrong – Blackstar is brilliant, it is woefully prophetic, heartbreaking in places. But it is an album and a thank you gift. This should not be taken apart. It 
should be accepted as it was presented, just as we accepted the man, and we should accept ourselves.

I wrote this on my personal Facebook page as a status for what will always be my Christmas Day, January 8th, and it sums up how I will always feel:

Happy 69th Birthday to the one and only David Bowie. Thank you for everything you have done. You are my god of creativity and pretty well all of life. I hope that one day I can have the same kind of courage with my artistry that you do, and have it even be 1/4 as masterful. Oh and thanks for the gift of Blackstar today.

Rest In Peace, David. Enjoy the incredible jam session you're about to walk into, and steal the entire show.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

A Birthday Gift to be Shared

Many of you have probably seen the still photos of me playing this guitar. You might have seen a 15 second video on Instagram with a section of a song that I kinda got good at.

What you may not know is that this 1979 Gibson Les Paul Custom in Tobacco Sunburst is not mine. It belonged to my husband Paul who would have been 45 years on today (September 16).

We were together during a time when you could truly avoid having your picture taken if you wanted to. Neither of us liked it so much; we both preferred to be behind the lens. So unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of him playing the guitar except for those in my memories.

I remember he tried to teach me a couple of times, but I always complained about how much it hurt my fingers. And I could never play a proper E chord. So I gave up. That was his thing, the guitar thing, the songwriting thing, the thing he did when he wasn’t chefing. My thing was listening to music, writing, and taking photographs of things where I couldn’t be seen.

After he died, that guitar stayed on display. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t. It was his. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, either. I moved out of that circle of musicians and chefs and things.
When I rediscovered my writing craft and decided to make a more serious and concerted effort into making a go of this, I found myself moving in more creative circles once again. That included hanging with musicians. I kept looking at the Les Paul. I realized the shame and dishonour I was doing to that instrument by letting it sit there, in the corner, letting the wood dry, letting it collect dust. Paul would have never wanted that to happen, just as he would have never wanted his chefs knives to sit in a drawer and grow dull.

So I made it my New Year’s Resolution in 2015 to learn to play the damn thing. And over the course of seven months, I think I’ve done all right. I’m not great. But I’m better than I was in the Spring, and I keep improving. I still can't play an E chord very well. And at first my fingers did indeed hurt, but I got used to it quickly. 

Sometimes you need to go through great pain before you can understand those things that are merely minor cuts and bruises. 

Paul loved the Blues and had books and tried to learn and play deep down south guitar blues. Well, I’m not quite ready for that. But he also loved Pink Floyd. And I did learn one song by them (it’s probably easy by Gilmour standards).

So in that birthday tradition of gifts that don’t cost anything, I recorded a video of me playing (and singing) Wish You Were Here. I left in the mistakes. I’m not perfect at this, I’m no virtuoso. I’ve barely begun. But I wanted it to be authentic, like it would have been if I had taken lessons from him and learned how to play this on my own and then gone back and surprised him with it. So there are finger trips, missed beats, cracking voices. I left out the solos because I just kept tripping over them badly in every take, so there’s something I have to work on.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little birthday gift I made for my late husband. I’m leaving it up on the public stream here for the next 48 hours. I’ll make it a private link or take it down after Thursday.

I just hope wherever he is, he hasn’t been cringing while I’ve been learning. I hope he doesn’t mind his present. And I hope he’s laughing where I’m smirking at my rookie mistakes.

Happy 45th birthday, Bobo. Wish You Were Here.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

A Question for the Internet (or Opinions - You Got 'Em, I Want 'Em)

I have had one of the worst migraines I’ve had in a long time over the past few days. It started just before the stomach flu I had. So I spent almost 48 hours inside my house while the weather was glorious and sunny outside.  

But enough was enough. Other than an hour I spent out at the dentist, I had to get out of the confines of home, and I had to get my son away from all electronic gizmos and gadgets we have here.

We went to the zoo today for about 90 min. We have a membership so we can go and come as we please. I’s only a 15 min drive from the house, so it’s perfect for those days like this when we just need to stretch our legs and yet see exciting and interesting things. Plus, animals.  

During those 90 min, we witnessed three (3) mothers screaming and spanking their children in public, for things that, in my opinion, didn't warrant the spanking.  Two of those incidents didn't really warrant the screaming, either, though I understand how that can happen, and have been guilty of screaming at people, not just my kid, in public many times when they didn’t deserve it, because I was simply at my wits end and lost all hold on my patience.

My son stopped to stare at all three incidents when they were happening, and as much as I tried to guide him away, he was rooted to the spot. After the first incident, he said, "[boy's name that mother screamed out] must've done something really bad.”

(Side note: my son hears a name once, he will call the person by that name. If you call your buddy, “Hey, Butthead!” that will be your buddy’s name even after he tells him his real name. That’s how my son’s mind works.)

This was my answer to him:

“Every child is different. Every parent is different. Every family is different. When you see a parent yelling at a kid, you have to mind your own business. You may not think it was something so bad that the kid deserved to be yelled at, but that isn’t your call to make. Unless you see a parent punching a child in public, you just walk away, okay?”

I repeated that statement the other two times when we saw mothers screeching and smacking their kids behinds and arms, and my son stopped to stare. He didn’t say anything the other two times, and I don’t know what he was thinking. But he just nodded and said, “Okay.” in that ‘well, I’m gonna do what you say but I don’t like it.” tone of voice.

So here are my questions to you, Internet. And when I say “you”, I don’t just mean parents. Because everyone, parent or not, has probably seen a public scenario where it looks like a parent is losing it on a child, and may have even witnessed those parents carrying out a form of corporal punishment.
  •       How do you answer a kid who sees another parent punishing their child using physical means in public?
  •       How do you react when you see a parent punishing their child with physical means in public?
  •       Would you ever step in in a situation with parents and kids? Would you do nothing at the time and call 911 or Children’s Aid later?
  •       What is your opinion on how I handled the situation? Let’s keep some things in mind:  (i)  I have never hit my child in public (I have spanked him at home once and I’m not proud of it; this was before he was six years old, and it was one swift swat), even when he has hit me (which he has done several times and how he reacts in red anger because of his ASD); and (ii) I  have had a screaming match with my child in public (more than one but fewer than five), and nobody has ever interfered when it was happening.  

I am looking for answers here.  I am at a loss. It was much easier to explain why the turtles were climbing on each other’s backs than why a mom hits her kid and we say nothing about it when he has been told all of his life that hitting someone is wrong.

So here’s your chance. I will not judge anyone’s opinion, even if you call me a bad parent or a bad citizen. And I hope nobody will judge yours if you are courageous enough to speak your mind.
There is no such thing as a perfect parent. But at what point should we stop overlooking the imperfection and try to reason with them, or interfere?


Monday, August 3, 2015

We Are Stardust...

My former stepdaughter (or whatever I should call my ex’s child with whom I’m still close in spite of the fact that her dad and I broke up a while ago) got her first period last month. She’s 11 ½. Not really a big deal given I was 11 ¼ when I got mine. It happens.

She’s spending the month with us, and being the long weekend full of big plans, guess what came “early”? Now I only use quotes because as anyone who has ever had a period knows, there is no such thing as “early” or “late” when you’re starting out. Until your body sorts itself out, you can get your period any time it bloody well feels like showing up (pun intended).

So even though her mother had a talk with her, and her dad had a talk with her, nobody had the talk with her. And no, I don’t mean the “well this is why you get your period” chat. She’s heard that all her life (her mother’s an OB/GYN). She knows very well how the reproductive system works.
So today when she was getting ready to go out, I made her sit down in the washroom while I did her hair so we could have the talk.

It’s the talk that I wish someone had had with me when I first had my period.  All I heard about was the cramps, the thick pads, the blood, the bloating, the “women can’t do what they normally do when they’re having their periods” excuse, and our pet names for that time of the month. Aunt Flo. The Curse. 

The resentment that women have for their bodies begins on the first day of our first period. Women tell young women to hate this naturally-occurring part of our maturity. We take drugs to make it go away. We are told it makes us weak, worthless, ugly, smelly, bloated, and full of pain.

That’s a bucket full of confidence and self-worth right there. No self-loathing at all, right? No wonder women hate their periods so much.

I asked my stepdaughter if this is what she had been told – that it’s horrible. That it will hurt. That it’s, well, a curse. And she said yes. She said she had been looking forward to it until it arrived. A month ago. And now she hated it because everyone has told her how awful it is. Not because she has felt anything awful herself.

So I told her the truth. And none of that bullshit I described above is the truth.


This is what I told my stepdaughter:

The truth is, our periods give us power. Women have the power of creation. Periods are made up of, well, blood. And what’s that motto the Red Cross uses? Blood is the Gift of Life.

Sure, there’s bloating (drink water, replenish yourself, and you will never retain water) and there’s cramping (keep your feet warm – reflexology. Warm feet mean little cramping), and there’s that feeling of malaise and mood swings and tenderness and…

That’s how it’s supposed to be. Our bodies let us know when something is wrong; we have simply chosen, through chemicals and other means, not to listen. When we are gearing up for our time of the month, we can feel our bodies changing. Let yourself become aware of what those feelings are, so you know what’s normal for yourself and what is out of the ordinary. Our bodies need to be at their peak to create life; they tell us when we're healthy and when we're not taking care of ourselves.

You will find that, as you are about to start your cycle, you will want to create more, whether it’s writing, cooking, painting, drawing, composing, colouring – the body wants to create, and thus gives powers to the mind and soul. (try it – I get my best writing done when I’m ovulating and PMSing).

And then I told her something that I’m sure nobody has told her in her life.

“Do you know that you are made up of carbon compounds? And do you know what else is made up of carbon compounds? Everything. Including the stars. Everything we know in the universe that is natural has carbon compounds. So when your body decides that you are old enough to have your period, it’s telling you that you have stardust inside of you. And that stardust is there for you to create your own universe with.”

Whether you are starting out on your magical menstrual journey, whether you have chosen to have children, whether you have chosen to remain childless, or whether your body is physically incapable of giving you a child, you are full of stardust. You are a woman. Without women, creation cannot exist.

And that is what we should be telling our daughters, nieces, granddaughters, friends. It is not a curse to have a period. It is not horrible to experience the power of creativity. Our periods are not burdens sent to weaken us.

Sometimes certain people have bad experiences with their bodies. I can hear women screaming at me through their screens right now because their periods lay them to waste. While you're screaming at me, remember there are people out there who deal with different types of physical limitations, by birth and/or by circumstance, and they don’t let those stop them from living. Nobody should be using their gender as an excuse to be weak, and by perpetuating this period myth, we encourage the next generation to do just that.

We need to stop.

We need to embrace the stardust. No more using those “curse” words. No more hating your body because of its monthly biological cycle. And no more tales perpetuating feminine weakness just because it's time for you to wear a maxi thin pad. 

Embrace the stardust within you, ladies.