JDH Rod – Truths and Stories

Covid-19 Vaccination Religious Exemption Letter

I work in a small healthcare office in Portland, OR and my religious exemption was approved by my boss on September 14th, 2021.

Nearly every state within the United States is required to uphold your religious exemption as your constitutional right (CA, ME, MS, NY, and WV do NOT offer religious exemptions). I am aware that corporations are coming down hard on religious exemptions and using fear tactics for compliance. The truth is that you are under no obligation to inform your employer of what your religious beliefs are, and it is entirely enough to submit a signed paper that says “getting vaccinated for covid-19 is against my religious beliefs.” End of story. You do not have to belong to a church or an organized religion or show proof of your affiliation in any way and your employer cannot require proof of attendance or references to validate your religious beliefs. They are yours and yours alone and philosophical, moral, and ethical beliefs that you live by ARE religious beliefs (in AR, CO, LA, MI, MN, ND, NM, OH, OK, OR, PA, TX, UT, WA, and WI–but NOT IL) and therefore worthy of exemption. If you live in Illinois you must pursue a religious exemption and not a philosophical exemption. There are several form letters already online about the vaccines using aborted fetal tissue if this applies to you and your belief system. If your employer tries to tell you that you are a threat to the health and safety of others they must prove it with a court order based on sworn testimony from a licensed medical doctor. If you are an employee in Oregon and your employer wants you to fill out the OHA Religious Exemption Form CROSS OUT exception and write exemption when you sign the document. If your employer denies your exemption ask them what their appeal process is. If your appeal gets denied, you have every right to file a lawsuit against your employer. These lawsuits are already happening and they will eventually reach the Supreme Court. Things are currently looking much darker in Canada where clinicians are on a gag order from their government and can’t talk freely about adverse vaccine reactions without fear of losing their license to practice.

A right that you don’t exercise is a right that is eventually lost. Please, do all you can, while you can. Our freedoms and our livelihood depend on it. Please use any and all of the content I have below to draft your own religious exemption letter. Spread it far and wide to anyone who may need it to help hold the line on medical freedom and bodily autonomy. May the Force be with you all, you courageous warriors of light.

[COVER LETTER/EMAIL OF INTENT]

September 1, 2021

Dear [EMPLOYER],

I’m writing in regards to your inquiry about my timeline for getting vaccinated by October 18th. Being mandated to receive a SARS-CoV-2 vaccination is in conflict with my sincerely held religious beliefs, which is why I am invoking my constitutional right to a religious exemption from Governor Brown’s mandate.

Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits employment discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex and national origin. The term “religion” includes all aspects of religious observance and practice, as well as strongly held moral beliefs. Further, ORS 433.416(3) is a current Oregon statute established in 1989 that states, “A worker shall not be required as a condition of work to be immunized under this section, unless such immunization is otherwise required by federal or state law, rule, or regulation.” According to the National Governor’s Association; “As state managers, governors are responsible for implementing state laws and overseeing the operation of the state executive branch.” Governors are not in a position nor do they have the power to create laws—that is the job of the legislative branch of government. Further, it is well established in common law that law cannot compel performance. Laws exist in America as a negative force to keep people from harming others, not to mandate, force, or compel people to do something under threat, duress, or coercion.

Governor Kate Brown’s continued emergency order notwithstanding has presently allowed her to mandate vaccination as a term of employment for healthcare workers. Whether or not these orders can be enforced and carried out is yet to be determined. However, given the current circumstances, I prefer to invoke my constitutional right to a religious exemption from mandatory vaccination. My signed religious exemption letter is attached for you to review and keep on file. Please let me know of any reason you may reject my exemption, which is required by law to be accommodated.

It has also come to my attention over the past week that other employees of [BUSINESS NAME] have been made aware of my vaccination status without my consent. I strongly encourage that the contents of this correspondence and any thereafter remain between you and I alone, as it is against the law to share private, confidential health information with any individual—employee, patient, or otherwise.

Sincerely,

[YOUR NAME]

[SIGNED RELIGIOUS EXEMPTION LETTER]

September 1, 2021

[BUSINESS ADDRESS]

Dear [EMPLOYER NAME],

As an undergraduate at [UNIVERSITY] I received a minor degree in biological and healthcare ethics. One of the fundamental principals of healthcare ethics is the right of self-determination, also known as self-governance or bodily autonomy. Bodily autonomy ensures that we are treated like persons and not like things or objects. My most foundational moral belief is that we respect each other as moral agents, with the utmost reverence for personal autonomy, free from external constraints, manipulations, and forms of coercion. Simply, that we must respect the right of individuals to do with their own bodies as they see fit. I believe my right to my own bodily autonomy is a sacred birthright outside of the realm of control of my employer or my government. I believe that we must treat individuals as ends in themselves and never as a means to an end, even under the most brutal of circumstances and with the best of intentions.

The right to bodily autonomy has been a pillar of my [JOB DUTY] for my entire career. I have always educated my patients to the best of my ability and given them all of the information available to allow them to make the best decisions for themselves in regards to their health and their treatment options. I believe at the end of the day that every patient knows what is best for themselves and their right to consent to treatment is theirs and theirs alone- not mine or my governments’.

My personally held beliefs mimic that of Judge John P. Flaherty Jr., in his ruling of the McFall v. Shimp Supreme Court case of 1978, indicating that forcing someone to an intrusion of their own body “would defeat the sanctity of the individual and would impose a rule which would know no limits, and one could not imagine where the line would be drawn.” I sincerely believe that if we allow our local governments to violate our right to bodily autonomy now, with vaccine mandates, that it will set a precedent in the future for larger humanitarian atrocities—even things as incomprehensible as forced sterilization. History has already shown us what happens when we compromise on these universally accepted values and liberties. It is why the Nuremberg Code was created and has been globally accepted since 1947.

I further believe that the current worldwide fervor forcing the mandatory vaccination narrative parallels circumstances set forth in the chapter of Revelations in The Bible. Much of my confirmation into the Community United Methodist Church focused on what the end of days would look like and entail. It describes cataclysmic natural disasters, famine, poverty, and pestilence as well as a “mark of the beast,” which limits persons from being able to work and initiate commerce without it. “He also forced everyone, small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on his right hand or on his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark,” (Revelations 13:16-17). In Christianity the mark of the beast is known to be evil and satanic and my lifelong membership of the church leads me to believe that mandatory vaccinations and vaccine passports fall within these guidelines set forth in Revelations. For this belief I also invoke my right to an exemption.

Since the inherent duties of my job cannot be performed from home and my position does not accommodate for similar exceptions without undue hardship to both myself and the business, I am requesting an exemption to the unlawful mandate, asking that I may perform my duties the same as I have for the last sixteen months. I will continue to wear my mask so long as the local mandates deem healthcare providers must, but not longer than, and continue the stringent sanitation protocols already laid out for [BUSINESS NAME] employees in our covid-19 protocols, including but not limited to: handwashing and sanitizing between patients, chiropractic table sanitation between patients, sanitizing high contact areas like iPads and door handles, and using the Jade Surgically Clean Air purification system in the treatment rooms which our clinic claimed “removes 99.998% of viruses from indoor air,” in an email sent out to our patients on August 25^th, 2020.

My privacy and confidentiality shall be maintained and I shall be treated and held to the same standards of every other [BUSINESS NAME] employee, assuring that there will be no physical requirements or markers of shame for being unvaccinated henceforth, including but not limited to being the only practitioner in the clinic forced to wear a mask, even if local mandates dictate that vaccinated healthcare workers may proceed without masks. By asking for an exemption rather than an exception I guarantee that I will not be discriminated against in the workplace.

I am signing this document without waiver of my legal right to seek religious exemption and accommodation from any requirement that conflicts with my sincerely held religious belief, and without waiver of the right to seek legal redress from any wrongful denial of such exemption.

Sincerely,

[YOUR NAME]

[YOUR TITLE/POSITION OF EMPLOYMENT]

Gala Apples

I never told you about how shopping for Gala apples used to weigh so heavy on me. You were always so particular about them. Their shape. Their shine. Their texture and crunch. It always felt like the margin of perfection was too narrow for me to get right—the learning curve of apple scoring too steep for me to master. So it became your job to hand select each ruby prize. You did so lovingly, only bringing home the best and sweetest red globes for our lips to caress.

For the first year after you left, every time I reached for a Gala apple from the produce stand I felt a tightness in my chest. I had never told you about the imaginary scoring system that I failed to learn. But even after you were gone, the pressure to pluck perfection from the pile lingered. Each time I went to the grocery store the anxiety returned. The longer it went on, the sillier it felt. The visceral tightening in my stomach, bringing back a flood of memories of the life we used to have. Of the people we used to be.

Eventually I stopped buying Gala apples, for fear that the weight of them would crush me. I switched to Granny Smith, because the touch of them didn’t break my heart. They were tart rather than sweet, and their bruises never bothered me.

I’ve since found equilibrium in my grocery store escapades, and the bottom of my fruit drawer holds space for both luscious red and green orbs. It doesn’t shake me anymore when I pull the drawer out and they roll around together. They’re just a piece of you and a piece of me, all that remains of our beautiful, chaotic hyperbole.

LETTERS TO MY FUTURE LOVER

I’m not the fling girl. I’m more the all-or-nothing type of broad.
I’m not a yes woman—not a seen and not heard woman.
I’ve got a sharp wit and a strong spine and I speak my mind.
I will push you, challenge you, and tell you when you’re full of shit.

But I’ll also stoke a fire in your soul like you’ve never known before.
One that blazes against the night sky, calls forth the gods from their thrones, and shines light on the places inside yourself you’ve kept hidden.
I’ll support you while you chase your dreams, and while I hold you to the highest level of accountability.
I’ll hold you together in your weakest moments, and I’ll stand beside you as you climb your tallest peaks.

I’ll write you love poems and leave you silly notes, making you smile from across the world or just across the hall.
I’ll sing while I do the dishes and dance while I make some sad excuse for a meal.
I’ll distract you and touch your butt when you’re trying to do the same.

I’ll chase the sun with you. Buy last minute plane tickets around the world with you.
I’ll make you laugh until you cry—with charm and sarcasm and grace.
I’ll jump out of an airplane with you and then take you to the symphony.
I’ll make you remember what it’s like to fall in love for the first time again.

I’ll be your last first kiss and the woman you take home for Christmas.
And the one your mother asks about every holiday after when it doesn’t work out.

Because few things ever do.

Canada: Lucky #13

Below are my verbatim journal entries from the three days I spent in Canada as a gift to myself for my 28th birthday. It was my first experience with solo traveling, my 13th country to visit abroad, and far more than I ever expected.

23 September 2018, Sunday

Today was my first day as a solo traveler. I’m in Vancouver, BC after taking the eight hour Amtrak ride after work yesterday afternoon. I got into Canada late last night, so today was day one in country number thirteen, my favorite number. I started to question if this was a good idea when I began packing on Friday night. I didn’t have any set plans for my next three days after deciding to go against my usual nature of planning out every detail for a trip, so packing was extra anxiety inducing. I didn’t know what I would be doing, so I wasn’t sure what I needed, and I’ve always hated packing anyway. It stresses me out so I always wait until the very last minute, avoiding it as long as possible. Work went fast on Saturday and the train ride was pretty smooth. I read and colored and text a dude from Tinder even though I knew better. He didn’t respond, but again, I’m like a velociraptor constantly testing the perimeter that encages me. Oh, you’re still ignoring me? Just checking for the third time this week. I like to push things to their very limits, just to be sure of where those limits lie. It’s this cute little quirk I have.

I have full cell service here, so it’s more like visiting a big city in the States than it is being in a foreign country. I decided to wing it with public transportation getting from the Amtrak to my hostel in the dark and was pleasantly surprised when I handled it without any issues. I arrived to my room after midnight and unloaded in the dark. I felt like a jerk and realized I had no idea what hostel etiquette was, since this was my first time staying in one without booking a private room. That thought vanished very quickly in the morning as all three of my bunk mates rose and showered before 8am and the man above me crinkled a plastic bag next to my face for five minutes while he rooted through his suitcase amid all of his shit being strewn into my personal space.

I went down for breakfast thirty minutes before closing to find that eight different kinds of toast and bagels were all that remained. What the fuck is pumpernickel, anyway? It was my first thought of I’m doing this wrong and I should have gotten up earlier. I was worried this would be a thought pattern for my first independent international endeavor. My travel plans and pace have always been a reflection of my last significant other. I had my ex on a pedestal with his fancy frequent flier miles and Global Entry and I’ve traveled to more countries than I am years old bit. I was worried that there would be a devil on my shoulder telling me if I wasn’t doing it his way the next three days, then I was doing it the wrong way. I pushed the thought aside and ate my bagel at a table with three random dudes who didn’t speak to me for the entire duration of my meal. Really warming up to the strangers, I thought. I came back to find my room smelling like weed with bag boy staring up at me doe-eyed. Smooth, kid. Real smooth.

I showered and sat down to plan out my day. I had anxiety about choosing what to do, as though there was a right and a wrong way to spend day one—a specific and most effective choreography of where to visit and when. I left the hostel around noon, which was a later start than I was aiming for. I got advice on my way out from the front desk about the best way to get to the University of British Columbia and then altered my route to reflect their advice. It was a brisk morning and the pavement was wet from the night before. The weather forecast called for sunshine all three days of my visit, but I regretted not packing a precautionary raincoat. I grabbed a day-long transit pass from 7-Eleven, exchanged $30 to Canadian currency, and then hopped on the first #4 bus I saw, skipping the coffee my body longed for. It was almost an hour long ride across town, and the first bus I was on broke down after about a mile, causing everyone to disembark and grab the next one. I took the bus to the end of the line and then walked an additional twenty minutes across UBC’s campus toward their Museum of Anthropology.

The woman at the ticket counter was sweet and spotted me a free quarter to lock my purse in a locker, since I didn’t have any Canadian coins on me. My traipsing through the museum was self-guided because I didn’t have the time or the attention span to do an official tour. Overall the museum had great artifacts from across the world, but they were poorly archived and labeled. For example, there was an entire glass case labeled Tibet, with notes like “cup” next to the artifacts. No description, date of origin, or more specific geographical information. Knowing a little bit about Buddhist history in Tibet, I thought it was a disservice to the cup in front of me to overlook that it was actually a skull cup—made from the cranium of a human skull, and used in rituals to honor that death eventually comes for us all. But here, in the Museum of Anthropology, it was just a cup, sitting next to other things labeled “figurine” without noting who the god was or what the statue was made from. I was a little tired, a little hungry, and my feet were killing me when I looked up to see a magnificent Buddha statue staring at me, causing me to remember that life isn’t so bad after all. I threw up a little silent prayer of gratitude to the universe, thankful to be pulled back into the present moment. Next to the stature were a dozen hanging tree trunks hollowed out and carved with different elaborate designs. After seeing signs that said “Please don’t touch,” all afternoon I was delighted to read, “Please touch gently.” They were drums, and they were magnificent. When I began tapping on them people nearby started to notice and became interested after they had overlooked the pieces. My drum beats were arguably more pleasant than the toddler screaming in the next exhibit over.

I decided to grab an Earl Grey latte and a chocolate croissant to quell my hanger before checking out the outdoor exhibit of totem poles. I saw a black squirrel as I walked around to the backside of the museum and got way too excited about it. To be honest, more excited about it than I was about the totem poles. So goes my life. I decided that my next stop would be Bloedel Conservatory and the Queen Elizabeth Gardens but I wasn’t sure what time they closed and I was worried I wouldn’t make it. I took the #68 bus from the museum back to the main bus stop on campus, because my purse was too damn heavy and my feet hurt. Waiting for the bus, a man asked me for directions, and when his wife turned the corner he said excitedly, “This lady says it will take us back to the main bus stop!” It felt weird to be addressed as “this lady” and to suddenly be in charge of their method of transportation. They were in their mid-60s and from Australia and they lagged along behind me as we cut back across campus after the first bus dropped us off. As I stood at my bus stop they stared at the transit map bemused, and I checked in with them, ultimately giving them further directions on how to get back to downtown. It was my first instance on this trip of acquiring travel karma points, but certainly not the last. Apparently something about my face says, “I’m approachable and I also know what I’m doing.” This happened like six more times over the next three days, and I generally knew what I was talking about. Fake it until you make it, kids.

I took a different bus across town to get to the gardens and in the meantime forgot about getting lunch. At a stop light I unabashedly stared at the beautiful human waiting to cross the street and he looked up from his phone just in time to catch me eyeing him. I was totally busted, but he smiled and winked at me, making me laugh and blush unapologetically. The men are noticeably better looking here than in Portland, but he looked like he had a wedding ring on his finger. Unavailable continues to be my type—go figure. I transferred from the bus to a train and then walked the rest of the way to the gardens, which were gorgeous. The sun was shining and I was so happy. It was great to know that the shameless selfies I took captured a real smile, and not the fake bullshit I usually see looking back at my photos. I hiked up a small hill to the conservatory and the view of the city from the top was amazing. The bird conservatory was equally good and I spent two hours talking to Victor, the retired policeman who now spends three days a week petting birds, and Rudy, the smartest parrot I’ve ever met. I loved being on my own schedule and I was blissfully happy, even knowing that most people my age would be bored out of their mind watching birds for two hours.

In the meantime my phone died and I navigated getting back to the hostel with ease. On my walk back to the train station I came across one of those standalone library boxes people have in their front yard. The door to the “take one, leave one” masterpiece was clearly painted by a child and said “Mr. Worm’s Library,” except the worm depicted was clearly a dick, embellished with stripes. I laughed so hard, upset with the universe for giving me a dead phone in a moment when I so desperately needed to capture a photograph. Alas, Mr. Worm shall live on only in my memory. I found a sushi joint close to the train station and ravished some excellent rolls. When I finally got back to my hostel I decided I needed ice cream, so I walked across the street only to discover that the Cold Stone was closed for the season. I decided a Guinness would be equally good instead, and walked into an Irish Pub called Doolin’s.

I was entirely content sitting there by myself and watching the NFL recaps from the day. There were four boisterous people to my right, two guys and two girls, and I wrote them off as couples, not paying much attention to them. But eventually the man to my right turned towards me, introduced himself, and invited me to hang out with his people. He was a Detroit Lions fan out celebrating their defeat over Tom Brady (a cause worth celebrating for anyone, honestly) with some of his friends after work. His name was Alan and his blue eyes were a stark contrast against his black hair. His Irish accent was so thick and the background noise of the bar so brash, that at several points in our conversation I had to ask him to repeat himself, because I had no idea what he had just said to me. He spoke of his roommate’s adorable dogs (cell phone pictures included) and the one time he talked to Oprah Winfrey on the phone in his own backyard, still hungover and shirtless from the night before. He had been in Canada for six years on a work visa after living in several different countries after moving away from Ireland.

The conversation was easy and the laughs were free flowing, and before I knew it I had his business card to the bar he managed down the street and we were Facebook friends. When I pause and look back I’m amazed at how that even unfolded. As a person with walls higher than China’s and an irrational fear of strangers, he crept into my interior with ease and without effort. He was kind, and funny, and completely unassuming. Here I was, making friends with the locals at night after eating breakfast in isolation earlier that morning. He said he used to date a girl from Portland and that he had a guys’ trip planned in December to check out a Trailblazer’s basketball game. When I left for the night I told him to hit me up when he was down in my city, and he responded, “Hit me up over the next few days!” and left me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. That kiss lifted a Guinness induced fog and stirred something inside of me. Maybe it was the lone beer that I had. Maybe it was being called darlin’ in an Irish accent. But on my walk back to the hostel I tweeted, “After weeks of listening to Celtic Thunder in my car, my Gaelic dreams have been granted. Tonight was the night I got kissed by an Irish bloke over a pint of Guinness in a pub. Stick a shamrock up my ass and say Sláinte.” Admittedly, it was arguably my proudest moment on the internet to date.

I returned to the hostel feeling high on life and asked the Aussie at the front desk for advice on how to best see Stanley Park and Chinatown tomorrow. He promised me fascinating wildlife within Stanley Park like raccoons, telling me that, “Australian people love that shit. You know, animals that can’t poison or ravage you.” And then he said that he preferred to see Chinatown at night. So all in all, I’d say that day one went pretty alright. It had a great flow and I found a confidence I didn’t know I had. I was talking to strangers, giving out directions in a brand new city, and even got kissed when I was dressed like a faux-lesbian in flannel with zero make-up on. I’ll chalk that up as a win, any day.

24 September 2018, Monday

I decided to skip the carb-loaded complimentary breakfast this morning for some additional sleep time. Upon waking, I drew a tarot card, like I’ve done every day this year, asking the universe what I needed to know for the day. I drew the 10 of Swords. The card depicts a person lying face down with ten swords stabbed in their back while they bleed out of their head. What the fuck, I thought. I’m on holiday! I slept in! I was in a great mood. It was a sub-optimal card to draw on vacation, no doubt. I got ready and took the bus to Stanley Park. I meant to rent a bike to ride around the six mile perimeter, which is a big commitment, because bikes fucking terrify me, but the bus dropped me off inside the park rather than outside where the bike rentals were. I figured I’d just walk around a bit and then rent a bike later if I felt the need. I didn’t make it around much of the park, because my foot was beginning to bother me again, but I did make a point to sit down on a park bench for a while staring out into the ocean and contemplating life. I even saw a sea lion, but no raccoons.

I made the long trek back to the bus and made my way over to Chinatown. It was wonderful, and they had a free garden to explore. The shops were great and I spent hours just wandering. Eventually my hunger caught up to me and I made my way over to Gastown, the oldest part of the city. I came across a taco joint but decided to take a stroll around the block to see if anything else caught my eye. While I was looping around, Sara called me, and we ended up chatting for a while. I doubled back to the taco place and sat under a tree in the alley behind the restaurant to finish my conversation with her. There was a woman sitting on some stairs by herself who looked homeless, and near the end of my chat with Sara, I looked over to see this woman shooting up heroin, elastic bicep tie and all. This was new for me to witness, but I left her alone, wrapping up my conversation. I kept glancing back at her, and about five minutes later I watched her slump over as the high hit her, and before I knew it she went flaccid, falling down five stair steps and smacking her head on a beer bottle at the bottom. There she lay, lifeless, pale, and bleeding from her head and face. I told Sara I had to go, because I was pretty certain this woman was dead.

After making a few strides toward her I found her pulse erratic and her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to breathe. A couple of college kids were walking down the alley and stopped in shock, and I immediately set them to the task of calling for the police. They stared back at me, frozen. “This woman needs help right now!” I shouted. “I need to know if you’re willing to call 9-1-1 with the address of this location!” They shook out of it, and called for help. To be honest, in that moment I didn’t know that the Canadian version of 9-1-1 was still just 9-1-1, but they got the point. I held the woman’s hand, told her that help was coming, and told her to just keep breathing. Eventually the 9-1-1 call got transferred to me, and I took the kid’s phone and explained the situation I had witnessed. The dispatcher asked me if I had a Narcan kit and instructed me to ask around the alley if anyone else had one. I set the college students off to go profile other homeless people that might be users and ask for the life-saving drug. It wasn’t my favorite idea, but the woman in front of me was starting to decline. I monitored her breathing until it no longer became sufficient and then the dispatcher asked me if I was willing to perform CPR on the patient. I looked around, searching for something to use as a barrier between her mouth and mine since I didn’t have a CPR mask. She had track marks on her arms, chapped lips, and teeth that hadn’t seen a dentist in over thirty years. She was bleeding, clearly an addict, and I had no gloves or anything to protect myself from possible blood borne pathogens. Amid my silence, the dispatcher asked me again, “Are you willing to perform CPR on this patient?”

“Yes,” I said curtly. Of course I was. Of course. She started to instruct me on opening up her airway, but I interrupted her and told her I used to be an EMT and had it handled. She asked me to count my chest compressions out loud and I began, using my hand as a barrier between her mouth and mine while my other hand pinched her nostrils closed. Fortunately as I began I heard the sirens in the distance, and I only had to perform two rounds of CPR before the paramedics arrived. As I was doing CPR a random passerby came along and started collecting the patient’s things, putting them in a bag for her. She then grabbed the woman’s coat off of the stairs and draped it across her legs to keep her warm. “Help is on the way, sweetheart,” she said before disappearing into the crowd that had gathered. The paramedics arrived and set her up on oxygen and gave her a shot of Narcan, and it was like watching someone be raised from the dead. Truly. One minute she was lifeless, and the next minute she was sitting up, looking around herself in shock. The paramedics told me I did a great job as a first responder and set me loose, stating they didn’t need any kind of formal report outside of what I had told them orally. I found the college kids, thanked them for making the call, and apologized for getting so brisk with them. “No, you’re totally fine. We didn’t know what to do, so thank you for taking charge. That was really amazing to witness.” I thanked them again, and then walked next door to cash in on the ‘Margarita Monday’ sign that had originally caught my attention an hour ago. I asked for an outdoor seat so that I could watch the situation unfold.

I used the restroom, washing my hands and face thoroughly, and when my tacos and tequila arrived, I found that my hands couldn’t stop shaking. Halfway through my meal the medics had her sign a release declining care, and she was free to go. When the scene cleared out, she sat back down on the stairs and lit a cigarette. I asked my waitress to watch my table and I got up to go speak to her. I wanted to let her know that I was the one that called and to check in to see how she was doing. I knew this was an unnecessary step, one most people might not take, but I felt compelled to witness her presence. When I introduced myself her eyes got wide and she asked for permission to hug me. I spread open my arms and as she curled into me she said, “You’re an angel. You’re my angel. Thank you for saving my life.” It was a surreal sentence to hear someone utter. It hadn’t really set in yet. I was just reacting, doing what I was trained to do, unable to ignore the woman before me so clearly in need of help. And here she was, alive before me, thanking me for what I had done. We talked for about twenty minutes, and her words broke my heart. She said she used to use heroin a lot more frequently in the past, and didn’t realize how the dose she took tonight would affect her. She was from Eastern Canada originally, estranged from her family, and supporting her ten year old son on her own after her child’s father had been shot to death a few years ago. She said she became a sex worker to support herself, and got addicted from there. She spoke of many things, many of which I didn’t hear amid her soft, raspy voice paired with the cigarette still dangling from her lips. But I just listened, because I felt like she needed someone to listen.

“Why does it feel like someone stomped on my chest?” she asked. I explained to her how forceful chest compressions are in CPR and I told her that if she was sore for more than a few days she should go to urgent care for a chest x-ray to rule out a rib fracture. She saw a pair of policemen coming down the alley behind me and stated quickly that she needed to return home. She grabbed the black trash bag next to her, exclaiming how grateful she was that no one had stolen her salmon while she was unconscious that she had purchased from the market earlier that day. She asked me to hold the dead fish bag for her while she gathered the rest of her things, and I obliged. She told me her address and said I was more than welcome to stop over for dinner any time. I told her she was a beautiful person and I hoped she would make a point to take better care of herself. I told her I’d pray for her, and she said she’d do the same in return.

I finished my tacos and walked back to my hostel in a fog about where my night had taken me. I was grateful, so incredibly grateful, for being in the right place at the right time. In situations like that, most people want to help, but don’t know how. In emergency situations I’m always fast to act and clear of mind, but it had been seventeen years since I’ve been in a situation like that. I was a kid when I almost accidentally killed my brother in a farming accident, and even as an EMT for four years I never had to do real chest compressions on anyone. It was insane to know that if the front desk man hadn’t mentioned how beautiful Chinatown was at night, or if I hadn’t decided to take an extra walk around the block, or if Sara hadn’t called me—how that woman’s night could have ended much differently. A ten year old could have sat at home alone, waiting on his mother and dinner, never knowing where she was and why she hadn’t come home. I was grateful to be exactly where I was, precisely when I was supposed to be there. But it was still just wild.

I got back to the hostel, kicked off my shoes, and decided that I needed more tequila. I grabbed the business card Alan had given me the night before, and made my way to the bar he managed, not knowing if he would be there or not. I was pleased to find him behind the bar, and when I relayed my day he poured me the smoothest shot of tequila that has ever passed my lips. I stayed there for the next two and a half hours, sitting at the corner of the bar, coloring in my tarot card coloring book with my 48 box of Crayola’s (because when you pack a backpack you only bring the necessities) and reading fortunes for his friends. I needed that mindless task, and I enjoyed sitting among his friends, quietly prying into the life of the man who kissed me on the cheek the night prior. When fatigue finally set in and I made my exit, he blew me a kiss from behind the bar and promised to message me when he got done with work the next night. It put a huge, shameless smile on my face.

Back at the hostel I informed my front desk friend about the disappointing lack of raccoons in Stanley Park and told him about my alley excitement and first hand encounter with Vancouver’s drug epidemic. After I finished my story he responded, “So let me get this straight. What I’m supposed to take away here isn’t that you’re a hero, but that you’re upset you didn’t get to see any raccoons today.” Yes, precisely, I laughed. As I crawled in bed, Alan’s proposition of hanging out for a third night paired with the adrenaline of my evening and the creaking of my bunk bed kept me awake nearly all night.

25 September 2018, Tuesday

I woke up without an alarm, unable to fall back asleep, and decided I should at least go down for breakfast. My stomach had felt weird in the aftermath of last night’s excitement. Again, I ate alone, bleary eyed and with my pre-10am characteristic resting bitch face. I returned to bed for a few hours, but sleep continued to elude me. When I finally got up for the day I decided to consult the tarot deck about the madness of my last twenty-four hours. It was then that the message from yesterday’s 10 of Swords hit me. The swords, the blood, the cloak resting over the bottom half of the body. The woman in the alley was the person depicted on the card. The swords were her needle and syringe, the cloak the same as what the passerby had draped over her to keep her warm, and the blood from her face and outstretched arm—all the same. It’s a card with dark shades in the forefront with the dawn and hope of a new day rising in the background. A chill came over me. Suddenly I recalled the card I drew on the Amtrak ride up, asking the universe what I needed to know for my three days in Canada. I had drawn Judgement. It depicts an angel in the sky playing a trumpet and raising bodies out of graves. It symbolizes a new beginning, a rebirth, an entirely new way of life. But it does so on a lighter scale than the Death card. You get a second chance at life without the pain of leaving your physical body with this card. A tall order for just three days in Canada, I had thought at the time. But then her words came back to me. “You’re my angel… You saved my life.” And here was a card with an angel raising people from the dead.

I immediately broke down into tears. Most people who aren’t familiar with tarot view it as black magic. I do believe that it is magic, truly, because it has shown me things a simple deck of cards could never know. But I don’t buy into the black magic bit, and I don’t believe that magic and Christianity, or any other religion, in fact, have to live in opposition. It has opened my heart and strengthened my connection to myself and with the Divine. I have love and compassion in my heart and that’s reflected in my tarot cards. I believe that good people invoke good spirits and that at the end of the day we’re all praying to the same god. And in this moment I cried, because I knew, without a doubt, that all was right in the world and that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. There’s nothing like that feeling. There’s nothing like being affirmed from the universe that you’re on the right path, leading your own way with an open heart, while being protected and watched over. I cried because I knew I wasn’t alone. I cried because I knew I was infinite. I cried because I had peace.

I knew that it didn’t matter what I did with the rest of my trip on this final day. I had already fulfilled my purpose. I ended up taking a shuttle to North Vancouver to see the Capilano Suspension Bridge and cliff walk, and while there the ticket lady gave me a student discount with a smile and wink, saving me $10. I wandered amid the canopy of the trees, filling in my lungs with the crisp, fresh air and singing out in gratitude. My spirit had been renewed. I went to Canada with the purpose of pushing myself out of my comfort zone. I took the trip in stride, far exceeding my own expectations about what to expect and who I would find out there in the world while alone with myself. That devil on my shoulder, that self-doubt, never again resurfaced after that first morning. I reconnected to my path, my joy, and my purpose. I had chuckled at the idea of my thirteenth country, lucky number 13, being something as benign as Canada. I went in search of my own limits and came to discover that I had none. I came home renewed. Reborn. Forever changed. And all it took was three days and a $115 Amtrak ticket.

In Memoriam, RLC

I was lucky enough to see Grandpa Cog a few months ago when I came home over Memorial Day weekend. We all had dinner as a family at Lou’s LaGrotto and when he walked in and saw me he asked, “What’s new in the Illinois Valley, Granddaughter?” And I replied, “Not a damn thing.” Except I didn’t say damn. The word I used had a little more color. He laughed and put his arm around me and said, “Ain’t that the truth.” It didn’t strike me until I was preparing this that most families don’t drop F-bombs around their grandparents. But we certainly aren’t most families.

Grandpa sat next to me during dinner and we caught up on each other’s lives. I told him the story about a memory of mine from when I was little visiting him at his house across from the high school. He used to have this blue and yellow Fischer Price toy drill, and he’d chase me around trying to stick the drill bit in my belly button. He used to say that if he unscrewed my belly button, my butt would fall off. I don’t think I ever really believed him, but I never let him get close enough to find out. When I got the call that he was gone, I tried to think of what my very last memory of him was that night in LaGrotto’s. And my last memory of my Grandpa Cog is looking over at him spooning the butter and the parmesan (out of the basket that had previous housed our garlic nuggets) straight into his mouth—two days before his scheduled CT scan to assess the integrity of his heart. I remembered looking over and thinking, “Ooph… where do I even start?” He was a man who couldn’t be told. And when I stop to think about it, we’re an entire family that can’t be told.

Roger was a strong, Scandinavian stubborn, simple man who appreciated a cold beer at the end of a long day. He didn’t know how to send a text message yet he always managed to find his way to my blog posts in the vast expanse of the internet, and then tell Donna what to text me in response. He loved his family, and his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren with the ferociousness of the lion-hearted man that he was. Grandpa worked hard but he always managed to make time for his family. He came into this world feet first and he went out of this world in his work boots doing something that he loved. And I know that he loved it, without hesitation, because every time I’d come home he’d say to me, “You know those brothers of yours are working my ass off, but I love every minute.” He was a good, honorable man—deeply respected by his community, and he will be deeply and sorely missed. I didn’t know the last time I saw my grandpa was going to be the last hug I ever got from him. So I urge you, I beg you—to please hold each other a little tighter, and a little longer, because this moment right here is the only one you’re guaranteed. Reflect on all the things that make you happy, and then make a list of all the things you do every day. Compare the lists, and adjust accordingly.

I want to leave you with a list of things that will always remind me of Grandpa Cog. I listed them in order of my earliest memories of him until my final ones:

Butter pecan ice cream

French onion Sunchips

Ballroom Barbie

Viewfinders

Orange Gatorade in the shop fridge

Orange Goop hand soap

Blue Scott shop towels

Titty calendars on the dashboard

Cinnamon Dentene Ice chewing gum

Water wings

Norwegian elk hounds

The number 8

The word “Whatever”

Sharpening pencils

Garlic nuggets

And the way he used to wave goodbye to me for as long as I can remember until the very last time he hugged me goodbye…

Olive Garden Revelations

I spent my teenage years dating a continuous cycle of losers, as my father so eloquently put it. Looking back now I realize that deep down I didn’t believe I was worthy of love, so I went looking for it in all the wrong places. I bounced around from one toxic relationship to another, never staying single for long. All of these failed attempts at love meant that when I met Tanner my second year in college, I knew immediately that he was really special. He was sarcastic yet sweet, gentle, and hilariously awkward after being home-schooled his entire life. He had more patience than anyone I had ever known and I knew that he would never hurt me. So after years of being emotionally wrecked by skater boys, I really fell hard for him and his honesty and authenticity.

The summer before my senior year in college Tanner proposed to me. Tanner never got excited about anything, and I loved that, but one minute I was at the St. Louis Zoo staring off into the elephant exhibit and the next minute I look down and there was a ring box sitting in front of me. He didn’t bother to get down on one knee, and the words, “Will you marry me?” never actually left his lips, but I still said yes anyway. My parents were heavily opposed to our engagement, but their lack of support only pushed me further down the path of certainty that our marriage was going to be a success. A few months after we got engaged Tanner and I took a visit to Portland to check out the chiropractic college there as a possible graduate school option for me. I loved it. I loved everything about it and I loved the city of Portland. But Tanner just loved me, so he agreed to move our lives across the country and put our wedding on hold until after graduate school.

Chiropractic school was physically and mentally exhausting. It demanded more time and energy than anything else in my life ever had, and Tanner was my rock through it all. But then a year into school Tanner’s factory job changed and required him to start working the night shift. Suddenly we were both on twelve hour days, but on completely opposite schedules. We saw each other for about ten minutes each day as we passed in and out of our front door. As months of this wore on, we slowly began to develop different friends and different interests. Whenever I hung out with my friends from school, Tanner opted to stay home alone instead. When I finally brought my best friend over to our house for the first time, Tanner didn’t even look up from playing Call of Duty to acknowledge the woman I had shared so many stories about.

Around this time I decided to reach out on Twitter to my college calculus teacher that I had always had a huge crush on from afar. Nineteen year old me lost so many hours of sleep pining over Hot Professor Brian, as I used to call him behind his back. He had a terrible mess of curly brown hair, but it worked for him. Back in college I used to get dressed up just to go into his office hours and get help with my homework. (I really am terrible at math, so it was sort of legitimate). He knew I had a shameless crush on him, but he was cool about it and clearly not trying to date a student, even though he was only three years older than me. I had never met anyone in my life like Brian and everyone on my dorm floor knew of my unrequited love for him. He was super young to be a professor and he had already traveled the world. He was intelligent and quick witted and confident. And a total babe. But Brian only taught at my college for a year which meant I had spent the next six years shamelessly Googling his name to see what school he was teaching at and what he was doing with his life. Tanner had heard a story or two about Hot Professor Brian in our five years together, but he had no idea I was still keeping tabs on him.

For months my interactions with Brian were casual and harmless. He was teaching in Pennsylvania and had an international job lined up the following fall halfway across the world in Abu Dhabi. But he stimulated every part of me in a way I had never experienced before. He continually challenged me to be better and to want more for myself. From across the country he was slowly igniting a fire inside of me, and that fire gave me the courage to do something completely out of character. I had recently bought a ukulele and taught myself a simple song. I’ve always loved singing, but I have terrible stage fright. One night, in the wee hours of the morning while Tanner was working overnights, I decided to record myself singing and upload it to Facebook for the world to see. It was the most terrifying thing I had done in years and it didn’t even require me to leave the bedroom. When Brian saw it the next morning he text me immediately and had countless wonderful things to say. He complimented the soulfulness of my voice and told me how awesome it was that I finally found the courage to do something I’d always wanted to do.

I spent that day feeling on top of the world. I knew Tanner had seen the video, but in our short correspondences throughout the day he never brought it up. I thought this was strange, because he knew how vulnerable singing made me feel. But we had dinner plans that night before he left to go on a camping trip, so I decided I would ask him about it then. So there we were at the Olive Garden, sitting across from each other and completely absorbed in our cell phones. When I brought up the video, he didn’t have much to say about it. I finally just asked, point blank, “Did you even bother to watch it?” He replied that he had opened it but only watched the first few seconds. Whatever emotion flashed across my face in that moment—he responded defensively, “It was a terrible song and the ukulele is a fucking stupid instrument.” It was one of those moments where time literally froze around me. I was sitting in the Olive Garden at Mall 205, with our unlimited salad and bread sticks, when I realized that I could not marry this man. The stark contrast between both Tanner and Brian’s responses hit me hard and all at once. I realized that Tanner and I didn’t have anything in common anymore. I had spent the last five years growing and changing so much, and he was still this kid spending his days off oversleeping and playing video games. I loved him, but it wasn’t going to work. Ever.

We ate the rest of our meal in silence and when he got back from his camping trip I sat him down and shattered his whole world. I had never broken up with someone before, and here I was, leaving the one person I had promised to spend the rest of my life with. My word had always meant everything to me, and letting him down broke my heart. I hated seeing how much hurt I caused him, while simultaneously feeling completely devoid of being able to offer him any sincere comfort. By the time I realized I was over it, I had nothing left to give.

I took that summer off of school to try to get my life together, but the truth is that I was seeing Brian before Tanner even had all of his stuff moved out of our house. A month into dating Brian we took a fairy tale vacation to Ireland where we bought a pair of Claddagh rings and sang Christmas songs in the car across the breadth of the country, all the way from Galway to Dublin in the middle of July. We decided that he wasn’t actually going to take the six-figure job across the world, he was going to move to Portland without a job lined up at all and we were going to figure it out. And we did. So for the second time in two years I helped a man pack up a carload of his possessions and drove him halfway across the country to be with me. After being engaged to Tanner and thinking I had a forever love, living with Brian showed me what real love was truly capable of. For the first time in my life I had a partner that taking care of me, rather than me constantly taking care of them. He bought me flowers just because, mailed me endless love letters, and hid notes around the house just to make me smile. When I graduated chiropractic school both of our families flew out to celebrate with us before he and I flew to Thailand for a one month vacation. It was the eighth country we would visit in two years, and life was pure bliss. It was the happiest, most fulfilling relationship I had ever known. I knew, without a doubt, that he was the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

Brian and I also never argued. But one Sunday night we were sitting on the couch having a pretty heated discussion about what to do with our upcoming lease renewal. I wanted to go on a month to month basis in our current house because I had just started my first job and I didn’t want to move amidst all of that transition. He was tired of commuting every day to the university he was teaching at and wanted to move closer in to the action of the city. And he thought it would be good for me to have coffee shops I could sit in on Saturday mornings and socialize, too. In the heat of the moment I told him that I was always going to be a woman who preferred to stay home on Saturday mornings in her pajamas drinking coffee that was already paid for. The next words that came out of his mouth were, “I think we’re different people who want different things and I don’t think this is sustainable anymore.” One minute we were talking about which quadrant of town to live in, and the next minute our life as I knew it was over.

I never saw it coming. I had been so consumed with school and then work and with taking all the love that Brian was giving me, that I had gone from a relationship where I gave everything to a relationship where I took everything and never even noticed I was doing it. I laid awake crying all night that night and when I walked into the kitchen the next morning my eyelids were so puffy I could barely see out of them. And when Brian looked over at me, I recognized the same look on his face that I had given Tanner two years earlier. He was over it. He had nothing left to give and I knew exactly how he felt. I knew exactly how we had gotten here, because I had already lived that life. I had been on the other side of it with Tanner, constantly giving to someone who never noticed all the sacrifices I was making. Our life was done, and I knew there was nothing I could do to change his mind.

So 2017 was a growing year for me, to put it lightly. I made a promise to myself to be single for an entire year. I needed to figure out who I was and get used to being alone after having not been alone for the last fifteen years. And it was a hard year, because it turns out that growth is often painful and uncomfortable. But somewhere between leaving Tanner and losing Brian I was forced to finally find myself. I was forced to look inward, to truly see myself for who I am, and to learn what I was made of when left with no other option. I embraced my whole self, with my faults and my flaws. And for the first time in my life, I am enough. I found that seventeen year old girl inside of me who was too scared to love herself and I fed her to the wolves. I learned to become my own rock. And I’m finally comfortable with being me and being alone with myself, because I now know that when I’m alone, I’m always in good company.

Post Script-

JDH Rod performed a version of this story at the Literary Arts’ Spring 2018 Storytelling Intensive. The audio of that performance can be heard here.

The YouTube video that changed her life can also be viewed below:

My Darkest Truth

Ten years ago last November my virginity was taken from me in a non-consensual sexual encounter. The words victim and rape have never appealed to me personally, because for me those words make me think of violence—of events that occur in parking garages and alleys. That wasn’t how it happened for me. Stranger danger and physical violence are real and those encounters happen every day. But statistics show that most rapes happen in the comfort of your own home or the home of your partner or in the company of someone you trust. That’s how it was for me, and this is my story.

Even ten years later I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve spoken to about what happened to me. It has always been easier for me to write my truth than to speak it. Even now, it’s easier to sit behind a computer and share deeply personal information with the whole world than it is to look my mother in the eyes and tell her that harm came upon me when she was out of reach to protect me. A mother will do anything to protect her child. Your pain is her pain. There is no boundary line. Because of this I felt the need to shelter my own mother and protect her from knowing what happened to me. To be clear, what happened wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t my fault, either. But in staying silent, I felt that I could bear the pain of it while sparing her. I’ve learned that if you are unable to speak your truth, then it is because you feel shame. Shame requires secrecy, silence, and judgement to thrive. It cannot endure when doused with empathy. It cannot spread when you use your voice to shine light upon it. A decade later I am ready to speak my truth, for myself, but also for you. Because a cultural shift needs to occur, and we each have to make a choice within ourselves to be that change.

It was Thanksgiving Day. I was in a new relationship with a guy I met through the local band scene. I brought him into my home to meet my family during lunch and I met his over dinner. After dinner I played Scrabble for the first time with his family and a seven-year-old kicked my ass. To this day I still haven’t played Scrabble to save myself the embarrassment. After that we went to his bedroom in the basement to watch the movie Final Destination 3. There were Christmas lights hanging on the ceiling. As my clothes came off I knew I didn’t want to participate in these activities. Every alarm in my body was going off that I needed to get out of this situation, yet I didn’t know how. In that moment, I was completely ill-equipped at how to de-escalate the proceedings, because up until that point in my life, having sex was nowhere on my radar. My plan was to wait until marriage. I knew that. He knew that. And I still couldn’t find my voice to say no. They tell you that in moments of panic your fight or flight response kicks in. But if the #MeToo movement has taught me anything over the past year, it’s that there’s a third option. Freeze. Many of us, when under extreme stress, withdraw into ourselves. Instead of kicking and screaming or trying to run away, we simply try to disappear. A thousand thoughts ran through my head all at once and they paralyzed me. I was scared of rejecting him physically and in turn being rejected emotionally. I was worried about being uncool or “a tease.” And while I couldn’t find my voice to say no, I also didn’t say yes. There was no opportunity to say yes, because there was no discussion. Only silence.

For years I felt guilt and shame about what happened because I thought it was my fault. I thought I should have been more clear. I should have said no. Perhaps me saying “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” wasn’t enough. What if “Maybe some other night” wasn’t convincing enough for him? Maybe I had sent mixed signals by allowing him to undress me. Maybe by laying there motionless and staring at the Christmas lights I had been compliant. I left his house shortly afterward feeling numb, and nearly in tears. He said things like “I’m sorry” and “We don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to.” A few days later, after it became very clear to him that those events would not transpire again, he broke up with me through a Myspace message. I was completely undone. I laid awake crying and screaming into my pillow. I felt emotions that have been unmatched over the course of the past decade.

Looking back it is very clear that he went into the entire encounter with one goal, and when he took all that he could from me, he left. Shortly after I learned that he was already on the registered sex offender list, because he had molested the seven-year-old that beat me at Scrabble. He was breaking the law by even being in his family’s house on Thanksgiving. But I wasn’t interested in pressing charges. At that point my shame and my guilt didn’t allow me to speak up. I told myself that I should have been smarter than to date a sex offender in the first place.

It took me over a week to tell my best friend what happened. I invited her to lunch but couldn’t get the words out until the drive home when we were almost back to her house. Ultimately, I felt like if I didn’t say it then, I would never muster the courage to try again. The events that occurred in those ten basement minutes have overshadowed the last ten years of my life. I fell into a cycle of physical self-harm and negative self-talk, and I continually dated people with more problems than my own so that I could focus on fixing their issues rather than address mine. I was late to my 8am pre-calculus class 27 times in the semester that followed because I couldn’t get myself out of bed in the morning. I know people close to me, young and old alike, knew that something was wrong. Whenever they asked, I put on a reassuring face and told them I was fine. I was too ashamed to tell. Knowing that my mother felt my hurt in her own heart, even if she didn’t know the root of my hurt, was the only thing that kept me going. I couldn’t quit or breakdown because if she knew, she would hurt even more, and I couldn’t bring myself to let her carry that burden. So I endured in silence. She used to leave me love notes every morning with the daily weather report and a quote about persevering though hard times. “This too shall pass,” she always used to say. Her love was the only reason I could make my feet hit the floor in the morning.

It took years to realize this encounter was not my fault and even longer to forgive myself. Even now, in my personal and intimate relationships, I still struggle to voice my needs and desires. I have a hard time identifying what I need, and even when I do, I struggle with physically getting the words out. I still struggle with negative self-talk and being kind to myself each and every day. I struggle to feel like I am enough, like I do enough, and that I am worthy of my own love. I have learned to bear everything in life deep inside of myself, without knowing how to release the weight I carry. It took years to realize that simply bearing something in silence isn’t enough. It took years to realize that maybe my voice has been so hard to find because my voice had been taken from me. Literally, and in such a deeply personal and intimate way, at such a vulnerable time in my life.

I share this story because it is not an uncommon one and because as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that a large part of who I am as a person is a storyteller. Keeping this story inside myself has allowed it to have power over me, and by sharing it, I am releasing it. I’m sharing it because I refuse to let silence and secrecy continue to steal my voice. I share it because there are lessons to be learned here by all. People are not always who you believe them to be. The people you invoke into your life do not always have your best interests in mind. So please, take a look at the women you love. And take a look at yourself. Be the change. Make a point to incorporate consent into every intimate encounter you have. Because consent isn’t supposed to be awkward or uncomfortable. There should never be a gray area. Consent is something to be celebrated together. It should be sexy and it should be powerful. It is a verbal affirmation—whether whispered, moaned, or shouted, that you are present and willing to share in something beautiful with your partner. Think about that concept for a moment. Think about the shift that would occur if that was the expectation, every time.

Make a point to practice consent in your daily life. Start asking your friends and loved ones for permission to hug them instead of jumping in. Something so simple can cause a profound shift in thought once you consent to being hugged and receiving someone’s love. It draws attention to your choice and reaffirms your voice in the matter. And above all else, always trust your instincts and the instincts of your children. If your two-year-old or your nine-year-old doesn’t want to hug Uncle Dale or Aunt Diane at Thanksgiving, don’t force them to. Respect their boundaries and know that as an adult you do not owe anything to anyone. If you are ever uncomfortable in a situation, it is your right to voice that and remove yourself from the situation, no matter what the other person’s intentions may have been.

And lastly—I participated in my first self-defense course a few months ago. While relational abuse is rampant, we also live in a world where sexual violence is a real threat. Go take a course. Know how to defend yourself when saying NO doesn’t work. And realize that anything you are comfortable saying to a stranger to protect yourself is something you should also be comfortable saying to a loved one to protect yourself. If you live in Portland, I highly recommend Amanda Diggins at Straight Blast Gym on Sandy Boulevard. Not only is she a badass women’s advocate, she’s also the reigning female world champion of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

To the women reading this who found themselves with a lump in their throat because it hit too close to home, know that I stand with you. We all do. Your voice is your power. I’m trading in my silence for solidarity.