A woman on my flight yesterday switched seats with her husband because their toddler wouldn’t stop crying.
The second she sat down alone, she closed her eyes for maybe 30 seconds.
Just resting.
Not sleeping.
When the husband walked past with the kid later, he laughed and said loudly,
“Must be nice to finally get a break from doing nothing.”
A few people chuckled.
She laughed too.
But something about it felt off because for the entire flight she had been:
holding the baby,
packing snacks,
cleaning spills,
walking him down the aisle,
missing her own meal trying to calm him down…
while the husband watched a movie with headphones on.
And honestly I think that’s why so many women are exhausted.
Not because they’re doing everything alone.
But because they’re doing everything while someone else calls it “nothing.”
“My boyfriend said he can never date a woman with a ‘high body count’… so I asked him his.”
He said 18.
Mine was just 3.
But somehow I was still the one getting judged.
He started explaining how “it’s different for women.”
So I asked him:
“If sleeping around lowers a woman’s value… what does it do to a man?”
Silence.
Then he got defensive and said:
“You’re trying to twist things.”
No.
I was trying to understand why men create rules they’d never survive under themselves.
My sister went in for a routine prenatal checkup, just casually mentioning she’d been having these intense headaches and seeing spots in her vision. She said something felt wrong, like her body was trying to tell her something.
Her doctor barely reacted. Said headaches were normal in pregnancy, probably just stress or dehydration. Told her to drink water and get more sleep.
That same night, she started feeling worse, dizzy, nauseous, her vision getting blurry. Then she collapsed.
We rushed her to the hospital, and this time the doctors didn’t hesitate. Within minutes they were saying it was severe preeclampsia, her blood pressure was dangerously high, and both her life and the baby’s were at risk.
Everything moved fast after that, medication, emergency interventions, constant monitoring.
They told us if she had waited any longer, it could’ve turned into eclampsia… seizures, stroke, even death.
She survived. The baby survived. But all of it started with her saying “something feels wrong” and not being taken seriously.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
Girls don't want to be raped.
THINGS I DONT DEBATE WITH MEN :
1. Abortion
2. Breastfeeding
3. Menstruation
4. Female body hair
5. Birth Control
6. Access to feminine hygiene products
Why? Because NONE of those involve the male body & therefore don't create any valid MALE OPINIONS
I almost died giving birth to our daughter.
Forty-two hours of labor. Emergency C-section. I remember the cold of the operating room and the way the doctors wouldn’t meet my eyes. They said if we had waited another hour, one of us wouldn’t have made it.
I woke up stitched, shaking, numb from the chest down.
He didn’t hold my hand. He didn’t cry. He just asked the doctor if the scar would be “permanent.”
When we got home, I could barely walk. I couldn’t laugh without pain shooting through my stomach. I needed help sitting up. He complained that the house was messy. Said maternity leave wasn’t a vacation.
Two weeks postpartum, he stood over me while I was trying to latch the baby and said, “You know women are supposed to give birth naturally. My mom did.”
I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
One night I overheard him on the phone with his brother saying, “She didn’t even give birth properly. They just cut her open.”
Cut her open.
Like I wasn’t split in half to bring his child into this world.
When I finally looked at my scar in the mirror, still swollen and purple, I didn’t see weakness. I saw survival. But every time he looked at me, I saw disappointment.
Then it got worse.
He stopped touching me. Started going to the gym every night. Said he “needed a woman who takes care of herself.” I was still bleeding. Still leaking milk. Still waking up every two hours.
One evening he tossed a waist trainer onto the bed and said, “You should start fixing it before it’s too late.”
I asked him what “it” was.
He pointed at my stomach.
I slept in the nursery that night. Not because the baby cried. Because I did.
Now he tells people I’ve “changed” since having the baby. That I’m emotional. That I don’t try anymore.
I almost died. I gave him a daughter. I carry a scar that aches when it rains.
And somehow I’m the one who failed.
I don’t know who I married. I don��t know how to leave. But I know this can’t be what love looks like.
“I don’t understand why women don’t just report it if it really happened.”
When I was 19, I reported mine. I had bruises. Hospital photos. Text messages of him apologizing the next morning. My friends drove me to the station because I could barely stop shaking. I thought evidence would make it simple. I thought truth would be enough.
Months later, I was the one on trial. His lawyer printed my Instagram photos and held them up in court. Asked why I wore crop tops. Asked why I drank that night. Asked why I didn’t scream louder. He replayed my police interview and pointed out every time I hesitated, every time I cried, every time my timeline wasn’t perfectly linear. “If it was traumatic,” he said, “why can’t she remember clearly?”
Sitting there while strangers debated my pain like it was a group project felt like being stripped again. My messages were projected on a screen. My body was described in detail. My character was picked apart like that was the real crime.
He walked out on bail. I walked out with panic attacks.
That’s why some women don’t report. Because even with bruises. Even with screenshots. Even when you do everything “right.” You still have to survive the assault twice, once in private, and once in public, just to maybe be believed.
Seven dogs stolen from their owners have gone viral after escaping from an illegal transport truck and making their way home.
They traveled around 17 km together, led by a corgi across highways and fields, now safely back with their respective owners..🐶🐾🥺❤️
My father once told me the secret to a happy marriage.
“Stay out of the kitchen. Let her handle the holidays.”
I was 19. He was in his recliner.
My mother was cooking for 14 people.
She’d been up since 5 AM.
He’d been up since the football pregame.
I didn’t think anything of it.
That’s just how it was.
Fast forward 20 years.
I’m in the recliner.
My wife is in the kitchen.
She’s been up since 5 AM.
I’ve been up since the pregame.
My daughter walks by and I see her watching.
Not the TV.
Her mother.
Then me.
Then her mother again.
That’s when it hit me:
She’s taking notes.
My father taught me that holidays were for men to rest and women to work.
He didn’t say it.
He showed it.
Every Thanksgiving.
Every Christmas.
Every Easter.
The recliner passed from him to me like an inheritance I never asked for.
This morning I woke up at 4 AM.
Not for content.
For the turkey.
My wife found me in the kitchen at 6.
She didn’t say anything.
She just stood there.
Then she cried.
Your kids are taking notes.
Not on what you say.
On where you sit.
The recliner is an inheritance.
Be the generation that stands up.
I had a guy friend with a Ph.D in engineering ask me last week how women pee with a tampon in and this is why men shouldn’t be passing laws about women’s bodies.