Often as I sit at my computer and attempt to compose an eloquent blog post I find myself at a loss for words. The proper vernacular seems adrift in the winds of emotion that sweep over me as I relive each beautiful, perfect story. Bethany + Christopher’s wedding day is no different, and yet it completely is. How do I put into syllables what it meant to stand alongside them as they ventured into their forever, and into my hearts as new (and dear) friends? I’m worried that I’ll falter, that I’ll fail to paint a written narrative as profound as this day was; so I shall refrain from making a feeble attempt. What I can say for sure is this: Bethany and Christopher do everything loudly. They love with their entire hearts and their kindness is unparalleled. Their families are warm and humble and fierce and steeped in their own traditions yet...
three is a tragic number | a story of sexual assault(s).
This post isn’t a response to a Letter, the truth is I haven’t received one in ages. But it’s a story that’s all too common, and it’s finally time I share it. TW: Sexual Assault I was barely in middle school the first time it happened. I wasn’t even a teenager the first time a boy put his hands down my pants while I was asleep. I was at a sleepover with a friend from a former school, a girl I knew only briefly, but vetting your friends for possible pedophile brothers shouldn’t be a thing when you’re eleven (or ever). We fell asleep after watching movies and talking for what felt like hours. The night – and our vast and seemingly unending supply of energy – faded quickly. Becky sprawled across her dad’s favorite armchair as I settled into the soft folds of the family’s well-worn sofa. I remembered...
being a person is hard sometimes | on forgiveness, shame, hurting others, and learning how to let go
When I was in the seventh grade a girl told me I had ugly feet. I take that back. She announced I had ugly feet, proclaimed it as if it were a common and necessary fact that any and all need know lest they be caught unawares by the awesome terror of my metatarsals. It was summer, or nearly there, at a friend’s co-ed pool party. The day was winding down and we had just matriculated inside to watch a movie or MTV or whatever was hip in the mid 90’s for kids who had cable, and were all huddled around a tiny color tube television, sprawled together (yet clearly and awkwardly separated by anatomy) on chairs and couches and the hard, cold, Spanish tile floor. Limbs were thrown askew everywhere and blankets were strewn haphazardly about. We were propped up, or together, on pillows – angling our preteen bodies perfectly for...
on art + madness + coming back to who you always were | a portrait series ft. hanna voxland
“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.” -Ginsberg I’ve always known I would be an artist. Creation is written on my bones – etched in the marrow like ornate and intricate carvings. If questioned in my youth, I couldn’t have told you I would become a photographer. This medium was elusive then, slippery and wet and wholly unformed, still ruminating and gestating within my soul. I thought I’d be something, anything else, really. A designer. A poet. A writer. A teacher. Eventually my dreams gave way and I morphed into something entirely unrecognizable. A destined-for-medicority suburban housewife with a ho-hum career and a sport utility vehicle and a Kohls’ charge. The carvings had been buried. Their stories were devoured by the mundane tedium of the shoulds and supposed-tos. Frozen dinners and soda cans and lawn mowers. Escrow accounts and backyard bbq’s and societal norms. // One day, amidst the chaos of to-do’s and...