This essay is part of “Bliss,” an exhibition that asks a group of artists to tell their viewers what bliss, or its loss, means to them.
The spirit of the Golden Globe Awards this year felt like a long, drawn-out exhalation of relief. The women that came forth through #metoo finally were given a significant voice.
“My Decors,” a new essay by memoirist Joyce Johnson, author of “Minor Characters.”
For women living with PMDD, menstruation can be especially fraught. The key to finding relief is recognizing the symptoms.
To be wild is to accept the paradoxes and contradictions inherent in life instead of driving yourself crazy trying in vain to resolve them.
For many with student loan debt, the American Dream isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Ever wondered what it would be like to study whatever you want? A free education makes that possible.
Feminist Wednesday blogger Erin Bagwell turns her passion for sharing women’s stories into film. See “Dream, Girl,” currently screening across the country and recently selected by Oprah to be part of her SuperSoul 100 roundup.
After giving her a too-intimate medical history, I teared up in frustration as I explained that I had no idea what caused my acne. She nodded wisely, and simply said, “I would bet it’s the IUD.”
The question “Will I make it?” leads a first-generation American in her career aspirations and continues to drive her independent journey far away from her family.
I just got laid off from the job that robbed me of my remaining passion and creativity. In some ways, this is the most liberating period of my life. I’m now free from working countless hours on tasks that can only lead to burnout, pushing agendas I don’t personally believe in, slapping fake smiles across my face and pretending to drink the insane Kool-Aid overflowing in the startup world.
Growing up, I was afraid of my body. My mother, who I have never seen break a sweat in my life, taught me that I was fragile and sickly, that the more I used my body, the weaker I would become and that the only safe place to live was inside my brain.
Morgan was a friend who, despite spending nearly all my time with her for the last two years of high school, never fell into my category of “best friend:” the coveted, teenaged-girl honorific.
It took me 25 years to learn what finding common ground really meant. This became evident when I was living with a new roommate a year ago who turned out to be far different than I’d imagined when I interviewed her.