By Abigail Asare, Psychology Major, Student Staff Member

Don’t worry. It’s not human. I never had enough money for that. My room was cluttered with excessive bags of synthetic beauty supply hair, so I had to get creative. I put any leftover or new packs of braiding hair in this random empty suitcase I found lying around. I haven’t opened it in months, though. I stopped getting my hair done altogether because I became increasingly fed up with each hairdresser I went to. All the people I went to did hair in their garages, kitchens, or basements. Some had their cosmetology licence, others did not. They all had the same supplies, carts, and cabinets full of hairspray, mousse, pomades, and gels. When I meet them, I show them the style I want. Whether they follow it, I do not know. The aunties will go through the packs of hair and slowly take them out. They brush it out, then separate it into smaller pieces for the individual braids. After about 10 minutes of this, they will roughly blow out my hair, even though I already did before the appointment. The whirring of the machine always overwhelms my ears, and my head bobs from side to side to match the trajectory of the brush. After about three rounds of this, they can actually start. 

The stylists always make several remarks about my hair. They’ll talk about how thin my edges are, how my hair is very hard, and ask about the possibility of relaxing it. After hearing the same thing and always being disappointed by the end of a 7-hour hair appointment costing over $180 (not including the hair I bought), I was over it. So last October, I took out my braids, and I just stared at myself in the mirror. I thought, “Has my hair always been this thin? My hairline receding?” I had to come to terms with the fact that I probably had traction alopecia. I had small bald spots on my hairline, and my ends were damaged. I was scared to wear my hair out, but I knew if I didn’t start, I was going to end up bald. After the second week of embracing my natural hair, I started getting flashbacks to my younger self. 

In first grade, I remember playing on the playground during recess and falling hard. I fell so hard that one of my braids loosened and landed on the mulch. My friends’ shock alerted the recess monitor to come over and check on us. In the best way my six-year-old self could explain, I told them it was no alarm, and my hair was fake. Using my small hands to make the gestures and motions of braiding. I demonstrated to them that I regularly had my real hair braided in with extensions. The white recess monitor gave me a confused look with a bit of disgust. She claimed I was too young to be doing that. In retrospect, she was right. It didn’t make sense not to wash my hair for a month because I didn’t want to ruin my braids. It was unusual that my mom started letting me braid my hair with synthetic hair as young as four. And it was even more unusual that I was now twenty with an entire suitcase of hair extensions. But I remembered something else, the reason why braiding felt like my only option. 

The first time I was ever misgendered was the year prior, in kindergarten. One day, a classmate came up to me and asked me a question. 

“Abigail, I never really knew if you were a boy or a girl because your hair is so short,” she snickered. I do not remember if I said anything back. I was just deeply confused about why she had told me this. The measly strands on her head did not grow past her shoulders either, but for some reason, mine confused her concept of the gender binary. My six-year-old self deduced that it must be because my hair was different and not in a good way. The last time I can recall being misgendered was in my junior year of high school. It was one of those weeks between a hair appointment, so I had to go to school with my natural hair. I was in the gym waiting for my flu vaccine when I got called up by an older black lady.

“Excuse me, young man, please get into line,” she bellowed across the gym. When I got down from the bleachers and my face got closer, she awkwardly shifted her gaze from mine, realizing her mistake. Even with a ten-year difference, these experiences are identical. A reminder that if I wore my natural hair, I was losing out on my femininity. I wish I could say I was misgendered when I had braids in, but that never happened, not once. Long synthetic hair always confirmed my femininity; it never failed me. These experiences do not even include the ridicule I faced because of my dark skin, large nose, and other features that distanced me from whatever a pretty girl should look like. I could never rid myself of that inherent shame. If it happened at school, I came home to the same comments. It followed me everywhere, came from anyone, especially those who looked like me. I could never become confident when everyone and everything reminded me to be ashamed of my appearance. This made me deeply uncomfortable in my own skin and disappointed whenever I looked in the mirror.

Not only do braids, wigs, weaves, sew-ins, etc., hide natural hair for enhanced femininity. These styles symbolize class. Earlier, I mentioned that the suitcase I found was just lying around. It actually belonged to my mom. She brought that suitcase with her when she left her home country years ago. It carried a few clothes and nothing else. In my American privilege, I filled it with plastic extensions. However, I think that’s what she wanted. She knew that hair, especially for black women, signified class. It was a reflection of the life she could give me. She wanted a daughter who had a choice in how her hair looked. One who had the money to get her hair done. One who didn’t have to be forced to cut her hair low from primary to secondary school. A daughter who could ascribe a higher social status than she held in her youth. She needed to teach me to look the part, and the easiest way was with my hair. That is why she started so early; she needed to teach me that I would be judged for my appearance. Every time she roughly combed my hair, she was teaching me that beauty is pain. That beauty for young black girls is distorted and contingent on compensating for overtly black features when needed. 

When my mom used to relax my hair in elementary school, she would always tell me I looked so beautiful now that my hair felt softer. When she went to sleep, I would sneak into the bathroom and take a wide-tooth comb and run through my hair over, and over, and over again. Not once did that comb ever glide through like all the TV ads I saw. After all the chemicals, heat, and brushing, it resisted endlessly. I have always known my entire life that my hair would never fit into whatever beauty standards there were. I tried so desperately to ignore this. I wanted to look beautiful. I was already too dark, and I didn’t need short coily hair to add to it. I tried to find solace in needing my hair done. However, it never resolved those mixed feelings I had, the ones I have been carrying for the past sixteen years. I was tired of the back-to-back hair appointments and of all the hair that shed onto my bathroom floor. I just didn’t want to feel bad about myself anymore. 

For my college essay, I wrote about the same sentiments I’ve shared in this post. I remember my high school teacher left a singular comment on my paper. You just wrote about your hair? I always wished that it could just be hair, but it never could be. Hair never meant anything to my teacher because she didn’t grow up with the threat of a hot comb. The simple act of combing hair never became a sensory overload. Her hair was probably never policed. And I can guarantee she did not have an entire suitcase of hair. Black people have never had the luxury of it just being hair. From the slaves who were forcefully shaved to dehumanize them. To the various institutions globally that continue to have mandates on acceptable black hair dating back to the colonial era. How race and class operate is deeply entangled in appearance. Appearance dictates what features are less than and how to treat people according to such standards. Most systems of oppression are thinly upheld by the simple belief that someone’s appearance dictates their place in society. I receive microaggressions from classmates depending on how my hair looks. I have to manage my facial expressions so that I constantly look happy because someone told me my dark skin always made my face look upset. These beliefs have been internalized across generations. That’s why when I go to church or family functions, the first comments my aunts make are about my hair.

“Your braids are old. When are you getting them done again?” 
“Have you thought about getting a wig installed or sew-in?”
“You really walk around like that?”

And you know what, yes, I do really walk around like that. There is nothing wrong with coily hair. I hate wearing braids and wigs. I hate that I have been hiding my hair for years. I like how short my hair is. I like that it’s lightweight and that it shrinks. I like that it’s sort of water-resistant. I like my hair because it’s mine. I love my hair because it connects me to all the people who’ve come before me. I love my hair because it’s resilient. I’m resilient even in a world that makes me feel ugly sometimes. The mere existence of coily hair is a form of resistance; just being yourself is resistance. So, I am truly moving past that dark green, tropical, late 90s suitcase. I wear my natural hair to class, to work, to formal occasions, everywhere. I am still getting used to it, and I haven’t deconstructed all the negative beliefs that I have about my hair. Nor have I properly learned how to take care of it. My hair is still falling out, but it will grow back with time. I really don’t want to open that suitcase again. So I am making sure it stays in my closet, buried under the church dresses I no longer wear.

By Ashwathi Menon, Bioinformatics & Public Health Major, Student Staff Member

The first thing that comes into play is performance.

The jewelry. The eyeliner so sharp that it can be seen from the last row. The well-rehearsed smile remains unshaken under the lights of the stage. My South Asian heritage comes into our lives through performance—through the vibrancy and color of the thematic films, through dance, and through the celebrated aesthetics.

However, for us, in the South Asian diaspora, culture goes beyond performance.

It is memory. It is an inheritance. It is a translation. It is survival.

During APIDA Heritage Month, there is one question that loops me more than others: how often does culture become something to consume before it is even understood as something normative to society? How can people be impressed by the beauty of South Asian culture without understanding much of the life, struggle, and history that lies beneath it?

Sometimes, being a South Asian woman raised in a Western society means negotiating these two things every day.

Bharatanatyam is a classical dance from Southern India, characterized by storytelling using the language of dance, rhythm, and expression. The hand gestures, called mudras, form an entire language on their own. A single movement can symbolize a flower, rain, heartbreak, prayer, or power. The eyes shift deliberately. The posture remains grounded and strong through aramandi, the half-seated position that forms the foundation of the dance. The face carries emotion just as much as the body does.

In Bharatanatyam, you do not simply dance. You communicate.

The drishti bhedas, the controlled eye movements, require directness. The mudras ask your hands to speak confidently before your voice ever does. The entire form teaches you to take up space physically and emotionally without apologizing for it.

I think that mattered to me long before I had the words to explain why.

The nature of diasporic communities is inherently complex. You were raised with a profound understanding of your homeland, knowing that it exists and yet feeling distant from it. Your traditions have been taught to you secondhand, filtered through generations of parents, language, culture, and customs.

Some days, I feel deeply rooted in my culture. Other days, I feel like I am constantly trying to prove my authenticity, not only to others but also to myself.

Too American in some spaces. Too Indian in others.

I imagine many APIDA students understand this feeling all too well: the struggle of protecting your culture while constantly adapting- the exhaustion of translating yourself so others can comprehend better. It’s a feeling that’s familiar in your day-to-day environments, from classes to leadership positions to informal social gatherings.

Growing up, I’ve repeatedly seen people perceive South Asian women as their projections until they actually get to know us, the studious model minority. The accomplishments are noticed before we are. But life, and especially identity, is far more complicated than this.

Dancing was one of the few things where I ceased to feel pressure. Not because it solved all the conflicts inside me, but because it let me exist amidst them. Bharatanatyam made me realize that strength and grace did not negate each other, that rigor and emotion could coexist, that being visible could be both vulnerable and invigorating.

And perhaps that is why dancing holds such personal significance for me.

Not because of the act of performance itself, but for everything else it represents: continuation, preservation, the refusal to silently vanish.

Especially now, in APIDA Heritage Month, I consider how many children of immigrants go through life translating themselves for everyone else. Softening names. Bringing light to cultural practices. Adapting oneself to be easy to comprehend, bringing centuries’ worth of history into spaces never designed to accommodate it.

But with dance, there is no need for translation. My body just gets it.

Under vivid stage lights, my hands move instinctively through mudras, reflections of the younger version of myself who practiced relentlessly for years. My eyes meet the audience with confidence.

I am finally whole.

By Claudia Gerry Social Work & Gender, Women’s and Sexuality Studies Major, Student Staff Member

Forward

This literature review was my final paper for Dr. Maria Celleri’s Methodologies in Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies (GWST 300) course. I feel that this topic heavily applies to the work the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center does. As a student staff member, I see how Title IX fails survivors, I see how it hurts survivors, and I see how it makes survivors’ lives just that much harder. I plan to continue this research and present it at URCAD 2027 in order to advocate for change not only on our UMBC campus but across the United States. So… here is a sneak peek!

Introduction

Sexual misconduct is a major problem everywhere, but specifically on college campuses. Sexual assault is defined as any form of unconsensual and unwanted sexual contact, which can include physical contact or sexual coercion (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Sexual harassment within education is defined as behaviors sexual in nature that are “sufficiently severe, persistent, or pervasive to limit a student’s ability to participate in or benefit from the education program, or to create a hostile or abusive educational environment” (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Women and LGBTQ+ undergraduate students face the greatest risk of enduring sexual misconduct (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Those who experience sexual assault often endure many mental health challenges and harms to their education (Holland & Cipriano, 2021), especially if they do not utilize support resources. The campus climate can foster barriers for survivors using these resources. Many survivors feel a minimization of sexual assault, fear of negative treatment, and have social-emotional concerns (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Awareness of sexual violence is rooted in the second-wave feminist movement. But, this awareness mostly focused on the voices of white, well-educated women. There is a persistent struggle to understand the intersectionality of sexual assault (Jessup-Anger et al., 2018), even though this issue can affect every identity. This Literature review addresses how the implementation of Title IX policies affects survivors of sexual violence within higher education systems in the United States. To begin to understand this, we must know what Title IX is and how it has been implemented through time.

What is Title IX?

Title IX was passed in 1973 as part of the education amendments and is a civil rights law (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). The main focus of this law is to prohibit sex-based discrimination in educational settings funded by the federal government (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Originally, the focus was set on inequality in admissions and educational opportunities, but the scope has widened since then (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Title IX has been used to increase access to women’s sports and require educational institutions to address sexual harassment and violence (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). At the surface level, this law seems to help survivors of sexual assault, but in reality, it often harms the survivor more than it helps. 

Every institution’s Title IX policies vary due to different levels of staffing, budget, and number of support and advocacy services. One uniform requirement across all institutions is the requirement of at least one Title IX coordinator, no matter the institution’s size (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). The Title IX coordinator is located within the Title IX office, which at most universities is housed under the institution’s Equity and Civil Rights department. 

The applications of Title IX have changed numerous times through new legislation, Office of Civil Rights (OCR) guidance, and presidential letters called Dear Colleague Letters (DCL). In 1980, Alexander v. Yale argued that sexual harassment in educational institutions constitutes sex-based discrimination under Title IX (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026) and is still the precedent today. The main acts passed that affect Title IX are: 1990 Clery Act, 1992 Campus Sexual Assault Victim’s Bill of Rights, 1994 Violence Against Women Act, and 2013 Campus SaVE Act. These acts mainly attempt to address funding for survivor services, requirements for prevention training, and public disclosure of crime rates. 

What really affects Title IX implementation the most are DCLs. In 2011, the Obama-era DCL was released. The Obama DCL called attention to the issue of sexual violence on college campuses, reminded Higher Education Institutions (HEIs) of Title IX guidelines, and added additional recommendations. This letter classified sexual violence under the umbrella of sex discrimination under Title IX, lowered investigatory standards of proof,  and made it legal to withhold funds from HEIs for not complying (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). In 2017, the  Donald Trump era DCL was released and focused heavily on concerns for the (rights of the) accused (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). The Trump DCL withdrew the Obama DCL and announced new regulations. The main changes were changes in definitions of sexual violence, limited the scope of what HEIs are required to address, added more requirements for formal adjudication, and emphasized the rights of respondents over the well-being of survivors (Webermann et al., 2023). In 2024, the Title IX regulations were changed once again by Joe Biden’s administration. These regulations expanded the scope of conduct covered under the policy and for the most part were similar to 2020 but gave HEIs more discretion (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Today, we are under the 2025 DCL. This DCL edits the 2024 regulations to include that HEIs “must continue to comply with the 2020 Title IX regulations and operate under the presumption of (inaccurate) binary, biological sex” (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Overall, Title IX policies have been said to be a political football being passed around and changed with every administration. This makes Title IX regulations hard to understand for the average person. So, not everyone understands their rights and what is expected of their institutions.

Title IX in Action

A theoretical framework to understand the importance of survivors’ interactions with the Title IX Office is the theory of institutional betrayal. Both Webermann et al. (2023) and Holland and Cipriano (2021) use this framework to understand the effects of Title IX on survivors. Institutional betrayal shows the unique ways institutions can harm marginalized groups and “conceptualizes wrongdoings perpetrated by an institution when people are dependent upon the institution and can expect that it will protect its members from harm and will respond appropriately if harm is endured” (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Students expect their institutions to take steps to restore their access to education, but when the institution fails to do so, there can be negative consequences that can include erosion of trust and belonging at the institution (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Failures of the institution can be: failure to prevent abuse, normalizing of abusive contexts, difficult reporting procedures, inadequate responses to reports, cover-ups, misinformation, and punishing survivors (Webermann et al., 2023). Survivors who experience institutional betrayal report increased levels of psychological harm (Holland & Cipriano, 2021).Title IX overall affects survivors negatively. 

First, Title IX cases are supposed to take up to 60 days to be resolved, but the average length of cases in Webermann’s study is 175.36 days (Webermann et al., 2023).  Many institutions elect to have the minimum number of coordinators- one. Staffing levels in the Title IX office affect how long cases may take (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025), so many institutions’ Title IX offices are not staffed enough for every case to be resolved within the 60-day timeframe. Many survivors see major variability in the transparency of their case. Some survivors receive multiple updates and reassurances about their case, while others get little to none (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). According to Holland and Cipriano (2021), “Recent research has found that the majority of sexual assault reports to Title IX Offices do not result in formal investigations and, of those that are investigated, there is rarely a finding of ‘responsibility’”.  Many survivors believe that the length of their case affected the outcomes. For example, witnesses may forget parts of their story over time or the respondent might leave the institution before disciplinary action is taken (Webermann et al., 2023). 

Second, many survivors report negative treatment from the Title IX office. This negative treatment can include victim-blaming, name-calling, stalling of cases, and being told the institution can do nothing about the case. Holland and Cortina (2017a) found that of the three main support systems they examined (Title IX office, sexual assault center, and housing staff), the Title IX office was not utilized by survivors because of  “negative emotions, consequences, contextual characteristics, minimization of behaviors, and alternative coping strategies”. According to Holland and Cipriano (2021), negative reactions to sexual assault disclosures can cause significant psychological harm for survivors.

Third, many survivors experience barriers in receiving support. Kaufman and Nelson (2025) found that “Too often, survivors of sexual assault do not know where to turn and do not receive the support they need despite the seemingly ‘robust’ federal legislation that seeks to address campus sexual violence”. Many survivors deliberately avoid the Title IX office due to fears of poor treatment (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Within Webermann et al.’s (2023) study, many participants felt unclear about the Title IX reporting process and their options. 

Survivors are expected to retell the worst moments of their lives numerous times, reliving it every. single. time. According to Webermann et al. (2023), the survivors in their study had to tell their stories to 2.88 different offices/individuals, not including formal grievance procedures or court procedures. If a survivor wants to make a report and seek justice, they are put in more harm. To help themselves, they have to harm themselves. “It was not just the outcome of their case that caused harm but also the process itself”(Webermann et al., 2023).

Future Steps

Due to all these reasons listed above, survivors are discouraged from standing up for themselves. Working at the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center (WGEC) has shown me how Title IX  actually operates in real life. In my personal experience, the system has failed survivors. Many survivors seek support from the WGEC, as we are a confidential space, and they do not want to bother with reporting to the UMBC Title IX office. The reasons I have heard are: knowing how the office treats other survivors, knowing how many times they will have to relive what they have gone through, concerns over social circumstances, minimization of what happened to them, and many more. With the perpetual changing of guidelines, many survivors do not understand what their institution can do for them anymore, making them give up and move on. At many institutions, there are requirements for mandatory reporting, where staff and faculty are required to report sexual misconduct disclosures to the Title IX office. Many staff and faculty are in the same boat of confusion about what the guidelines are, leading individual reporters to either report too much or too little. In my experience, professors are not trained on what is to be reported and what happens to the student after a report is filed. This leaves students cautious about talking about their experiences in fear of being non-consensually reported.

Many changes need to be made in order to ensure the success of survivors. First, there needs to be an implementation of an oversight committee to ensure the Title IX office acts swiftly, equitably and with accountability (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). This committee could also oversee trauma-informed training for Title IX Office staff and mandated reporters. “Using formal supports that are trauma-informed and survivor-centered can promote psychological well-being for survivors” (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Second, there needs to be an effort to address the root cause of sexual violence instead of focusing on the aftereffects. “Although most universities comply with Title IX, many side-step confronting the root causes of normalized sexual violence and avoid teaching the realities of campus sexual violence, leaving students confused, isolated, and unsure of how to address the trauma that they or their friends experience”(Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Third, to address institutional betrayal, we must flip it to institutional support. This can include “supportive responses from individuals within institutions to survivors, such as believing them, apologizing for their experiences, connecting them with resources, and providing autonomy in what happens after reporting”(Webermann et al., 2023). Lastly, frontline workers within the survivor support services need more say in the implementation of Title IX. “Oftentimes, frontline workers, such as victim advocates, are absent from the policy table, yet this article underscores the importance of their positionality and experiences for addressing vulnerabilities in the campus sexual violence intervention system”(Wies, 2015). 

 Conclusion

Ultimately, under the system we have set in place, Title IX is failing survivors of sexual violence in HEIs in the United States. Survivors are expected to advocate for themselves when their words have been ignored in the past. The Title IX office worries too much about getting sued by the respondent to bring justice for the survivor. Survivors experience major mental health and educational challenges even though Title IX is supposed to ensure equal access to education. If a survivor reports their institution for violation of Title IX policy, the report can take years to process, so Title IX offices are not held accountable. This is why we need to change the policy ONE last time. Modifying Title IX every few years only causes more confusion. We need to support survivors. Survivors need to feel supported, seen, and heard by their institutions.

References

Brubaker, S. J., Keegan, B., Guadalupe-Diaz, X. L., & Beasley, B. (2017). Measuring and reporting campus sexual assault: Privilege and exclusion in what we know and what we do. Sociology Compass, 11(12), e12543. https://doi.org/10.1111/soc4.12543

Holland, K. J., & Cipriano, A. E. (2021). Does a report = support? A qualitative analysis of college sexual assault survivors’ Title IX Office knowledge, perceptions, and experiences. Analyses of Social Issues and Public Policy, 21(1), 1054–1081. https://doi.org/10.1111/asap.12271

Holland, K. J., & Cortina, L. M. (2017a). “It Happens to Girls All the Time”: Examining Sexual Assault Survivors’ Reasons for Not Using Campus Supports. American Journal of Community Psychology, 59(1-2), 50–64. https://doi.org/10.1002/ajcp.12126

Holland, K. J., & Cortina, L. M. (2017b). The evolving landscape of Title IX: Predicting mandatory reporters’ responses to sexual assault disclosures. Law and Human Behavior, 41(5), 429–439. https://doi.org/10.1037/lhb0000253

Holland, K. J., & Howard Valdivia, R. L. (2026). Title IX and Sexual Violence in Higher Education: A Mapping Review and Assessment of Policy Implementation and Effectiveness. The Journal of Sex Research, 1–19. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224499.2026.2623649

Jessup-Anger, J., Lopez, E., & Koss, M. P. (2018). History of Sexual Violence in Higher Education. New Directions for Student Services, 2018(161), 9–19. https://doi.org/10.1002/ss.20249

Kaufman, S. B.-S., & Nelson, L. (2025). Interpreting title IX: A feminist legal geography of sexual assault prevention on U.S. college campuses. Political Geography, 116(5), 103252. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2024.103252

Webermann, A. R., Holland, K. J., & Murphy, C. M. (2023). Student Experiences Reporting Sexual and Gender-Based Misconduct to the Title IX Office at a Public State University. Violence against Women, 30(6-7), 107780122211502. https://doi.org/10.1177/10778012221150274

Wies, J. R. (2015). Title IX and the State of Campus Sexual Violence in the United States: Power, Policy, and Local Bodies. Human Organization, 74(3), 276–286. https://doi.org/10.17730/0018-7259-74.3.276

By: Margot Anthony, WGEC Student Staff Member and Social Work Student

Main theme: Letting yourself be vulnerable again in a relationship after gender-based harm. 

Trauma from gender-based harm and healing from that trauma is a topic that is discussed a lot at the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center (WGEC); we even have a weekly discussion group about it called “We Believe You.” It is through this group that I have been thinking about the healing process, and how in all of the books that I have read about healing from gender-based harm it is never discussed how to navigate beginning a new relationship and letting yourself be vulnerable again. 

Since I had experienced my trauma, when I was 17 and 19, I had never been in a relationship after that. I am 23 years old now. The thought of letting myself become that vulnerable again was terrifying, and right now it still is. I had a decision to make, I could live in a world of fear and what if’s or I could take small steps into letting myself fully live my life again, on my own terms. 

That’s what I decided to do. I began slowly. I was hanging out with some of my friends and we had the great idea to make an account for me on a dating app. Let’s just say there were some highs and many lows. It took me almost three years to even be comfortable with the idea of seeing if I wanted to go out on dates with people. It took me almost four years to actually go on a date with someone. It took 13 first dates going wrong in some way to find someone that seemed like they understood and respected boundaries. 

After some self-care and some journaling I decided that it was time to try again, and that I would give this person a chance; and so far I am really glad that I did. The fear is still there, and will continue to be there for a long time, but he seems to understand that. He encourages me to assert my own boundaries and does not take silence as a yes. Will this last forever? I don’t know and right now that is okay for me. Through this I am learning that there are people who do understand that setting boundaries isn’t presenting a challenge or saying ask me again. There are people that will understand some of your boundaries and limits without you having to say anything and without you having to explain anything to them. 

This was a difficult step for me to take because I was putting myself into a situation where I did not know what the outcome would be. I still don’t know what the outcome will be, and I’m beginning to realize that that is okay. 

Healing and starting to trust people and be vulnerable again is not a linear process, there are ups and downs. I wish that I could say that there were concrete steps that I took to get to this point.  I wish I could say that I’m not scared anymore, but that would be a complete lie. I’m still scared. That is something I don’t think will change. What I am learning is that fear does not have to control everything. 

Making sure fear does not control your life and keep you from experiencing new things is easier said than done. Some steps that I take include: 

1. Sharing my location when I go on dates. 
2. Giving trusted people the name of the person that I am going on a date with and a picture. 
3. Meeting someone at a location for a date and not being picked up by them. 
4. Telling people what the plan for the date is, and informing them if anything changes.
   1. What time and where we are meeting. 
   2. What time the date is likely to end. 
   3. Places we may be going other than the place that we meet. 
5. Being clear about boundaries when needed.
   1. This is one of the hardest things to do. It’s scary. But it’s important. If you get invited to do something you don’t want to do or don’t feel comfortable doing, SAY NO. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF! NO IS A COMPLETE SENTENCE! 
6. Trust your gut! – If you feel uncomfortable, leave. Even if it is something small. 

Your journey is yours and yours alone. There is no specific timeline. Dating is hard and scary. One thing that I have learned is that while first dates are scary, the dates after can be even more nerve wracking. The important thing to remember is to make decisions that are good for you, and be willing to communicate your needs with people. The biggest thing that I have learned and that I will leave you all with is the fact that you do not have to be perfect to be in a relationship you just have to be trying. 

By: Ashwathi Menon, Bioinformatics & Public Health Major

When I first entered the world of neuroscience lab work, science seemed to be all about being objective: clean lines, sharp corners, and no emotion involved whatsoever. It all seemed to point to the notion that too much emotion clouds one’s vision; you didn’t want emotion near your microscope. But as I stood at my lab bench operating my RT-PCRs on rat hypothalamus samples, it hit me just how much emotion was already infused into everything we did. It takes patience to accurately pipette one perfect microliter of liquid. It takes collaboration to run repeated tests. It takes the knowledge and obligation to know your own scientific pursuits may one day impact an individual’s life; the entire point being care is not the opposite of science but its pulse instead.

This is not something one can read in books or lectures. It is something my grandmother taught me: my Achamma. She suffered from a stroke just over a year ago, and since then, I have been assisting my family with her care. Watching her relearn to move her arm or to pronounce a few words sparked my own interest in the same paths inside her mind because these paths looked just like what we discussed and viewed in class, but instead of graphs or PowerPoint presentations, they were hers.

In science, we’re expected to measure everything: voltage, pH levels, and reaction time. But there is no measuring the act of holding someone’s hand while they forget your name, or the strength required to continue to come back to them anyway. This is the kind of labor women have always done. Unacknowledged labor, uncounted labor, but vital labor nonetheless. It is this kind of labor, the kind of labor devalued by society as care, that fuels scientific progress itself. This is one thing feminism helped me recognize.

As someone who works in scientific research, I have been struck by how often science attempts to polarize emotion and intellect. You’re legitimate if you’re logical, but weak if you’re empathetic. But beyond just hurting women in science, this kind of false dichotomy also hurts science itself. The questions we ask in scientific research come from who we are. When more women, and especially women of color, enter science, we bring questions that have never before been asked.

One thing feminist theory often addresses is “ethics of care,” because care is not something to be scorned but rather something to do with moral and intellectual power. This is what I think of every time I go to lab work. This is what I do every time I label a vial of cells or give a presentation or stand up to talk about my findings: practice care for my field and help to transform it from something that once made me feel small to something that contains care.

When I first embarked on my research internship at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research, I noticed that I was among the youngest individuals in the lab setting. And yes, I recall wondering whether my voice would really carry any weight or whether anyone would take me seriously at all. But every time I decided to speak out or share my thoughts on whether to use this or that approach, I realized that confidence didn’t lie in being loud but in being anchored to my values instead. And this is something feminism showed me before science did.

It is to walk a high wire between precision and patience, between brains and intuition, and between being strong and being soft. But it seems to me now that these things are no longer on one side or the other of any kind of divide. The most excellent scientific minds happen to approach things whole-brained or whole-hearted, asking “who” questions. Who is helped? Who is hurt? Who is not being allowed to participate in this conversation?

At times, I wonder what my Achamma would have thought if she were to witness me now in my lab setting, my gloved hands steady and strong around my work involving data and fluorescence. But she would smile and remark matter-of-factly, “You’re still taking care of people.” And she would be right because science is nothing but another expression of “caring for others” or our “world” around us.

Perhaps care itself is not what serves as a distraction from science but is rather what makes science human. Perhaps future generations of women pursuing science can forget having to choose between being kind and being smart because we have always been both.

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” – T.S. Eliot

It’s 2021, senior year of high school, and as the COVID-19 pandemic continues to surge we sit anxiously at our computers awaiting responses from the universities and colleges we’ve applied to. Few students dare to break from tradition, choosing instead to follow the well-trodden paths of their parents, grandparents, siblings, or cousins. In Texas—especially at this small Catholic school—tradition carries immense weight, shaping the choices of most graduates. 

Because of this, it’s no surprise that when a peer decides to go to an out-of-state school, it’s met with shock and skepticism. “Are you sure you want to move so far away?” they ask, voices tinged with disbelief. “How could you leave your family? What are you even going to do out there? Isn’t it easier to just stay here?” These questions often carry an undertone of judgment, as if breaking away from the familiar is a betrayal of the community or an unnecessary risk. 

I was no exception to these questions when I announced that I would be going to the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, (UMBC). Still, I knew deep down that Texas had given me all it could. Despite coming from a liberal family, we couldn’t escape the suffocating grip of conservatism that shaped so much of life in San Antonio. In my 18 years there, I was taught to love Jesus and my family, to believe that abortion was the ultimate sin, and that rape could never result in pregnancy. Texas seemed determined to isolate itself from the rest of the world, and I realized no one around me was going to show me what lay beyond its borders. If I wanted to see the world for what it truly was, I had to leave and discover it with my own eyes.

It wasn’t easy. I often found myself going to great lengths to reassure people that, despite the stereotypes, not everyone in Texas was a bigot. It was true that my life experiences had been limited, but more than anything, I wanted to learn and grow. Being away from my family was a constant challenge. While I formed wonderful friendships, my peers had the privilege of going home after a tough week or celebrating their birthdays with loved ones. My visits were restricted to Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, and the ache of homesickness sometimes made me question my decision. Yet, I knew deep down that this was a path I had to follow—a necessary step to discover more about myself and the world, no matter how hard it was.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t required to wear a school uniform, and people asked me about my pronouns and sexuality—things that had never been part of the conversation back home. Here, there was no assumption that I was straight or that I had to stick to she/her pronouns. It was liberating in a way I hadn’t imagined. Every weekend, I called home, brimming with excitement about what I was studying and experiencing. I’ll never forget how thrilled I was to discover new ideas and perspectives that challenged everything I thought I knew.

Reproductive health, in particular, was something I had no idea about when I arrived in Maryland. Growing up in Texas, I was steeped in a culture that avoided honest conversations about sex, contraception, and bodily autonomy. Misinformation shaped my understanding, from the stigmatization of abortion to outright falsehoods about pregnancy and assault. At UMBC, I encountered a starkly different reality—one where access to accurate information and open dialogue about reproductive health was not only encouraged but normalized.

Learning about comprehensive sex education, the science of reproduction, and the policies that impact reproductive rights empowered me to think critically and advocate for myself and others. It has been a transformative experience, allowing me to see how much I had been denied back home.

UMBC felt like an entirely different world, one that revealed just how sheltered my life in Texas had been. I was thrilled to finally learn the information I had missed out on growing up—knowledge that felt empowering and long overdue. More than anything, I wanted to return home and share what I had discovered, to challenge the misconceptions that had shaped so much of my upbringing. I realized how fortunate I was to have the opportunity to attend college out of state, knowing that not everyone has the privilege to explore life beyond the boundaries of their hometown.

Four years later, now in my senior year of college, I am planning for life after graduation—a future that once felt bright and full of promise but now seems clouded by the aftermath of the recent presidential election and its implications. Returning to a conservative state like Texas feels overwhelming, knowing I may encounter skepticism or resistance from those with deeply different views. As a woman, I’m acutely aware of the rights that have been stripped away, and the thought of going back fills me with fear. Yet, my love for my family and my desire to support girls like me—those who don’t have the option to leave—outweigh my hesitation. I want to make Texas a better place for them, a place where they can thrive despite the challenges.

When I share my decision to return to Texas, the reactions from friends and colleagues are often a mix of shock and fear. “Why would you go back there?” they ask, eyes wide, their voices filled with concern. I can’t blame them for their alarm—after all, I’ve spent years speaking openly about the challenges of growing up in a conservative state and the liberating experiences I’ve had here in Maryland. But despite their worry, my decision feels right. Texas shaped me, for better or worse, and I can’t turn my back on the place or the people who are still there, navigating the same struggles I once faced. Yes, moving back is daunting, but it’s also a chance to bring the knowledge I’ve gained and the perspective I’ve developed to a community that needs it. And while leaving the supportive and progressive environment I’ve built in Maryland is bittersweet, I know that going back is not a step backward. It’s a step toward creating change and making my home a place where others like me can see a future worth staying for.

I understand that meaningful change won’t happen overnight, but I truly believe that progress is possible. 

Because femininity is a concept, it can be constantly reshaped, redefined, and distorted based on the beliefs of the society it exists within, and social media works to heighten and mirror that. As a young, Black queer woman navigating both the virtual and physical world, I am able to notice and reflect on instances where social media becomes a space of healing for certain groups, but not others. Across numerous social media platforms, we’ve seen a rise in “girlhood” related trends. From girl dinner to girl math, a curated glimpse into what it means to be a “girl” is flooding our senses and our timelines. While the inherent satirical nature of the trend can be harmless and even beneficial from the surface, as someone who identifies as a woman and sometimes even a girl I am able to see and experience how the trend works to support and promote undertones of exclusivity apparent in Western society. 

I want to make an important distinction between how the trend looks and what it communicates. I’ve always been a “girly girl” at heart, it’s a way of embracing femininity that feels comfortable for me, so visually I should relate to a trend built on a hyperfeminine, pink-clad life, right? But I don’t, and that is what compelled me to think more critically and write about this topic. I didn’t see myself reflected in this trend and I feel like I’m not the only one. When I look through videos of girlhood on social media, I am often fed a very idealized image. White, heterosexual, cis-gendered, and able-bodied. This perception of femininity being promoted is one that speaks and appeals to a very specific and very Westernized idea of beauty. For women like me, who were once girls like me, this representation can be jarring. It not only feels like our unique experiences don’t belong in public view but that we should try to conform or assimilate to the experiences being shown to us. For girls like me, social media doesn’t always offer room to express our girlhood in a way that feels right, especially not in a widespread or public manner. Instead, there’s an unspoken pressure to conform to this widely celebrated form of femininity and for those who don’t fit in that box, their experiences are erased. Also, girlhood, like most other trends and phenomena on social media, is heavily commodified, and it always has been. So not only am I being sold a hyperspecific, hyperbolized version of femininity, but it’s one I don’t even identify or relate to. I completely understand the positive aspects of the trend but I also can’t help but approach it with apprehension because of the disappointing tendency the media has of generalizing or erasing my experiences as a Black woman. Because of that, I can’t be surprised that I’m seeing the same thing happen here, but instead of my current experiences as a Black woman, it’s my past experiences as a Black girl.

In my AFST 460 course, Black Hair and Body Politics (highly recommended!) we talk about the concept of the “other”. The other is determined because they are different from what is considered the hegemonic norm. In girlhood and femininity, the norm is white Eurocentric experiences of girlhood, and as a result, all WOC and what we experience are labeled as the other. When you’re the other, there is something inherently wrong with you, how you live, and what you experience. I can’t help but feel as though these trends think there is something wrong with my Blackness and my Black girlhood. There is so much to my girlhood that I value and cherish, like the memories of sitting in my mom’s lap for hours while she braided my hair, visiting my family in the UK, early RnB and funk music, and so much more. I haven’t seen this trend celebrate common aspects of the Black girlhood experience unless it is a Black woman herself making space for it. To me, that isn’t fair. If we’re celebrating girlhood, shouldn’t we celebrate all types of girlhood? My girlhood is shaped by my culture and heritage and that doesn’t always align with the trends that dominate my timeline, and I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. 

In the eyes of this trend, there is only one way to be feminine and only one way to heal your inner girl, and if you’re not doing it that way you’re doing it wrong. I urge anyone who relates to this post to appreciate the uniqueness of your girlhood and how it has been impacted by your identity and surroundings. Reclaiming your girlhood doesn’t automatically mean completely conforming to or rejecting mainstream trends, but embracing the beauty of difference. For me, reclaiming my girlhood means doing my hair myself, it reminds me of the bonds I made with my mom when she did it for me. For me, it means listening to the same ’80s and ’90s RnB and funk music my mom used to blast every Saturday morning. These experiences define my girlhood and it wouldn’t be fair to try and apply them to every other woman in the world. That’s my primary issue with this trend, it had so much potential to celebrate the inherent diversity in upbringing. We all have different backgrounds and our girlhoods looked different because of that, regardless we are connected in that we were all girls. Instead, this trend chooses to uplift one version of girlhood and completely exclude all others. There is inherent value in all forms of girlhood, even the ones that aren’t popularized or commodified.

While it is upsetting that yet again women of color are forced to carve out spaces for ourselves within popular media trends, there is still power in reclaiming your girlhood, whatever that means for you. The trend shouldn’t be about commodification or fitting into aesthetic boxes, but celebrating your roots and healing your inner child. There is no one way to be a girl. Girlhood and womanhood are messy, hectic, and beautifully diverse and that is what the trend should be celebrating. Girlhood, like all trends, is fun and fleeting. Despite this, it’s important to recognize how they can be used to perpetuate exclusion and marginalization. For those who fit inside the box this trend has popularized, think critically about the media you’re consuming, and how it might be impacting those who look different from you. For those of us on the outside of mainstream definitions of “girlhood”, it is important to remember our stories, our youth, and our identities are just as valuable –because at our core, we are all just a girl.

To quote myself from the start of my first semester here at UMBC, “I have somewhat of a unique position in that I often find myself standing in the middle of the line–I am biracial, bisexual, nonbinary, and have lived below the poverty line in an upper middle to high class area. I straddle many fences, and those experiences have made me sympathetic to both sides. It can be difficult to bridge the gap between marginalized and privileged groups.” I said these things in a reflection on my own activism, contemplating whether or not I could consider myself an activist. To be honest, sometimes I still don’t quite feel like I deserve that title, but I do my best.

Since then, I have learned quite a bit (which one would hope would be the case, considering how much tuition costs). As is the case with any knowledge, situations will arise where you are the only one in the room who is knowledgeable about the subject. Sometimes the conversation is trivial, and it doesn’t matter how much or how little you know about the subject. Sometimes the conversation is important, and your expertise is vital to understanding.

I have often been told that the way I speak, with assertive confidence, gives others the impression that I know what I’m talking about. While I do spend a lot of my free time learning new things, I am by no means an expert in anything but my own experiences. When I have to talk about something I haven’t experienced, I try to pull on what I’ve learned from others who have. But of course, trying to talk about something I haven’t experienced is much more difficult than talking about something I have. And this poses a problem when I’m the most knowledgeable person in the room on the subject.

Most recently, this situation arose while talking with a friend about MoistCr1TiKaL’s response to iDubbbz’s apology for his racist content. For those out of the loop, both MoistCr1TiKaL and iDubbbz are white YouTubers. MoistCr1TiKaL’s content largely focuses on commentary on internet culture and news, and iDubbbz is most well-known for his past comedic content. Unfortunately, a lot of that past comedic content was racist. iDubbbz recognized this, albeit years later, and apologized for the harm his content caused. MoistCr1TiKaL then responded, and subsequently doubled down, that iDubbbz’s apology was unnecessary. MoistCr1TiKaL’s own audience disagreed with him, and several other YouTube commentators put out videos running down the whole situation. D’Angelo Wallace’s and Kat Blaque’s videos discussing the topic provide comprehensive rundowns of the situations and a nuanced discussion about racism and accountability, for those interested.

While talking with this friend, they mentioned not finding the situation all that important. They said they found it almost laughable when people used slurs because, to them, it devalued the racist meaning of the word and made the user look like a fool. This came from their experiences of being both Black and Hispanic and experiencing racism that was much more difficult to deal with than a random creator on the internet. I pointed out that this kind of racism was harmful, too, and it normalized it and harmed others, even if it didn’t personally hurt my friend. But I felt out of my depth; I am white-passing, and my personal experiences with racism are complicated. The way I move through the world is completely different to how my friend moves through the world. In helping my friend understand why such content was harmful, I had to stare into the abyss of my (lack of) knowledge—and it stared back; I was wildly unequipped for this conversation, but if I didn’t have it, I wasn’t sure anyone else in my friend’s life would. So I sent them Kat Blaque’s video on the situation, trusting that her words would make more sense than mine, and that her experiences would resonate more with my friend.

But being the only advocate doesn’t always mean you’re the one who knows the most—sometimes it means you’re the only one willing to speak up. Some groups are so stigmatized that broaching the topic with the wrong crowd can cause conflict. Take, for example, furries. Last semester, I wrote a literature review that argued against the bias that academia holds against furries, and ended with a call to action. This was not, however, a popular topic; most people seemed startled or uncomfortable with the subject. Furry fandom was not something I was very familiar with at the time, but my paper was born from frustration at constant criticism of furries, and even genocidal jokes about them in group chats, largely fueled by misinformation and harmful stereotypes. My concerns about the popularity of using furries as a punching bag were overlooked, even by close friends.

Discussing taboo topics is not easy; you are liable to be given a label you don’t identify with, or even a derogatory one, when you defend a group people love to hate. The main question I received when writing the literature review was, “Are you a furry?” While the frustration of being asked that question did not stop me from continuing my research, the implications can stop others from publicly advocating for a group of people. Sometimes the barrier to being an advocate is simply not wanting to be the one who’s targeted. But the less people who speak up, the harder it is for others to. For some closeted queer people, advocating for queer rights can be dangerous, as it could draw unwanted attention that could pose a physical threat to their lives. The more often we advocate for the fair and equitable treatment of others, the harder it is to target individuals, and the easier it is for others to get involved.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easy. Even with as vocal as I am, I get nervous when I share my opinions. People can be unpredictable; even those you know best can manage to shock you. For courage, I follow the mantra they teach you in kindergarten: “treat others the way you want to be treated.” When I don’t have the courage to speak up, I hope that others will in my stead. How many times growing up did I witness something that I felt powerless to change, if only one other person had stood up for me? Making the world a better place sometimes means stepping up and being the person you needed when you were younger.

Activism looks different for everyone. For some, it is going out and marching or walking out in protest. Some choose to utilize social media to spread awareness and use the algorithm for greater good. For myself, I like to use the definition Dr. Kate Drabinski gave us in her GWST 200 course on activism: “living life in accordance with one’s values.” Whether you choose to be vocal or provide support from the sidelines, it is important that we show up for each other—especially when it may be difficult to do so.

Why is it that women are expected to take up as little space as possible? In elevators, we’re always in the corners making room for others. On crowded sidewalks, we’re the first to let others pass us. In our classrooms and offices, we observe without ever speaking up even when we’re qualified to do so. We speak only when spoken to, which is even more true for women of color. I often find myself sitting in the back of classrooms and not raising my hand unless absolutely necessary, especially in classes with white professors and majority white students. Many of them are conditioned to advocate for themselves, so they tend to be the most vocal. Because of this, I don’t feel like I can raise my hand in class, even when I want to. While it may not be because of social conditioning, it could be that people are just not cognizant of when to take up space or when not to.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with white students raising their voices, except for when it’s at the expense of students of color. Historically, people of color and especially women of color have been left out of academic spaces in the US. Further, our histories have been erased or “whitewashed” in academia, which is why it’s even more important to amplify the voices of students of color when it comes to discourse around our histories and the intersecting issues affecting our communities. A 2012 study from Smith College explored Black students’ silence in classrooms at predominantly white institutions, and found that teaching material that centered around European-American history and culture influenced the silence of Black students.

Implementing the “Step Up, Step Back” model can be effective in ensuring that students have a fair chance at participating in discussions. Stepping back calls us to provide space for others that are willing and able to step up, and not take away their opportunity to contribute. If you are in the position to step up, you should first be aware of whether there is anyone else who can or should be the one to step up in that situation, and encourage them to do so, or rather, give them the space to do it. The silence may be uncomfortable at first, but we must give ourselves and others time to process before we raise our hand. Stepping back allows us to listen to someone else’s perspective that we would miss if we only heard our own voice. It’s very important to take the time to learn other perspectives, especially at a diverse school like UMBC.

Professors also play a huge role in how comfortable students feel engaging in their classes. They can encourage student participation by diversifying their content and literature from different backgrounds. Most times, we read outdated texts and learn about theories from white people, when we could implement more scholarship from people of color. It’s important to learn about new narratives regarding marginalized communities, because it can be damaging when we only ever learn about the same stories over again. For example when we learn about Black history, the struggle narrative is perpetuated by more emphasis being placed on learning about slavery and the Jim Crow era, rather than stories about Black people thriving. When negative messaging about one group is taught while another group is glorified, students of color have a hard time connecting with the content.

UMBC is supposed to be a model for diversity and inclusivity, but it is lacking in its content. It isn’t until students of color feel seen and welcome in their classes, that the university can truly reflect the values that it stands for.

Image description: Rachael smiling while standing in front of a UMBC building. She is wearing a brown, long-sleeved top.

Positionality statement: This post is written by Rachael Joslow, a third-year and student staff at the Women’s Center. In addition to my experience growing up as an only child with a single mom, this blog will be about what a romantic relationship is and how I’ve struggled to understand what it means to have one over the years. With sharing my personal experiences, I hope this blog can be something that others can relate to and shed light on a different perspective on dating and relationships.

Something that I’ve been thinking about more often this year is my perception of relationships in a romantic sense. As I’m getting older, I start to realize how I don’t know what it means to have a partner or what it means to have a romantic relationship. It’s so normalized to find a romantic relationship in our society. Ever since I was young, it’s been ingrained in me by others in different ways that I’ll get married or “you’ll find the one when you’re older.” Even in school growing up, it’s the “high school” experience to have your first kiss, be asked out to prom, have sex, and all those personal experiences. Why does it matter to everyone so much during that time? Maybe peer pressure and all that stupid shit. 

Growing up, I was an only child in a single parent household, so it was only my mom and I! It never felt empty or like something was missing, it was just another type of household that I was more used to. With having a single mom, I experienced how I didn’t need to have both a mom and a dad in terms of emotional support, because I was surrounded by so much love and support from other family members and family friends growing up. 

As I was surrounded by a loving community, I came to understand the different types of love that you can receive and give to others. 

I recently recalled a conversation I had in 5th grade with another classmate: “oh, it would be okay if I married somebody or if I married nobody! If I do get married, the person can be a girl or a boy.” Ten years later, I am someone who experiences attraction for any gender. But now, I’ve been vehemently opposed to getting married or being in relationships. Other thoughts that come to mind are after being through relationships, I really don’t know how to be in one. I don’t know what to look for in a partner, I’m not sure how to act in one, and I also don’t know what it means to have a partner. I see what everyone else does in relationships, but I haven’t figured out what that looks like for me. I feel like I’ve also gotten to the point where I don’t have the capacity for relationships, because I recognize that it requires a lot of time and effort that I don’t have.

There’s so many unrealistic standards that we have for relationships. Everyone either broadcasts their own opinion on what a relationship should be like, or puts their relationship online, mostly showing the positive aspects. There is so much romanticization of dating online. It sets unrealistic standards and expectations on what a relationship is which results in people missing the importance of them. There have been many instances where people fall into this loophole of falling in love with the idea of a relationship or the idea of a partner. It becomes difficult to experience relationships genuinely when people are constantly sharing on social media about “if your partner doesn’t do this then… [insert bad indicator that the relationship is unhealthy]” or “here’s 10 signs that your relationship may be healthy/toxic” Constantly internalizing other people’s personal experiences and preferences creates a disillusion for what you actually want in a relationship rather than figuring out your needs and wants and what you like or dislike.

Image description: Two phones in the graphic with a pink, red, and blue background. Two hands are reaching out in the middle of the graphic.

The standards that society has for women in relationships are toxic, and often do not prioritize their well-being. Growing up, we’re conditioned with heteronormativity and taught that we have to learn how to take care of a family and partner in relationships. Ultimately, our identity becomes the caretaker, but not who we are. From previous experiences, I found myself putting my partner’s needs above my own rather than thinking how I felt. My friends noticed that I would be in this constant state of being anxious if I did something to make them upset, or assuming already that I had done something wrong. I would constantly be worrying if I upset them, and it would feel like the end of the world if that were true. There would be unrealistic standards for me to meet, and it would not be communicated with me often, so there would be this big blow up about how I have done something wrong multiple times when all the while, I hadn’t even realized it. Communication is so vital in relationships. Everyone says this, but in any relationship, friendship or romance, it is so important to talk about your needs and wants, because you don’t want a type of resentment to build overtime between you and your partner. It would be this constant cycle of undervaluing how I was feeling, and then convincing myself that things were fine when they really were not.  

I’ve now taken the time to not be in relationships, and it’s been the best decision for myself! I’ve been able to focus on my other types of relationships such as family, friends, and with myself. Focusing on myself, and learning more about who I am has been one of the best forms of love for me. Giving myself space from romantic relationships has put myself in a healthy headspace such as finding joy in the type of person I’m becoming, and pursuing my personal interests. I’ve become friends with so many wonderful people these past few years, and I truly believe they have brought out the best within myself. The friendships I’ve made have made my heart full in ways that I can’t describe. I feel that friendships are often overlooked in terms of the different types of love there are in life.

Society perceives romantic love as the ultimate form of love that you can receive and give, but that shouldn’t be the case!

I belong to the people I love, and they belong to me-they, and the love and loyalty I give them, form my identity far more than any word or group ever could.

Veronica Roth