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Entries in women (4)


Why We Need To Talk About Women And Sexuality 



By Kate Harveston

It’s time we have a serious talk about women’s sexuality in society. There’s plenty of talk about why women should or shouldn’t shave, wear makeup or not, wear heels or not or choose a cup over pads. The deeper conversation about women’s sexuality is still being knocked around the proverbial bush.

Take a look at a recent, striking tweet posted by Twitter user XicanaRebel, which she has translated from a protest poster in Spanish:


            “Menstruation is the only blood that is not born from violence, yet it’s the one that disgusts you the most.”


Source: Twitter


There are 114,880 retweets and 220,307 likes and counting. Reading the tweet feed, there are many comments that all human bodies make gross substances, such as through a runny nose or urination, even pointing out how menstrual blood is a mix of “tissue, blood and mucus.”

So, no biggie, ladies — many men and women seem to be saying, but there are those who tell women their bodies are “nasty” and “gross” for its ability to give life.


Source: Twitter


Yeah, no biggie. Go talk to your mothers about that, guys.

Unfortunately, it’s not only men who do this. Mothers, too, who grew up with unhealthy relationships with their bodies, must struggle against the cultural ideas that their bodies — and their daughter’s bodies — are somehow unclean.

Go Deeper: Let’s Talk About Women’s Sexuality

There are many discussions about the gender politics of women's fake pockets or how contouring makes some women feel like their natural beauty doesn’t matter, while it’s an art for others. Are the fashion and beauty industries advancing with women or holding them back?

There are many sides to the conversation when it comes to women’s beauty, with their own valid points, but when you peel back the layers, it comes down to women’s sexuality. Speakers quote statistics on domestic violence, rape and sexual assault, but it's only in the last couple of years that we're talking about what real consent means.

There is also what young women — and yes, men, too — believe about their personal sexual pleasure, and more often than not, consent and wearing a rubber is the end point.

What about a woman’s entitlement and capacity for sexual pleasure? Many women say they have the power to orgasm deeply, but scientists still think aspects of a woman’s orgasm are a myth, without much research to back it up. For them, there are more important topics to cover — No biggie, right?

Like people have their opinions, they have their entitlement to pleasure, meaning this: women must know they have the right to enjoy sex, be that with a partner or by herself.

Instead of focusing on what gives them pleasure, women are often over-considerate of their partners: waxing, shaving, putting on restrictive corsets and lathering up the makeup because it’s what you do. Nearly three-fourths of women remove pubic hair. Many say they do it for themselves, but when winter comes, how often could that be true?

For women, what part of shaving the genital is their own, and why isn’t all of it their own? Do women accept it because they want to or because it’s trending? Every woman has a right and a need to enjoy her skin, the gift of her body, without having to do all the things a woman “has” to do to “be pretty.”

Society needs to let women find what they need for themselves, but there’s a long way to go — women of all generations struggling with an inherited and conflicted self-image.

Women, Young and Old, Need to Enjoy the Gift of Their Body

While young women are raised by strong mothers, these mothers are often dealing with their own struggles with post-baby weight, staying on trend, aging and all the topics society tells them they should worry about or feel shameful about. And when moms find the natural processes of their bodies disgusting, you can bet their daughters will, too.

Every generation, children watch their mothers struggle with self-image on unconscious levels. As they grow up, they watch their friends try to come into their own and find out what a woman’s sexuality means for them, sometimes with little to no guidance because it’s considered an “awkward” topic.

Fortunately, young girls are now seeing more types of bodies represented in the media with less Photoshop, but only in small increments gauged by some invisible “acceptable” standard and often only when there’s public outcry.

Society is slowly evolving. Women’s health may finally be prioritized over beauty: France recently passed a law, one of the first of its kind, to make sure that "excessively thin" models are medically well to walk the catwalk.

Ovulation and intercourse are taught biologically in classes, but what about how it feels to be a woman when you become one? Women are taught two different things — that their bodies are both sacred and icky. You can bear life, but for nearly half the month, you feel horrible, and those symptoms are often downplayed by medical professionals — the truth is that period pain can be like having a heart attack.

The disgust society has for women’s bodies is becoming a problem: More women are getting cosmetic genital surgery, from teens to women in their sixties. When women are given a narrow view of what their genitals are supposed to look like, it does harm. As of 2009, a medical textbook in the U.S. included its first chapter on plastic genital surgery for women.

What You Can Do to Help Make a Change

Women’s sexuality is a topic that is glazed over far too much in the media and scientific realm. And I’m not talking about sexuality as the sexual appeal of women — we all know the media covers that plenty.

I’m talking about women’s biological processes. For example, why aren’t there more studies being done on the female orgasm? Men can now have Viagra literally delivered to their doorsteps, while some women still can’t figure out how to even get themselves to climax on their own, let alone with a partner. How can we fix this?

Believe it or not, there are leaders in the field making great strides. Meredith Chivers, director of the Sexuality and Gender Lab at Queen’s University, reports the fascinating progress her group is making, and encourages the public to share any and all information on this subject. She hopes that if the public knows that scientists are studying female sexuality, it will send a message.

Additionally, interested advocates can and should browse around online and get involved in some of the movements that are out there. Sites like Our Bodies Ourselves offer a wealth of information on how to become involved, with movements ranging from simply contacting representatives, to working together to create films and advocacy groups for the advancement of the cause.

Other movements, such as the My Body Back Project, work specifically with sexual assault victims to discuss sexuality and ways to reclaim their sexual comfort after surviving an attack. Supporting and spreading the word about groups like this will help them continue to function, as well as potentially reach the people who need them.

The issues related to women’s sexual liberation run beyond if you prefer light or heavy makeup, heels or no heels. The conversation about women’s sexuality needs to go under the makeup, about why women still feel the need to keep their feelings hidden, their sexuality hidden — and undiscovered.

Shaming our bodies, or even flat-out ignoring them, is counterproductive. It’s up to the culture of women — moms of daughters — to start the conversation.  


Is It Ever Okay To Say You Feel Fat?


By Annie Ridout

Photo by Annie Ridout Copyright

Late last summer, I was photographed for a feature in a brilliant print magazine called The Fourth Trimester. It offers an honest – sometimes sad or shocking, sometimes funny – look at new motherhood. This particular piece was about mothers who keep up hobbies after having a baby and I was photographed playing the piano. I was honoured to be asked, loved playing the piano for the camera and was excited to see it in print. 

When the magazine arrived, I flicked through and found a double-page spread with a selection of photos of me tapping the ivories. It's presented beautifully; and the photographer is very talented, but – if I'm honest – one of my first thoughts was: "blimey, I look a bit fat. And slightly bald." I was 20 weeks pregnant at the time, had crazy 'morning' sickness and was feeling uncomfortable in my body. I was also too big for normal clothes but not quite pregnant enough for maternity wear so my get-up wasn't quite cutting the mustard. In summary: I felt crap then, and I felt a bit embarrassed when I looked at the photos. The focus should have been on the piano playing but I shifted it on to my appearance.

 So when I wrote an Instagram post about being featured, I mostly celebrated the fantastic magazine but added a "P.S." – criticising my fat back and thinning hair situation. At the time, I wondered if I should leave out the "P.S." but I kept it there for two reasons: 1. Because I felt it would be dishonest to say I was overjoyed by the photos when in reality, that wasn't how I felt. And 2. Because I'm all about honesty – and sometimes, hearing another pregnant woman or mum say that she, too, feels shit about her body from time to time is reassuring. For me, anyway.

A woman who follows me on Instagram took offence at the "P.S." – saying that with a few thousand followers, I had a duty to be careful about sharing negative body image messages. I was upset by the comment because in some ways, she was right – I do have a responsibility to my followers. But also, because I felt criticised for being honest. I couldn't work out if honesty, when it comes to negative body ideals, is ok. My response was that women should be able to express themselves, and that to silence a woman who is having a 'bad body day' isn't in line with my way of thinking. 

But it did make me reflect on how I feel when other women shame their bodies. I tend to feel that if it's expressed as a joke, a look-at-me-when-I-look-crap comment, it's ok. Though I’m aware there’s a rather subjective line between someone who really is having a bit of a rough day saying she feels gross for a laugh and someone who is perhaps craving attention, or some body image encouragement, asking social media followers to compliment her. In fact, perhaps they are the same thing; only the joke is thinly disguising the need for reassurance. Anyway, who am I to judge whether a woman’s real feelings about her body are reflected truthfully in her online comments, and what her motive is?

On the whole, I accept my body as it is. I love the way it made, birthed and nourished my first baby. I am in no way ashamed of my stretch marks. And I love that is has made a second baby. I feel proud of my body. When not pregnant, I keep fit by running. I eat healthily (most of the time) and enjoy fashion. But occasionally, I feel disappointed by the way it looks. It might be down to hormones, or a throw away comment, or women's magazines (that I tend to avoid) or being mid pregnancy and eating shit loads of crisps and feeling crap because I knew I wasn't treating my body with respect.

I feel a great duty to my toddler-aged daughter to be positive about bodies, eating and exercise. I would never denigrate my form in front of her. I don’t talk about diets or needing to lose weight, because I know that a fixation on appearance and consumption can be contagious. But she is two. I tend to think that grown-up women have their own ideas about these things already, and so if I share an honest thought about finding my appearance a bit shameful – they are better equipped to hear it but not absorb it. 

Of course, this may be misguided. But as this “P.S.” was swimming in a sea of articles and comments that I've written about body positivity – I hoped that it was ok to throw out an honest piece about sometimes feeling uncomfortable in my skin. Because that's the truth. And I'm sure almost every woman, sad though it is, will empathise with that. More than they would if I proclaimed to adore my body in its entirety at all times... Unfortunately, for me – like so many others – that just isn't the truth. 


Motherhood Blog Series


Photo by Shelly Sim via Flickr under a creative commons licenseIntroduction by Dinah Gibbons

I’ve been delighted to work with Susie Orbach, Holli Rubin, and the rest of the AnyBody team on a project around body image and the relationship with food and eating in pregnancy and post-natally. We ran a series of workshops with NCT teachers to try to change things for the next generation – to provide an antidote to the toxic culture that engenders body insecurity (for profit) in a great many women, and to help promote body security so that they can pass this on to their children. We hope that our work will be taken up more broadly to include midwives, health visitors, and other health professionals coming into contact with new mums.

Becoming a mother is a precious time that can be tainted by the pressure to lose weight gained in pregnancy, to “get back” something deemed to be lost. We aim to reach women, and the individuals working with them, before these demands take force, and to enable them to find peace in their skin.

I’m a big fan of love letters. As a midwife and a mother I wanted to write a love letter to a newly-pregnant woman. Here goes:


 Dear Darling Woman,

So here you are, on the threshold of motherhood, and I’m wondering how that feels for you right now? You’re probably experiencing some fear, hopefully some excitement, and perhaps trepidation.

Your body, which has carried you until this point, is now nestling another being. Things will change. You may be feeling utterly sick and exhausted at the moment – repulsed by food and drink that you used to love. Your clever body is showing you what you need, let it do its job. Trust.

Your breasts have grown and are sensitive. The pregnancy hormones are affecting just about every system in your body; over the course of your pregnancy your heart will grow bigger (in more ways than one!), your digestion will slow down, your gums will probably bleed more, and your hair will be glossy.

Your body may not feel like your own any more as this little being grows inside you. And you may feel like your body becomes public property – that strangers and friends feel it necessary to comment on your appearance – the bigness or smallness of your belly, whether you are seen to be blooming, or your apparent tiredness. That is their opinion; it says nothing of you, or of the miracle that’s taking place under that expanding belly. They may touch your belly without permission. It’s okay to let people know if this feels too intrusive. Your body is still yours.

Read books, Google, etc., if you wish, but more importantly take time to wonder at what is unfolding. When you become aware of your baby’s movements, it will let you know how it’s feeling. Try to set aside time every so often to really tune into how you feel.

Allow your body to lead you. Try to relearn that trust you had in it before you started hearing about good/bad/clean/dirty foods, or the ‘right’ exercise to do, and when. Trust in it, and your body will guide you. It’s got you this far.

You and your baby are dancing together – nourish yourself… not just with food, but in a wider sense. As birth approaches, the more love you can feel, the better. Whatever birth you experience will be easier if you’re feeling the love. To do this, you need to know what makes you feel good – what makes you feel most alive, comfortable, cherished.

Your body will look different after the birth; you may have stretch marks, stitches, enormous leaking breasts. You may be knackered. Take time to eat, drink, bathe (with your baby too - you will feel the softest skin imaginable!). Glory in what your body has achieved. You are amazing!

With love, and honour, from Dinah


We recently invited people to submit their stories about how they felt in their bodies around pregnancy and post-natally. Below are a selection of responses:


There's A World Where Everyone's Beautiful

by Annie Ridout

Image by Annie Ridout Copyright 2015This post was originally published on, reprinted with permission.

This morning I was sitting on my bed, naked, after having a shower. The Gypsy Kings were playing through the Spotify app on my phone and Joni was holding it up to her ear saying “ello” repeatedly, while running around the room – occasionally stopping to twerk.

The song came to an end and she looked me in the eyes. She came over and started to point to various parts of my face and body: “eyda” (eyes), “non” (nose), “air” (hair), “booboo” (boobies). She got to my stomach and stopped. She looked a bit confused. Then using both hands, she lifted a piece of flab and found the “tata” (tattoo) she was looking for on my hip bone.

I laughed. And then I thought: shit, we’re a year and a half post-birth – should that flab still be there? And then I thought: yes, it should, because it’s winter and I although I run every morning, I also like (in fact LOVE) drinking white hot chocolate every day, and eating flapjacks and thick slices of sourdough bread with chocolate and almond butter.

In a recent interview (coming soon to The Early Hour), a mum told me that she feels we are all in awe of a pregnant body but disgusted by it post-birth. And I agree with her – pregnancy is buoyant and blooming and rosy, while our postnatal bodies are flabby and sagging and feel as if they’ve been used and are now just getting in the way.

Funnily enough, in the photo above – taken three days after I gave birth – I remember looking down at my stomach with its stretch marks, linea nigra, flaps and indents and bobbles and loose skin and feeling amazed and so in love with my body. Rich caught me taking a photo and asked why I wanted to photograph “that”. He didn’t see the beauty in it, like I did.

But my amazement at what my body had achieved in growing and birthing and feeding Joni ceased after a few months, when I started to feel frustrated that I couldn’t run without getting mastitis, that my back ached and that those rolls of loose skin/fat weren’t shifting from my belly.

So this morning I was imagining a world where a female’s body is considered beautiful throughout childhood, teenagehood, adulthood – through pregnancy, birth, post-birth – into the menopause, out the other side and all the way into old age… Wouldn’t that be so lovely? If us women didn’t have to feel guilty about what we eat, how much we exercise (or don’t), and the state of our frame after growing and pushing out a baby…

And then, after my initial moment of horror/hilarity as Joni shifted my belly fat around while hunting for my tattoo, it dawned on me that there is a world where women’s bodies are revered whatever their size, shape, texture, age. It’s the world through children’s eyes. Joni is fascinated by my body – crevices, rolls of skin and fat, hair (wherever it may be. She excitedly referred to my pubic hair as ‘dogon’ – yes, DOG – in the bath recently).

And her love and fascination of bodies extends beyond just me, her mum. She loves her grandma’s “booboos”, her auntie’s “booboo” (as well as breasts, this means belly – her auntie has a lovely big round one, as she’s six months pregnant). And any other woman she is fond of will undoubtedly have a body Joni thinks is just wonderful.

So for anyone feeling down about their body today, try to shift your perspective. Take yourself back to childhood – when beauty was about kindness and warmth and smiles and playfulness; not skinniness, flawless skin, youth, cool clothes – and keep that outlook firmly in place as you look at your sisters. If we all start loving our own and other women’s bodies just as they are, as children do, the world will be a better place.


Helen White-Knight

TW: anorexia, self-harm, sexual assault.

Photo by Helen White-Knight Copyright

My journey to parenthood was less than straightforward. My mind and body had been in a state of stand-off for well over a decade by the time I was at the end of my twenties. I was badly bullied at school and my looks were a big part of that. Even though I was white, like everyone else there, I was called racist names because I had dark hair on my arms and top lip. I wanted to become less of a target, so I began to starve myself.

Through anorexia, taking drugs and self-harming, I lost all sense of what I looked like objectively, as is so often the case for young women. I experienced a huge amount of stigma as a result of self-harming particularly. At one job I was referred for a health assessment with an occupational health GP, who did an inappropriate physical exam after noticing I had scars. She questioned me aggressively about my mental health status; I left humiliated. She recommended I be kept on permanent probation despite having worked there for 6 months already. I didn’t find out until recently that she had no right to touch me at all - but we naturally trust those who are there to care for us.

The notion of others feeling they had the right to touch me is something I’ve always struggled with. Beginning with some mild abuse by an older child when I was 11, then being assaulted during my first kiss; people grabbing me in the street to grill me about my scars/tattoos, I was then raped and assaulted multiple times at university. My body was the focal point for so much pain and misery in my life - and I abused it in retaliation.

After a rough start, having children was a goal that lay in the distant future rather than something I felt compelled to do as soon as possible. By 29 I was in a new relationship and after a nagging doubt about my fertility I’d been to see my GP and been brushed off because of my age, so I took a blood test that could give you a rough idea about how many more fertile years you might have. Unfortunately for me, the test revealed that even with IVF I would have a <20% chance of a live birth. I was 31 and I’d been with my new partner for just a year.

Beginning IVF, I had to put on weight to have the best chance of success. The process is very invasive - I had to overcome my needle phobia to inject myself daily and have painful internal exams every week - my body became just a vessel. The first round was unsuccessful, so we changed the drugs and my one fertilised egg was implanted in front of a room full of people - I was pregnant.

I lost some weight in the first trimester, but then as my belly began to grow I had to let it take over - it wasn’t about just me anymore - which made it easier to reconcile the emotional tug-of-war going on in my head. For the most part people responded to my body positively and respected my personal space but I didn’t have a regular midwife, and when I went for check-ups I was just one of tens of women waiting to be seen. It was very transactional and impersonal, everyone seemed stressed and even if I’d wanted to ask for help I don’t think I would’ve felt able to.

The birth went smoothly, but after my little boy was born he wouldn’t latch to breastfeed, so midwives would come and just grab my breasts to push them into his mouth, without asking me. It made me feel completely inadequate and lost - here I was still bleeding and having just laboured but the way I was manhandled made it clear that my body was no longer mine. I had to abandon my dignity to be a mother. The midwives got irritated as if I was purposefully starving my baby and the more pressure they put on me, the worse it got. After 24 hours of failed attempts I left - despite not having successfully fed him. Health visitors came in the following weeks and again touched me without asking. One said it was because my nipples were too flat, another said I wasn’t trying hard enough. I’m very socially awkward (I’m currently awaiting an assessment for high-functioning autism) so I avoided breastfeeding groups.

I lost count of the number of times I was assured that if I breastfed all the weight would drop off but instead it piled on as I ate for comfort. My breasts had invited unwanted attention so often that I couldn’t face going out in public and trying to feed him, or even being around family.

I became severely depressed and I shut myself off. I even avoided looking at myself in the mirror. I stopped wearing makeup and showering - I felt I didn’t deserve to take care of my body because it had failed to fulfil the brief of motherhood.

The first time I went out after the birth was with a close friend to a show where a big comedy star was a surprise guest. After the show I wanted to get a picture with him, but he started commenting on my breasts and trying to get me to go backstage with him despite my protests, pushing me towards his security guard near the door. I was vulnerable and I have a tendency to be easily led when alone but thankfully the other people there were distracting him so I made my excuses and left. Yet again my body was a source of humiliation.

When my son turned one we had a small party and people took photos and posted them online. I was horrified at how big I looked and this triggered a serious relapse of my eating disorder. Six months later I had lost a lot of weight. My hair turned grey and was falling out, my skin was flaking off and getting infected and my muscles had wasted away. The skin around my belly was wrinkled and loose and my breasts were empty pouches of skin, but I was back in control. If my body took up less space in the world, I would be invisible. My body felt fragile and that reflected what was going on in my mind.

When you have a child you’re ‘supposed’ to put yourself last. This can feel strange to even the most body-confident of women, but for me it just gave me more reason to hate and abuse my body.

There’s precious little support out there for mothers with a history of eating disorders even though having a newborn is a time of huge change; lack of sleep and no time to attend to your own needs can be a huge trigger for unhealthy behaviours and body dysmorphia - the assumption is that you simply ‘choose’ to be well for your children, but my illness is definitely not a choice. Other women I know often talked about how none of it matters once you have your baby but I wonder how many of those women really accept themselves, deep down. 


Reclaiming My Body

by Anonymous

TW: mentions rape

Photo by Ola Pemberton via Flickr under a creative commons license 

Not many people know this about me, but I am a rape and sexual assault survivor. I don’t talk about it much, partly because I don’t really like to think about it, but also because it just isn’t the kind of thing that one talks about in ordinary conversation.

At certain points in my life, this fact becomes more relevant: when I was recovering from post-traumatic stress disorder, when I was getting into a relationship, and – most recently – when I was in the process of pregnancy and motherhood.

Reclaiming my body has been the work of a lifetime; making it mine again after my abusers branded me with their anger, desire and entitlement. Taking back my shape, my curves, my breasts, my secret places. Honouring my desires; allowing myself to live the revolutionary life of self-care.

Somehow, when I became pregnant, my body became public property again. I was unprepared for just how much I would struggle to say ‘no’ to people who would casually stroke my belly by way of a greeting. How I would feel when I found out that it was a boy, a man-in-embryo, growing deep inside of me. It took me time before I could bring myself to tell people that my baby was a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’.

Mostly, I found peace with the boy inside me. I remembered that I chose this, that it was not imposed on me. I grew my boy with a man that I love and deeply trust. 

When he began to move, I found that I loved the feeling of him swimming inside me, turning and rolling, and later, kicking; it felt like our very first conversation. I had a long commute to work, and instead of reading, I sat, peaceful, and watched the hills roll by as I breathed into my belly-space where he lived.

I watched myself grow with gladness; the first time that I have ever been excited about my body getting bigger, despite years of work in therapy. I remember stroking my belly, looking at myself from side on, is it bigger? Dressing to accentuate my growing belly, I would often catch myself holding the curve of my bump absentmindedly during conversation.

I thought that this would be my struggle. I was prepared to hate myself as my body expanded, but I, a woman who has spent most of her life breathing in, tucking in the corners of my body so I didn’t take up too much space, I breathed out in one long, glorious exhale.

But, there were also the darker days. Days when I wanted to push him away inside me, to stop the fish-roll of him reminding me that I was not alone, that I was never alone. Feeling invaded, colonised, nauseous, although morning sickness had long passed.

As my due date approached, I began to fear the process of labour. I imagined that I might curl up like a wounded animal in the corner of my living room, snarling at the approach of well-meaning midwives. I was scared what that level of vulnerability would trigger in me around people that I didn’t know, how the touch of well-meaning strangers on my body would feel.

Searching for articles about labour after rape, I read that victims of sexual trauma often had longer, more difficult labours and more frequent interventions. I discovered that if you were scared during labour, your body would slow down and that this could lead to more medical intervention and physical trauma. Women experience flashbacks, panic attacks. There was a maternity unit that was opening up in London to support survivors, but it opened two days before my due date.

And so I worried. Would I dissociate? Have a panic attack? Would the pain of my boy being born trigger me, and would I be in a fit state to deal with that? Would I be able to let go, and allow my body to take over?

I talked a lot with my therapist, and I also began to think about how I could take care of myself; I learned that I did not need to let the midwife examine me internally if I didn’t want to. I could (and did) say no. Consent was on an examination by examination basis. I said yes three times throughout my entire labour, and each time I meant it.

I wrote my birth plan, knowing that it may all go very differently, but that it helped to be able to speak to the midwife in advance. I included my survivor status and described how I would like them to treat me.

I did a hypnobirthing course, focusing on trusting my body’s animal instincts (women have, after all, been doing this for millennia!) I watched videos on YouTube, and talked it through with my partner repeatedly.

In the end, labour was one of the most intense experiences of my life. Roaring, cursing, shitting, bleeding, I pushed my son into the world. It was incredible; I have never felt such raw, awesome power in my body. I know also that the pain was intense, but that has now faded into the shadowy netherworld of labour.

It was over in just over a day, from first contraction to being handed my sticky, crumpled little boy. I kept a hold on myself all the way through, even when I was roaring as I bore down and felt as though I was being split apart from the inside, I trusted my breath and I inhabited my body.

I do feel that I am changed, although not in a way that can be easily described. In the crucible of labour, I hung onto myself and a deep sense of trust in myself and my body. I said ‘no’ when I felt ‘no’, and was more assertive with medical professionals than I ever dreamed I could be.

I feel sexy, motherly, womanly. Having my husband beside me in such an emotionally naked, raw state has deepened my trust in him and in us. It makes me feel that I am beautiful in a way that is not about my appearance.

The early days of feeding around the clock are behind me and I have regained some much needed physical distance from my son. That too was hard, as my body was used for another’s needs, despite what I felt about it: whether I needed space or peace, whether I wanted to feed him or not, it didn’t matter because he needed to eat. This triggered me, too, in a different way.

I do feel, though, that through labour and the early days with a new-born, I dug into the very deepest reaches of myself and discovered a steel and a strength that still awes me. My body gives life to him, and while I am in no hurry to turn myself inside out again, I feel deeply empowered by the experience.

* * *

We would like to thank these three wonderful women for sharing such raw and honest experiences with us. If you have been affected by rape/sexual assault there is a fantastic organisation called the My Body Back Project, which offers maternity services to rape and sexual assault survivors, as well as specialist cervical screening, and more. 


How Women Carry the Burden of Zika 

Photo by Martine Perret via under a Creative Commons licenseBy Halah Flynn

It has been roughly a year since Brazil reported a link between the Zika virus and microcephaly as a birth defect. Reports of infections have spread to every hemisphere of the globe, as headlines detailing stories continue to dominate top-tier news media.

By now, Zika has become a household term, resulting in a spike in bug repellent sales and investment in vaccination development. For many parents in developed countries, Zika means an increase in prevention methods. For women in underserved communities of the Global South, the implications of the virus are much different.

The spread of Zika is endangering women’s bodies, but not in the way we are medically inclined to think. Yes, it implies monitoring symptoms closely and taking blood samples to test for the virus. But it also implies something much more dangerous: loss of reproductive rights.

The World Health Organization responded to the outbreak by recommending that women “be informed and oriented to consider delaying pregnancy” until 2018. In the meantime, women infected with Zika have given birth to thousands of babies with microcephaly, a once-rare birth defect that now poses an extreme threat to women and children across the globe. Public officials in the Latin American region echoed the response to delay pregnancy, without actually providing these women and families with resources to do so.

Health advocates say that the problem with this is twofold.

First, it makes the assumption that all pregnancies are planned. In reality, at least half of pregnancies in Latin America are categorized as unexpected. Pregnancies regularly occur outside of family planning, due to a lack of contraceptive resources, inadequate sexual health education, or rape. By not acknowledging this, public health officials only have addressed a small percentage of pregnancies and births that will occur — those that are a result of family planning.

This pitfall in health policy highlights the unaddressed threat of sexual violence against women across Latin America. According to the Women and City Summit in Santiago, Chile, half of women living in Latin American cities experience sexual assault in their lifetime, yet only 14 per cent actually report to a medical professional or social worker. Without the adequate supports to report sexual violence and a lack of prevention initiatives, women cannot effectively approach safe family planning in the face of threats like Zika.

Second, this recommendation places the entire burden of family planning on women, without giving them resources or opportunities to follow guidelines. “The government is not issuing any recommendation for the men to use condoms, which is very unfair,” said Paula Avila-Guillen, a Colombia-based programs specialist for the Center for Reproductive Rights in an interview with Time magazine. “That makes the women responsible for everything.”

In many Zika-affected areas, reproductive rights are already severely limited by federal regulations. In Chile, Haiti, Suriname, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador and the Dominican Republic, abortion is completely illegal, even in the case of pregnancy that is the result of rape or which poses a threat to the mother’s life. In rest of South and Central America some of the most restrictive abortion regulations in the world exist. Without the option to terminate a pregnancy, women are forced to give birth, and still deprived of access to clinics with Zika testing, disease prevention or treatment for infections and high-risk births.

So what resources do these women have? Not a whole lot.

For women who are not already pregnant, contraception is in extremely low use. In Latin American and Caribbean countries, access to basic contraception like birth control and IUDs is highly restricted, and the supply of these items is also very low. Therefore, women who qualify for access might not even find available contraception at all.

For women who fear they may have been infected, Zika testing and treatment is the recommended route. It’s not as easy as it sounds, as underserved communities are understaffed with primary care providers likes family nurse practitioners in clinics that lack funding for testing resources. In many cases blood samples are taken from clinic patients to a central lab — a process that can add weeks to diagnosis and treatment time.

Considering all the barriers to accessing safe, supportive family planning resources, it is evident that a large portion of women living in high-risk areas ultimately lack control over whether they will get pregnant in the next two years, not to mention how they will navigate the threat of Zika infection.

Encouraging celibacy for the next two years is unrealistic, and providing recommendations without resources to follow them is irresponsible. Women’s bodies are not controllable tools for disease prevention, nor are they an expendable source for advancing unsafe family planning practices.