I perceived my body as a hindrance to the manifestation of the me that I had dreams of becoming dreams I generally deferred because of misgivings about my body.īecoming a writer is one of those dreams.
I’d often find myself questioning romantic relationships, professional undertakings, and responsibilities of motherhood based on anxieties I’d created due to its lack of ability. Partially paralyzed due to “complications at birth,” for many years I struggled to accept my body in its authentic form. Reading Roxane Gay’s Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body was the first time I began to unapologetically look at my body as being something other than deviant.
