Hey Mia, You fucked up.

I was scrolling through my twitter feed at about 3pm. I needed a break from my first day back at work after a delightful holiday in paradise. There were funny GIFs, celebrations of new job opportunities, links to know blog posts, all the standard stuff. And then. There was a tweet, that quite frankly left me aghast. Let's take a step back. You might of seen it, or at least heard about it in the last few hours. Is the name Roxane Gay familiar? If you are in one of my circles, most of you would be nodding your head. If not, well she is a radical feminist, an amazing author, a public speaker, and an all around bad ass. She also happens to be fat. But of course, thats certainly shouldn't be the leading statement, or even part of the discourse when discussing her successes, or her books. Her appearance, realistically, should have little to do with the fact that she has been on a bit of a book tour, to promote her new book Hunger.

So,  back to the tweet. A screenshot of a podcast. A podcast that I have never listened to, or to be honest, even knew existed. The image, was of a synopsis of the 55 minute podcast No Filter with Mia Freedman. The founder of Mamamia, an Australian lifestyle website. It said this "Will she fit into the office lift? How many steps will she have to take to get to the interview? Is their a comfortable chair that will accomodate her six-foot-three 'super morbidly obese' frame?". I had to read it twice. The first time, I was sure that I had misread something. That this wasn't reality. But, my eyes hadn't failed me, I wasn't in an alternate universe, and I hadn't fallen asleep at my desk. This shit was real. 

Mama Stevens knows best

I remember from a pretty young age my mum telling me that a kitchen appliance was a shit gift for a mother. As an adult, it almost feels like a challenge... [her birthday is coming up... you never know when you might need a new waffle maker right?] But around this time of year, that time when social media is full of adoration for the maternal figures in our life, it is hard to escape the overwhelming onslaught of pink fluffy robes, cheap hand creams and well, to be fair, completely useless home appliances. I walked past a store this morning that suggested a baby monitor was the perfect gift for mum... Shut the front door.

You do not have to earn your food

A saw a post on instagram the other day, in fact, I see posts like it on social media all the bloody time. At the time, I didn't think much of it. Honestly, I scrolled right past it and filled my morning with pretty things and glimpses into peoples manicured realities. I forgot about it, and went on about my day. But later that afternoon it popped up again. Except this time it was in my feed that I have dedicated to health and wellness. And I am not going to lie. It pissed me off.

It looked like an innocent 'fitspo' kind of post... [gosh I am rolling my eyes as I write that. I hate that word for so many bloody reasons] A strong, fierce women in the middle of a renegade row. I can only imagine the focus and strength to complete that move took. The caption is what rubbed me the wrong way. "Earn your Sunday Brunch" I am sorry. But get fucked.

Hairy bits and pieces

Hair. We've all got it. Ok, sweeping generalisation. Some of us have it, some of us don't and well some of us had it and then lost it. Some of us have a shit tonne of it (my husband is in this camp) and around 50% of the worlds population have been taught from the time we hit puberty that we should be ashamed of our body hair. So much so that we should use razors, creams, lasers or any other means possible to get rid of it. Because you know. Hair is gross. But only if you are a woman.*

*it should be noted that while I will use the terms “men” and “women” throughout this article, I do not intend to exclude those individuals who identify with non-binary or fluid gender identities.

Did you say Pies and Lattes?

I don't know about you, but when it comes to the gym, I don't try new stuff out very often. Its probably two-fold. One, I like to feel like I am in control. New classes always throw out new moves, that everyone else seems to know, except you.  Suddenly everyone is moving to the right, and I'm still doing arm circles and shuffling to the left. New stuff takes concentration, and coordination. Sometimes, I don't have either of those things at the gym. I like to zone out, do what I know. Give me a pump class any day people. There ain't too many variations of counts 2-2, 3-1 and 4-4. Or of course singles, or pulses. Dear Lord. Single pulse squats. Please no. And then of course there is number two. The whole being terribly self conscious thing. Ya know, not knowing how your body is going to react. The age old question... am I going to be able to bend that way or am I going to survive that new move? Sorry to break it to you folks, the answer is probably not.

I believe in the infinite power of women

I have said it before and I will say it again. I believe in the infinite power of women. I am also a giant political nerd. This isn't a secret. If you follow me on twitter, you would have seen my incessant posting during the recent American presidential election. I watched as two people fought for, what some consider, the most powerful political position in the world. One was potentially the most qualified candidate that had ever graced the ticket. She also happened to be a woman. The other candidate, could arguably the least qualified candidate to ever have their name on the ticket, and a man. I watched as she continually won debates, fought for inclusion, politically outmanoeuvred her opponent. Politics, media representation and history aside, honestly, I should have watched her win. However, as I sat at home and watched state after state roll in on the television, I watched, like most of you, as she lost the race to shatter one of the highest glass ceilings in existence.

New Year... Old You.

It has already been 6 days of the New Year, and I am already tired beyond belief. I am tired of “New Year, New Me” mantra’s being posted all over social media. Our culture of instant gratification neatly lends itself to the idea that the turning page of a calendar could mark the beginning of a whole new self. This new you involves pressing some kind of magical rest button on the old you, wiping clean those bad habits, embarrassing moments, and personal failures; out of the old, disappointing body comes the fresh, new self that you can finally be proud of. Or something like that, Right? Wrong.

You might have new intentions, you might have new goals, but you, you are the same. You are the same glorious human that woke up 7 days ago and planned what to wear for that New Year’s Eve party you were so looking forward to. You are the same cuddly babe who 14 days ago hugged your family a little bit longer, because it was Christmas, and you realised you hadn’t held your family enough in 2016. You are the same kind, generous person who gave their time and kindness to their friends throughout the past year, the same babe that did something that scared you, or inspired you, or maybe that motivated you to try something different. I hate to break it to you, but you, as a person, are the same as you were 6 days ago.


Back to Top