What feminism is not.

Feminism is not telling another woman what she can or cannot don to express her spiritual practices, whether that’s a hijab or a cross around my neck. My expression, my choice.

Feminism is not chastising another woman for wearing too much makeup or not wearing enough cover-up or injecting enough botox. My face, my choice.

Feminism is not about deciding on whether to dress in neutral pantsuits and blazers or bright, floral, frilly sundresses. My attire, my choice.

Feminism is not about the sensibility of my footwear, whether I wear combat boots or stiletto heels. My shoes, my choice.

Feminism is not about how much underwire, padding, or push-up I use or whether I burn my bras over a firepit like marshmallows. My boobs, my choice.

Feminism is not asking another woman to explain if and when she’s going to start making babies or whether she doesn’t want to rent her womb to carry on her legacy. Her life, her choice.

Feminism is not about whether I use my strength to tear down the patriarchy or lead a charge and call out a battle cry to raise up the monarchy. My power, my choice.

Feminism is not about being an atheist or what religion I believe in. Yes, organized religion has oppressed us for centuries, but what if my faith helped me heal? Is telling me what I am allowed to believe or not allowed to believe not also oppressive? My faith, my choice.

Feminism is not about women needing to man-up or be more stereotypically masculine. My fierce or humble femininity, my choice.

Feminism is not about toxic masculinity; it’s about the toxic behaviours that have led to toxic masculinity, and, y’all, I’m sorry—but women can be pretty damn toxic too, as evidenced by a recent article on sex crimes and on my blog Trauma Queen, where I received threats of “cutting a bitch, removing my tongue,” and calling me “trash, retarded,” and wishing me “rape, death.” All of which came from women.

Want respect? Start by respecting other women. My perspective, my choice.

Feminism is not only about raising a sister up. Sometimes it’s about holding our arms wide open to catch our sisters, being a safety net when she falls, and giving her the support she needs to rise up out of that circumstance, without ever judging her for being in it. My intentions, my choice.

Feminism is not about how suitably f*ckable a man finds me. It’s about women and men finding and empowering one another to see our divine virtue beyond our tits and ass or the size of his junk (it’s 2020, and I can’t believe I still had to say that) as equal human beings.

We are one another’s protectors, sisters, and brothers, together at the table in one hell of a big ol’ dysfunctional family and still showing up, rising to the occasion, and loving each other back to our humanity, regardless.