I’m weary of our limited presidential candidate options. Once again, our choices are: Old White Man A (Biden) and Old White Man B (Trump).
If you’re considering writing in Old White Man C (Bernie or dear goddess Kanye West) in the 2020 Election, I ask you: please don’t.
Amidst the chaos pandemic and divisive politics, expressing disdain for the two-party system may seem harmless. But to borrow Elizabeth Gilbert’s metaphor: America is a cancer patient with a gunshot wound. We need to triage the gunshot wound (ending Trump’s presidency) before we start chemo, surgery, and radiation (fixing America’s broken electoral system).
For those who are new to voting: watch her video above for a short history on how third-party candidate Ralph Nader and his supporters diverted much needed democratic votes away in a close election in 2000 which resulted in eight years of George W. Bush. That was the first presidential election I voted in and at the time, my elders and I agreed: he was the worst president ever. Trust me when I say that what we’re experiencing now with Trump is a million times worse.
If you do vote for Bernie or any other third-party candidate, do yourself and the movements you’ve claimed to support a favor and take down any feminist, Black Lives Matter, or LGBTQA content you’ve ever shared. By getting cute with your right to prioritize your disdain for the two-party system, you’re saying: “My right to express my disdain for the system is more important than safeguarding the well-being for women, people of color, and the LGBTQ community.”
I’m not a fan of binary politics and polarization. But unfortunately right now is one of those times when your vote is either/or. You either support Biden, or you give your vote to Trump. You can’t be and/both in this election with your vote. A vote for third-party candidate will not protect the needs of America’s most vulnerable people. And it will result in another hellacious four years of the most damaging and divisive US president the world has ever seen.
Yesterday I voted for Joe Biden for president. He’s wasn’t my first choice of candidate (I voted for Elizabeth Warren in the 2020 primary election), but right now, he is our only hope. When I say “our” I mean women, people of color, and LGBTQ folks. Everyone who has been historically and systematically marginalized by generations of old white men in power.
As a consolation prize for having no female presidential candidates, I am inspired by the political experience and stateswomenship of Kamala Harris. Given the options, she is my new first choice and since Joe Biden comes with the package, yesterday I chose Biden and Harris for president. I poked the plastic screen to check the box for Biden-Harris with a wooden coffee stir stick: the voting tool of choice during a pandemic who unfortunately live in states where vote-by-mail is not an option.
I urge all sane Americans who want liberty and justice for all to vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. More than ever, we need to pull together to end this presidential nightmare that has done so much harm.
Words and photos by an Onward Woman contributor who wishes to remain anonymous so as to keep the focus on #blklivesmatter.
This is about my experience participating in the Wall of Moms for Black Lives Matter in Portland, Oregon. A few family members asked me about it, so I typed up my thoughts and shared them. There’s been a lot of misinformation in the media, so I wanted to share a first-hand account.
After driving two hours, I arrived in Portland at about 7:30 PM on Saturday night. It looked so different from how it had been on my birthday just four months earlier. There was barely anybody on the streets and many of the businesses had been boarded up. Also, there were about twice as many tents. I have previously traveled alone in Portland, many times. But this just felt weird.
I felt better when I spotted a woman wearing yellow on her way to the meetup spot, Salmon Street Fountain. At the fountain, there was a memorial for many of the black lives that had been lost to police violence.
I agree with the Black Lives Matter movement, but I have felt like there was little I personally could contribute. I vote and I give money to political campaigns that support reform. But I also live in a very white town in a very white state. I do not know the answers, I do not feel I have enough knowledge to know what should be done. But I know something needs to change. And being part of a wall of moms was something I could do.
I arrived at the fountain at about 8:30 PM. It was somewhat bizarre hearing moms casually talk about best home-made remedies to counteract tear gas and pepper spray. The tone was the same as if they were exchanging recipes. They handed out wipes in ziplock bags as well as bottled water. I brought my yellow shirt, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to put it on or not. There wasn’t any formal check-in that I could see.
As I looked around, I was inspired by the age range of people that showed up. Some in their 70’s. There was even a ‘Grandpas against Trump’ group. I didn’t bring a poster but I was given one to hold as we marched.
A little after 9 PM we marched and chanted as we made our way to the courthouse. I put on my yellow shirt at this time, but the Moms were only a small part of the group that marched. There were also a bunch of educators that wore red shirts. But most people didn’t wear any shirts that identified them as part of a group within BLM.
We stayed at the courthouse for a little while with the other protesters, then the Moms all headed back to the fountain to regroup. Some of them went to the Marriott Hotel to protest – the hotel was where the feds were rumored to be staying.
Around 10:15 PM or so, we walked back to the courthouse and put on our protective gear. One mom was passing out ear protection, and others were passing around sharpies to write a lawyer’s number on our forearms.
About 10:50, the main outdoor lights of the courthouse were turned off. A bunch of very large men in tactical gear wearing rifles marched out. I don’t know really anything about firearms; I can’t tell what is considered a live vs. ‘less than lethal’ round. It was extremely intimidating.
At this point, I noticed the other moms wearing their backpacks in front of their bodies, -in anticipation of getting shot. Also, they asked for all the moms to check in with there phones (I assumed it was a call to check in on Facebook). You could tell by the body language of the Feds that they were just waiting to get this show going. With my arms linked with the other moms’, I stood about 12 feet in front of a large man with a gun. There was only a flimsy fence between us.
The crowd shouted for them to go away. ‘Feds go home!’ And it felt like less than five minutes went by before I heard gunfire. Early on, one of the mom’s got hurt when she was shot in the face, but luckily she was wearing goggles. Protesters started throwing something that looked like smoke bombs over the fence. I think they were the tear gas canisters or pepper bombs that were thrown at the protesters first – they were throwing them back. Then, a few of the protesters started lighting fireworks – big ones that would normally go off in the sky. Sometimes the fireworks made it over the fence and to the empty space behind the feds, but sometimes they would go off in the crowd and sparks would fly near my feet.
I don’t scare easily. I am usually comfortable traveling alone, and even when bad things happen, I usually get out of them okay. I can’t remember the last time I felt afraid. But here? I was terrified. It was a deep bodily fear that I could be irreparably damaged. It was a horrible realization that these large faceless men would not hesitate to hurt me.
I have never feared men in uniforms before, and that is a luxury so many people don’t have. There were no names or numbers that identified the Feds as individuals. There would be absolutely no accountability for their actions tonight.
As I learned later, these men were not soldiers. They were not persons who had taken a vow to protect the US constitution. These were highly-paid military contractors. A taxpayer-funded militia placed there to intimidate and suppress peaceful protestors.
I was shaking as I held the arms of the other moms. I think their arms were shaking too, but I couldn’t say for sure. As things escalated, a ‘wall of vets’ came to stand in front of us. The man who stood in front of me was at least a head taller than I was. I only saw his back, never his face.
After a few minutes, Leaf Blower-man soon stood in front of me to blow the smoke away, but soon there was just too much. I heard the other moms start heavily coughing, then the next thing I knew I was being dragged backward.
My respirator and goggles were preventing me from feeling the effects of the smoke. But as the moms fell back, the movement of walking broke the goggle’s seal around my eyes. About 50 feet away from the courthouse my eyes started to sting, then they started to water and burn.
We were on the other side of the park when I let go of the other mom’s arm. At this point, it finally sunk in that we had been gassed. I know it should have been obvious, but part of me was in denial. My nose started to run profusely, but I didn’t want to take off the respirator in a large dense crowd of coughing people. It was hard to see with my burning eyes, but I walked another two blocks before I swapped the now gross respirator for my cloth mask.
As I walked away from the courthouse, I saw many helpers. People who were trying to make a clear path for injured people, or giving aid to those with bad reactions to the gas. Although my eyes still stung, my natural tears were flowing and flushing the chemical out of my eye. I had some milk that I had brought with me for my eyes, but I didn’t need to use it.
I boarded the MAX a little before midnight. There were two other yellow-shirted moms on the train. One was 70. Both had plans to come back.
It was both a terrifying and empowering experience. At this one moment in time, I got to see the best and the worst in people. I got to stand in line with amazing mamas who were just as scared as I was. We were there because voices needed to be heard, even if they weren’t our voices. Most of us were white, and perhaps we used our privilege as a shield. But it gave us something we COULD do. Social change requires all manner of actors. Some can talk at a podium, some can organize marches, some can donate to campaigns, some can talk or write to challenge people’s viewpoints and attack the status quo.
I’m not a confrontational person by nature. I am soft-spoken and I often struggle for my voice to carry. But just being a piece of the wall of moms, even just for the night, has given me hope. My eyes still hurt today, but I’m glad I went.
In 2007, I moved from a predominantly Hispanic community to a 95 percent white state. There were a few friends who warned me about how the transition would be difficult. They said I was going to encounter some challenges finding a job because as soon as hiring managers read my name, they’d throw my resume away.
In spite of the warnings, I moved anyway. I landed a job within 3 months of relocating and I began my career in marketing at a retail manufacturing company. People in my new state were extraordinarily nice. There was an immediate sense of community everywhere I went which was unexpected. Perfect strangers smiled and waved at me on the street. I felt right at home. There was a weird moment when I went to a trivia night at a popular bar and suddenly realized I was the only Hispanic person in the room. That had never happened to me before. I wasn’t scared and I didn’t feel threatened. It was just an awkward realization that my community looked different than the one I had just left. I was still happy I made the decision to move though.
Months past and I began to form a small group of friends. Eventually, I started to get invited to people’s homes for dinner or potluck events. Then, I noticed a few odd things.
I was often asked to make guacamole. At first, it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. People loved my guacamole. But one day someone made the comment, “I think it’s so cool that we get to eat authentic guacamole.” That’s when I realized that maybe… just maybe… I was asked to prepare this dish because I was ‘Mexican.’ I shrugged it off.
Then, one day at work, a coworker came up to me and said, “Hey Maritza, Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “My husband and I are going to Cabo for vacation. When is National Taco Day?”
At first, I thought… Is she asking me this because she thinks I’m Mexican or is it because I lived in Texas and it’s close to Mexico so she thinks I would know? I decided to go with the latter.
“There’s no such thing as National Taco Day in Mexico.” “Yes, there is. My girlfriend told me when she went, there was a restaurant celebrating the holiday with $.50 tacos.” “Hate to break it to you, but that restaurant probably serves $.50 tacos everyday to bring in the tourists. National Taco Day does not exist.” “Yes it does!” “No. It doesn’t.”
She stormed off and I honestly can’t remember her ever speaking to me again.
The last straw for me came when my cubicle buddy was listening to Michael Franti and she said she was so happy that racism was over in America.
I think I spit out my coffee and laughed. I thought she was joking. When I looked at her face, I realized she was absolutely, 150 percent serious. The poor, innocent child thought racism was long gone. She thought we were living in one of Michael Franti’s songs, all dancing together in harmony, cherishing each other regardless of skin color. Sweet thing.
It broke my heart to tell her that racism was alive and well in the south. She didn’t believe me. Nothing I said could convince her. When someone comes from a community that is 95 percent white and they are also white, it’s hard to understand racial differences and the circumstances that befall people who are not part of the majority.
Which brings me to my ultimate point…
In my experience, most ‘racism’ and ‘prejudice’ comes from ignorance. Ideas that are outside of one’s bubble or understanding of the world can be tricky to navigate. The people who asked me to make guacamole or asked the date of a taco holiday were simply ignorant. I don’t think they had hate in their heart or prejudice on the mind. They just saw me with brown skin and assumed that I was the resident expert on all matters Latino. They didn’t even think twice about how that made me feel or if I might be offended by their questions. Likewise, the people who warned me about moving to a very white state were also coming from a place of ignorance. They were shocked when I told them how quickly I was able to find a job and how soon I was able to make friends.
Simple ignorance like this can sometimes turn into major prejudices similar to what we have seen in recent days. Especially if it keeps getting fed propaganda (Thanks, media!). Fear… lives at the center of each situation. ‘The Other’ is scary. It’s an unknown. I suspect it triggers our mammalian brain into action and engages our fight or flight response almost immediately. I am certainly guilty of this behavior myself.
How do we ‘cure’ it?
I’ve heard it said that our country, because it is so large and is made up of so many different communities of people, is more than just one big nation. It’s actually more like five nations all pushed together to form one country.
So, how do we learn about these regional communities and differences?
TRAVEL. Face ‘the other’ and get into the thick of it. See for yourself. Leave the city where you were born and raised. Find out if NYC really is full of assholes (spoiler alert, it’s not). Discover if people really do ride horses into work in Texas (spoiler alert, they don’t). Once people see ‘the other’ for themselves, it’s hard to keep being afraid of the unknown. Suddenly… you may find you have more in common with ‘the other’ than you realized. And that is a heart-warming feeling.
Meet Gabby Salinas: a healthcare advocate, cancer survivor, and scientist. Policy nerd. Political unifier. Red lipstick aficionado.
I met this Gabby in April 2018 when I just learned that my 12-year career teaching international university students was ending due to a nation-wide enrollment decline. I was preparing to move 2,500 miles away from my beloved home state of Oregon to Memphis, Tennessee and close the long-distance gap with my partner. I was eating lunch at my desk and scrolling Facebook when I came across a post in the group called Pantsuit Nation:
Wow! A woman wanting to turn her district blue just threw down her plans to run for office in the city where I was relocating! What were the chances? I was so moved by her announcement to run for state senate and excited to meet more progressive people in Memphis; a blue dot in a red state. Besides my partner, I didn’t know anyone else in Memphis, but that was about to change. I put down my salad and fork and sent Gabby this message:
“Hi Gabby! Happy birthday and congratulations on your campaign! Your story is very influential. I’ll be moving from Oregon to Memphis in September. I’ll be completely new to town and I’d love to help out on your campaign and meet some new people, so let me know if you need any help. I hope you have plans to celebrate today!”
And Gabby replied back:
“Hi Rachel, this is great news! You will love Memphis, it is a wonderful city! We would love your help, it is going to take all of us to flip this seat.”
And just like that: I made my first friend in Memphis.
Meet Gabby Salinas
A few months later when I arrived, I met Gabby in real life. She was as kind in person as she was on Facebook. I quickly learned that she and her family are the unofficial royal family of Memphis: loved by many for their community advocacy, genuine kindness, and their origin story of persisting in the face of hardships.
Election 2018 – She Persisted
I spent most of fall 2018 changing my address, shopping for a used car, and asking for rides to canvass for Gabby with my fellow campaign workers. Instead of preparing lessons and teaching students in a classroom, I knocked on thousands of doors and got to know the people in my new city by asking them to vote for Gabby in her campaign for the Tennessee state senate.
Fast forward to Election Night 2018, fueled by chips and salsa, margaritas, and hope, Team Gabby gathered at a local Mexican restaurant and watched election results roll in – first with eager anticipation and later with heavy hearts – as the local news networks declared Gabby’s incumbent opponent Brian Kelsey the winner of the state senate race by a margin of 1.8 percent or 1,520 votes. The race was close in terms of votes, but in terms of campaign spending, it was grossly disproportionate.
Follow the Money: PAC Attack
Brian Kelsey’s campaign was flushed with $369,000 from MCPAC, a political action committee (PAC of the then Lt. Governor Randy McNally.) That’s right: $369,000 spent. Against her. From the governor of Tennessee.
I can think of literally thousands of ways that money could be better spent: feeding families or providing jobs for many, but instead it was hoarded and spent in a smear campaign against a Latina female candidate. If fear had a smell, it would smell like whatever $369,000 smells like. Most people don’t know what $369,000 smells or even looks like because we’ve never seen that kind of money in one place, let alone be in a position to spend it.
MCPAC ran scathing TV and radio ads against Gabby calling her a “dangerous radical” and showing pictures of masked men as criminal immigrants. This was confusing because other than immigrating to the United States from Bolivia, Gabby can be found doing science in research labs, attending community events, or spending time with her family. Other choice phrases used to instill outsider-based racist fear to an easily-swayed conservative voter base were “Democratic socialist”, “not one of us”, and linked her to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (Yaaaaaas! Wait I’m confused… is being compared to AOC supposed to be an insult?)
Gabby’s goal to expand Medicaid statewide as part of the Affordable Healthcare Act was twisted into rhetoric as, and I quote: “someone who would single-handedly destroy Tennessee’s economy”. Nevermind that the Tennessee economy is doing all right these days.
You may be wondering: who’s so opposed to hospitals to stop closing and every Tennessean to have healthcare that they’re willing to pay nearly $10,000 per donation? Some of the usual suspects include the National Rifle Association (NRA), the Republican National Committee, big tobacco, and alcohol distributors.
Gabby’s campaign was also funded by a PAC: a pro-immigrant political group that gave her campaign $23,000. Beyond the differences in funding, she and her team ran a true grassroots campaign that focused on the issues, not opponent-smearing. A “dangerously radical” concept indeed in today’s pay-for-votes divisive political climate. I was proud to be associated with her campaign.
The take-away is simple: follow the money, and vote with your dollars.
When I knocked on doors for Gabby in 2018, I had about 30 seconds to talk to voters and ask for their votes. My script went something like this:
Hello, is Mr. / Ms. Lastname home? My name is Rachel and I’m campaigning for Gabby Salinas who’s running for Tennessee state senate. Are you familiar with her? Gabby is a:
*Three-time childhood cancer survivor *Former St. Jude patient and researcher *Who wants to expand Medicaid for Tennesseeans and *Wants to fund public education, safety, and infrastructure to take all Memphians from surviving to thriving Can we count on you to vote for her?
While all of the above is true, Gabby’s determination to provide for her state goes beyond those bullet points. Gabby Salinas is a shero in the highest regard. Next to my own mother, she is one of the most resilient and focused women I’ve ever met. Gabby stands up for everyone. She’s a quiet riot, relentlessly steadfast and kind, smart, driven, not to mention totally relatable and super fun to be around.
When I’m at a community event in Memphis, I wonder: “Is Gabby here?” Inevitably I’ll text her asking: “Hey, are you at the Levitt Shell concert tonight?” or “Hey, are you cheering at the St. Jude Marathon today?” more often than not she is and we’ll find each other, hug, and catch up on the goings-on of the moment. We’ll high five runners, or stage a dance party while listening to the Memphis sounds of summer: cicadas and community concerts. When I ask her what she’s been up to, she talks about her work, school, community advocacy, board service. My head spins in awe and I wonder how she makes time to be such a badass and whether she’s a paper or a digital calendar person. She seems unphased by her self-imposed workload and is always happy to be serving her community. Gabby always asks about what’s happening with me and listens with genuine interest as I tell her about my forays into freelancing among other things.
Surviving & Thriving: the Salinas Family Story
Gabby and her family are a tight-knit and inclusive bunch and they are no strangers to struggle. The Salinas family immigrated from Bolivia to Memphis, Tennessee when Gabby was seven years old so she could be treated at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital – a beloved Memphis institution devoted to treating pediatric cancers and diseases. Families at St. Jude never receive a bill for treatment, travel, housing, or food. Marlo Thomas heard about Gabby being turned away from a hospital in New York because her family was unable to pay and brought her to Memphis to be treated at St. Jude for free.
When she was eight years old, her family traveled to New York to enjoy a change of scenery from the hospital. On the way back to Memphis, the Salinas family was in a bad car accident. Gabby’s father and sister died and her mother was paralyzed while pregnant with her youngest child who survived. Later Gabby had two more cancer diagnoses for which her family paid nothing thanks to the generosity of St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital which shows how healthcare can and should be for everyone.
Gabby would not be alive without the support the Memphis community gave her and her family. Now she focuses her time and energy advocating for policies that will give back to the people who gave her life when she and her family were at their most vulnerable.
Moving to Memphis wasn’t easy for me. Even though I had the great fortune of being connected to one of Memphis’s finest people when I first arrived, I struggled to adapt to life in a new place. The first year of being away from my friends and family in Oregon rendered me homesick beyond expectation. Whenever I started to feel sorry for myself, I thought of Gabby and what her first year in Memphis was like. Inspired by her, I did my best to honor my feelings, shift my perspective, and find gratitude in a new situation. This is what I see her do. She never gives up.
Gabby and the Salinas family have experienced some of the most hellacious experiences life can present. They’ve moved forward and thrived through their struggles together. At a time when the problems of the world are many and people are paralyzed with overwhelm, Gabby. Is. Unstoppable. Gabby talks the talk, walks the walk, and shows us how to honor our heartbreak and turn it into action. She was alive when “pre-existing conditions” like cancer were acceptable reasons for declining someone health insurance coverage.
Gabby shows up for everyone. Now she needs our support for her campaign for Tennessee House so she can advocate for all at the state government.
Support Gabby Salinas for Tennessee House
Gabby is running for Tennessee House District 97 and oh yeah, also finishing her Ph.D. dissertation and keeping up with her advocacy work.
Contribute to candidates who care about the issues, not special interests. Make a donation and support her campaign at VoteForGabby.com. Follow her on Twitter as she moves her vision for Medicaid for all in Tennessee forward and stops rural hospitals from closing.
Like many first-generation Latinas, I struggle with knowing where I sit in terms of my culture. I’m an American by birth and a Latina by nature. It’s easier for me to say I’m an American than try to explain where on the spectrum my heritage sits. Is it enough to say that I’m a sensual, colorful, hot and spicy mix of all the delicious and naughty things people secretly love about Latin women? Because that’s the best way I can describe myself.
As a beautiful soul said to me yesterday, the Super Bowl half time show was every Latin woman’s dream come true. Two strong and culturally proud Latin women on the biggest stage in the world reveling in all that they are from head to toe. No apology, no explanation. That in itself is why it was such an inspiring performance.
“Why is she grabbing her crotch so much?” “Oh my god, she’s a stripper now?” “Did Shakira just wiggle her tongue at the camera?” “You can totally see her entire vag with that outfit.”
While the rest of America’s women take selfies in public bathrooms to show off their assets, these two women put it out in public for all to see with some amazing physicality and energy. And that is the magic of being a Latina. It’s in our soul to drip with sexy enthusiasm, to have hypnotizing hips, to have sets of lips that don’t need fillers because they’re ready to deliver the best kiss you’ve ever had. We are the fetish cowboys wrote songs about. And we’re not sorry.
I can sit in a board room filled with men and hold my own over forecasting reports and the company P&L. I can be a Suzie Homemaker and take care of a large family with amazing, from the heart food and incredible nurturing. I can be my husband’s most incredible fantasy behind closed doors. Latin women are all of these things.
Today, I can say I am so proud to be a Latin woman. I don’t say that often. Probably not often enough.
In 2020, I will celebrate who I am more and not allow the Puritanical perspective I saw creep and crawl through people’s comments on Sunday invade my pride.
I tried hard really hard to not start this blog. Honestly, I did. But since you’re reading this now, it’s clear that my voice of reason lost this round to the shared voice of the heart and gut.
My voice of neurotic and protective reasoning didn’t concede the battle without asking incessant questions. My calm inner voice of truth kept right on answering them and that’s how we got here.
The Q&A session in my head went something like this:
Q: “Who are you to start an intersectional feminist blog?”
A: “A woman who wants to create a space to free, heal, inform, and inspire others.”
Q: “You’re white. You can’t just feature stories overcoming challenges from you and other white women. If this is going to be an intersectional feminist blog, you need stories from a diverse range of women.”
A: “I know.”
Q: “You have a lot going on right now, you know.”
A: “I know.”
Q: “Are you aware of how much time this blog will take?”
A: “I have a general idea. Posting once a month is sustainable for me. I have a year of post ideas written down. I hope others will be inspired to write their own too.”
Q: “Doesn’t Pantsuit Nation on Facebook already do this?”
A: “Yes. And having one more place on the interwebs to share stories won’t hurt anyone. This blog is an option for people who aren’t on Facebook or want to spend less time scrolling there.”
Q: “Don’t you keep saying you want to simplify your life?”
A: “Yes. And every time I say no to starting this blog, the voice of Onward Woman keeps coming back and asking: ‘So when are we starting?'”
Why We’re Here: to Create Sisterhood and Promote Equity
The purpose of Onward Woman is to create sisterhood and promote equity by sharing stories from a diverse representation of women.
Through sharing stories of our bravery and resilience, which can range from tales of triumph to small and powerful actions, I hope we can:
create an intersectional feminist space
normalize the unspoken
empower the storyteller
This blog will feature stories of women to counterbalance the disproportionate focus on “history” – cultural narratives that feature and celebrate the accomplishments of men.
Onward Woman is a place to write “herstory” – stories of bravery and resilience, struggle and triumph written by, about women.
Throughout time, women have shown up as warriors. Ezer is the name used in Genesis to describe Eve which translates to “warrior” or “necessarily ally”. Warriors are brave individuals and supportive teammates. Warriors work together to do the most good.
Our presence and our voices are our power. Now is our time to remind each other how strong and resourceful we are through sharing our stories.
A Warrior Checklist
When it’s time for virabhadrasana II (warrior II posture) in my yoga practice, I go through a mental checklist to keep me safe, strong, and steady. This checklist helps me feel brave and confident so I’m sharing my warrior checklist with you. I hope that these physical cues will help you feel grounded, connected to your truth, inspired to take action.
A Warrior Checklist:
Eyes focused forward
Belly drawn up and in
Legs muscles engaged and active
Feet pressed firmly down
Breathe for five steady breaths
Pure self-made warrior power.
I can write this blog alone, but don’t want to. This is a blog that is meant for stories from the inclusive warrior women sisterhood. So if you’d like to contribute a story or you have a question, please contact me. And if you think you know someone who’d like to share their story, please share this post.
I understand it may be too early to tell, but what do you think of Onward Woman so far? What do you want more of in future posts? You can expect at least one per month from me and more if other women feel called to contribute.
Leave a comment and let me know what you think.
Thank you so much for your interest.
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