Leah V Gets a Live Brazilian Wax

A lot of folks are dying to know how I maintain my, umm, errggh, lower regions.

I am proud to say that I get Brazilian waxed regularly. So, follow me as I get a live Brazilian wax! If you love my content and want to continue to seeing my face and want to support a fat, Black, Muslim artist just trying to make a semi-honest living (LOL) then I encourage you to LIKE, SHARE, COMMENT, AND SUBSCRIBE.

And, you can always be my Patron, any amount helps: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon

PayPal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Lastly, don't forget to follow me @Lvernon2000

Have you ever been waxed before? What’s your experience? Let’s chat:)

Blogger-Versary: Seven Years Of Telling My Business Online

Today marks the 31st day that I’ve been in New York. Glorrrrrryyyyy. And, if you follow me on the Instagram and my stories then you already know what it is. You know that the streets are filled with litter and smells like underneath a ball sack mixed with a dirty gym bag. You’d know that I am still in between apartments. That I wake up like death because of the miles and miles of walking and the endless stair climbing.

Also, we are in the 2nd day of Ramadan! A reflection period and also a time to get my mind right, not only spiritually but mentally.

With all that said, I have totally forgotten that it is my 7th year blogging anniversary a.k.a Blogger-versary. I would have loved to plan a special photo shoot with the numbered balloons and confetti and make a big deal out of it, but sis is just tryna make her coins to pay her inflated ass NYC bills. Okay!

How does it feel to be blogging for 7 years Leah V? Well, let me tell ya, it has been a whole ass journey.

Oh, Chile, those brows.

Prior to starting this blog and IG page back in 2013, I had been writing since I was a wee lad. I used to delve into Reading Rainbow like it was nobody’s business. I was obsessed with Levar Burton’s soothing voice and the way the words and the photos transported me to another time and place. At a young age, I knew that stories were transformative. I knew that’s where I wanted to be. I just hadn’t known how I’d get there.

I started a blog which went to shit. I hadn’t known my voice. Or what to do with it. I hadn’t known marketing. Like at all. I started a YouTube that also went to shit. Then I wrote three books. None of which were published. Then I wrote short stories and little articles here and there.

I always tell folks that clearly artists love abuse, because we just keep on trying no matter how bad we look, no matter how much money we invest. No matter how many people say that our shit is shit. We keep on pushing because we see something that others don’t. And, we will do anything to feed the monster. Feed our passions.   

Don’t ask no questions. LOL

I can’t remember what my first blog post was about. Probably something about fashion. I do remember my first real Instagram post. I had gotten some professional photos taken. That was going to be my coming out as a top-notch blogger. It ain’t happen like that but I was kinda getting the gist of modeling.

It was funny because I never wanted to be called a model. Models weren’t me and I wasn’t them. The term model meant that I was tall and statuesque and thin and thin and mostly thin with no boobs or curves or whatever. I always corrected people when they called me a model. I’d reply, “I’m just a blogger who wears cute clothes online.”

Man, I’ve been through a whole ass metamorphosis between these past seven years. Like there would be a whole book to cover it. Shameless plug: There isssss a whole book to cover it, called Unashamed: Musings of a Fat, Black Muslim available for pre-order now wherever books are sold!

Sorry. LOL. But yeah, it’s been a whole lot of shifting and failing and crying and breaks and accomplishments. It’s been a whole struggle and yet every minute of it has been wonderful. Because even in my low moments, I have learned something or emerged from the other side grateful for the good and the bad.  

So, here’s to seven years of changes. Changes that I’ve been able to share with you all openly and unapologetically. And, here’s to seven more! And, possibly more than that!

Xoxo,

Leah V 

Vulnerability: Not Having It All Together

I’ve been looking at my blog and it is a disaster to say the least. Ever since the summer came and went, I have been skipping my weekly blog posts. Having less and less time to spend on long form pieces. Overwhelmed by social media and speaking engagements and trying to juggle the gym and my mom’s hip replacement surgery. Etc. Etc. Etc. I’ve had some really good ideas, but they just never panned out to me actually writing them.

I’ve been writing, but not in the ways that I want to…

I had this amazing idea to get an intern. Maybe they could help me whip it (as well as other things) back into shape. The deadline has past, and no one has responded to my little ad. And, most likely because I can’t pay them at the moment. Which I completely get because who wants to work for free?  

But, that’s not why I dropped in, to tell you all about my failed intern search but to talk about some of the issues plaguing me for the entire month of January.

On January 1st, New Years Day, I felt so optimistic about life. The air even seemed different than that of 2018, otherwise cold but still hopeful. All these things were going to happen. Since it is my downtime from modeling and from speaking gigs, I’d have time to get to know me. Do a bit of fat girl yoga. Re-strategize my year and my brand and my life. I was even going to start dating again. Shit was about to be lit!

January was not lit in the least bit. It was bad, so very bad. So low and un-lit and cold and harsh.

It began with some anxiety sprinkled with seasonal depression after coming back from NYC. I was excited to get started on plotting out my business and making it legit, instead of being that artist who hadn’t known how much she made last year or hadn’t had business models in place. Because I am that person. I can’t be 100% creator and 100% business person at the same time. That’s like two whole ass people, when I am only one whole ass but a kinda sorta partial ass person.

I started to freak out. How was I going to do all the shit in addition to creating content? How was I going to plan shoots and send out emails and eat regularly and still have a social life? How, Sway? The answers never came. In fact, more things started to happen.

I was rejected from two major campaigns. One in LA and the other in New York. Man, how amazing would it have been to have some kind of income and also landing a gig, maybe two!

Then I got scared because if those two retailers said no, then how many other no’s would I get? Was my time as a model done? Had I dried up like leftovers in a container that you forgot in the backseat of your car in the summer time? These gigs equate payment. Payments so that I can pay my bills and pay more bills and then maybe get ice cream later on. If I don’t work, then I don’t eat. Then I can’t create.

I might look like I have it all together, but clearly, I do not.

I fell into this whirlwind of doubt. Imposter Syndrome. Other lowliness.

I will never have a year as awesome as last year.

No one wants to work with me because I am not the right kind of fat. Because I am Muslim and I refuse to show my tits.

I am done. My ride is over.  

I am not cut out for this. Why had I started this? Delete the whole fuckin’ Instagram app!

I wanted to hide. I wasn’t worthy of being seen. I started writing cryptic posts. I felt like no one cared. Of course, that isn’t true, but it was for me—is for me still.

You’d think that once you start to blow up and get the likes and get the shares and the comments that you’d never be lonely, but that’s not true sometimes. I am the loneliest I’ve felt in a long time.

I’ve had to sit with myself in these last few weeks. In my body dysmorphia. In my insecurities. In my pain. In my awkwardness. In my failures and in those rejections. I’ve had to cry it out. I feel like I’ve cried more times in this month than I have in the entire previous year. I’ve cried because my feelings were hurt or because someone said something so nice to me or just because I watched something sad on my period and just balled for no fuckin reason.

It’s so hard to see the light when you are in too deep. It is hard to have faith when you don’t even believe in yourself. It’s so hard to make lemonade out of lemons. Kinda sorta.

I’m not trying to get all religious on you, but I do believe that signs are sent to us in the form of people or things to give us a little push to keep going.

Mine came at my friend’s going away party. It had been a rough day. People were being shady, and I had to ask my friend after dinner to talk to me because I was out of it and struggling to feel normal. Feel like the fierce Leah V that we have all grown to love. He talked with me in the car for a good hour. Reading me to filth but with love. He made me feel a bit better. I went to the party afterwards and this woman grabbed my arm, gently, looked me deep in my eyes and told me that she could see that I had a good spirit and there was a uniqueness there that she hadn’t seen in a long time. She said it more eloquently, but I damn near started bursting out crying. It has been a long time that someone complimented me on something deeper than looks and makeup and outfits. Her compliment hit me inside. In my core right where my black heart is. It began to beat a little. It softened.

I’m not sure she knew how much of an impact she made on me that night.

Although, I am not fully out of my funk it is better than it was initially. I can finally see some of the light that people be talking about.

And, I know that I am not the only one going through some shit right now and that shit could definitely be so much worse and that we should be counting our blessings and being grateful, but it’s still a time where lack of Vitamin D and sun and increase of just being in the house because it’s cold af is weighing on all of us.

Here’s a few things I’ve done to lessen my mental illness episodes:

1.      The “one thing a day rule”.  I know many of us—when depression hits—want to stay in bed and wallow and think about that shit incessantly, but you cant only just do that. You gotta do one thing, whether that is showering, sending an email, reading a book, brushing your teeth. Focus on one thing to accomplish.

2.      Sit in your own mess. A lot of times we don’t like the discomfort of sitting in our own mental shit that we try to fill those voids with things that aren’t healthy for us. Could be unprotected sex, drugs, abuse of others, whatever. Sit in that shit! It’s okay to experience all the emotions, even the not so cool ones.

3.      Reach out. I know a lot of folks are private and don’t want their business out in the street but hey, you gotta let it out. The ramifications to keeping things bottled up is worse when it comes out later and you have no control of it.

4.      Be gentle with yourself. You are allowed to cry. (I am talking to myself because I hate crying. It makes me feel like a punk). You are not no damn punk for crying. You are a human being with feelings. A good cry ain’t never hurt nobody.  

5.      Count the good things that have happened. Life is not all bad. Life has good moments, too. Are you being cognizant of those good moments or are you harping on the bad?

6.      Physical things. Yoga. Dancing. Any crazy movements. Arts and crafts. Lifting that ice cream cone to and from your mouth. Anything to get those endorphins up.

So, that’s all I wanted to say. My little update. I don’t have the answers to never having manic episodes or mental health crises. I don’t know how to stop my own. I’m just sharing with you what’s been going on with me, my absence, my life.

I have no clue what I am doing or where I am going. I am trying to learn how to enjoy the process more than the outcome. To be vulnerable even though it scares the shit out of me. To take risks and know that everything is going to work out in the end, exactly how its supposed to.

And, that neither I or you control that.

What’s the best advice you would give someone whose going “through it”? Let’s chat.

 xoxo,

Leah V

The Unconventional: Thriving As A Covered Model

Sometimes I think it’d be easier to show my ass. I mean my entire meaty ass that’s filled with fat craters and stretch marks. Like the whole thing sitting up on a sink like I see the other gals doing. You know those multiple photos on a girl’s Instagram page as she takes a half body selfie in the mirror with her ass cheeks out. Do you know how much I’d save on wardrobe??? How much time I’d save locating photographers and setting up shoots? To live the life of an IG model who posts semi-nudes and has followers stacked on followers and doesn’t have to worry about engagement because, hello! Sex sells. Bare skin sells. And, oh, I forgot to add, this only works for certain body types. Not all bodies get to show and be empowered by semi-nudity. Only the right kind of bodies get that right. The right kind of thin. And the right kind of thicc or curvy.

I was scrolling down my timeline yesterday and saw a post that read: nudity empowers some and modesty empowers others. Which I totally agree with and this is not a “bash people who are empowered by showing their bodies on the internet” post so if you know me or have read my work or follow the folks that I support and even try to place that in this equation, you can go royally fuck yourself.

What I am shedding light on is the fact that many of us feel that we should show more body (for the wrong reasons) just to stay relevant or get validation or receive more likes.

And, we see this not only with influencers but adolescents as well. I feel like now a lot of girls (and boys) have this mentality that the sexier the better. The barer the skin the prettier. The bigger the butt the worthier.

Modesty equals prudishness. It equals being confined to one stereotype. It equals less popular. The inability to be sexy, feel sexy, be fierce.

Because I grew up Muslim, we weren’t taught to be sexy. Sexy was forbidden. There was no need for a Muslim girl to feel or be sexy at all. The extreme end of modesty was humble, colorless, loose clothes, bare face. The idea that you shouldn’t want or feel the need to be seen. Lower your gaze. Be bashful.

And after hearing stories of other cultures and religions having the same experience as above, it’s as if you can be only one or the other. There is no in-between. What’s too sexy and what’s not sexy enough look like? What’s true body empowerment versus an attention seeker who just wants to be validated for her body and nothing else?

I feel like I’m in a weird place as someone who lives so openly on the net. And, believe me, I am not the most modestly dressed Muslim you’ll see, but I’m also not the most nude either.

One day, I was at an indoor spa and I had on a bathing suit in the water. It wasn’t a bikini top, but it was more like a sleeved swim top and the top part of my chest was out. I don’t remember if I had my hijab on or not, but I made a boomerang and a few Muslims went hard on me. Scolding me for showing my body. It’s this idea that you are or you aren’t. There is no in-between. This ideology that many of us carry is problematic in so many ways. It alienates people. It forces them to be someone they aren’t just to please the masses, please their communities. When truly, it’s not who they want to be.

I don’t want to feel pressured to show my ass for likes. But I appreciate others who show their asses for a cause or because they want to be free or want to show others that there is confidence in being okay with your body. I don’t want to feel pressured to cover my body or hair either. To pretend to be fake modest like I had when I was married or when I was more involved with the Muslim community. When I wanted to fit in to their standards of how a Muslim should look.    

I’d like to wear what makes me comfortable, whether I get validation or likes or not. I’d like to be liked for me. I’d like to be accepted for me. Whether that’s fully covered or not or somewhere in between.

But, I will tell you right now that in no one is it easy to be a fat, Black model who also happens to be a semi-covered Muslim. Every time, I book a gig, I am all types of shocked. And all kinds of grateful because I can’t do and wear what the other models do and wear. So, it limits me. But, when I do step up, I am serving looks so hard that I want to make them forget that they have a Muslim girl on set. I am so fierce that all they see is a girl that will kill that shot every single time. So, that other girls (and boys) who are behind me or standing beside me have a chance to walk in that door and wear their culture or religion proudly in that campaign or on that panel.

xoxo,

Leah V  

Simply Be UK "Express Yourself" Ad

Because I’ll be traveling all week, I just wanted to drop in and show you my latest work from the summer. I was flown to the UK, not once but twice, to shoot commercials for Simply Be UK.

Ya’ll know that I started my blog back in 2013 because I wanted to fill a gap. I wanted to show the world that beauty didn’t have a standard. It had no age, color, or religion. 
I’ve always expressed my identity through fashion. 

I was the Muslim girl who would wear black nail polish and black lipstick to prayer on Fridays and get shocked and disapproving looks from other Muslims. I was the girl who would cover her eye lids with glitter and stick flowers in her hijab while friends either made fun of me or told me that “big girls were always looking for attention”. I was the girl who always wore what she wanted on her face and body despite what people said. 

I look back at all the people that talked shit about my makeup and clothing. Called me a clown and other discouraging names. They are either in my inbox asking for styling advice or now watching from the sidelines as I rise *sips tea* 

Had I listened to their ridicule, had I wavered and changed who I truly was to please them, I surely wouldn’t be standing here shooting whole ass commercials 😂. I want to let you know that you don’t have to be an Instagram model to feel confident with your body. You don’t need a small waist, long weave with baby hairs laid, pale skin, clear skin, narrow nose, big booty, or long legs to feel beautiful. 

You can start right now. 

What makes your feel beautiful?

XOXO,

Leah V

Everything is Going to Change

When I was a little girl, I used to hate change. Mom would always tease me. “Amerra, likes for everything to remain the same.

Amerra, which means “princess” in Arabic, and the Islamic name I was given as a child.

I think I’m still that person. Inside anyway. Little Amerra is still in there trying to halt movements that are too fast, too uncomfortable. It’s so safe right where we are. To move in an unknown direction, to make a leap of faith is just too much for her to carry, too much for many of us to carry.

So, we remain stagnant. And comfortable. Never venturing out into the wild that is life.

It is both sad yet understandable.  

For me, I was forced to accept change. Does that mean I’m in love with it? Hell nah! But I get it. I understand—for the most part—that if I don’t move, the world will continue to move with or without me present.

When I say that I was forced to accept change, I mean that a series of shit occurred. Shit that stunned me. Shit that rendered me helpless, confused. Everything stopped. I was at the crossroads of going left or right. On the left was pain and misery on the right was also pain and misery. But, the right had some added benefits. With that pain and misery was acceptance. It was a route that I would be able to become my own narrator. Instead of allowing the world to narrate for me.

I think that too many people are afraid to take the wheel and become their own narrator because for one it’s scary as shit and secondly, it makes them accountable.

Change to me was being accountable. Holding others accountable.

Trust me when I tell you that this role isn’t easy to slide into. You come up against a lot of foolishness once you take on the challenge. I’ve noticed that people want to do what they want without consequences. Everyone just wants to be accepted as they are. But, that’s not really fair. Maybe your ‘as is’ ain’t good. Not good for you and not good for others. I know for a fact that mine wasn’t. Like at all. The person I was five years ago wasn’t good. It was doable. But not great.

Everything is going to change, I told myself two years ago.

And, would you look at that. Everything has changed.

I’ve changed. Situations have changed. Some slow and some fast. I’ve found myself being able to cope with change much quicker and more openly than before. I’ve moved less away from the rigidity of childhood and become a tad more fluid.

Yet there are still moments of complete rigidness, where I won’t bend for shit. Some work out and others, I am again forced to accept.

I’m still learning when to hold on and when to let go.

Last year, for me, was a year of hardship and discovery. I discovered that I had writing talent that I always knew I had but others wouldn’t give me the time of day to figure out. I always wondered how I was going to get my work seen. Heard. Nobody was checking for me. My little artsy feelings were hurt. But, I had talent, I screamed from the tops of mountains. Still no one cared.

When I tell you that I quit or almost quit multiple times is an understatement. It is HARD to do what I do. You, the spectator, get to look at the pretty photos and read the well-crafted sentences for free. Not seeing all the behind the scenes work that’s put into it. Not seeing me trying to drag myself out of bed every morning. Battling depression and anxiety. Wondering if anyone is reading this shit or am I just talking to my damn self.

I made a promise though. That no matter what, I’d always write. Every day. For free, if I had to. Because I am words and words are me. Simply.

This year. Man, this year, my endurance was put to the test. There wasn’t a chance to quit or tussle with change because I had gotten all the opportunities right in my lap. They piled on top of each other. After starting my blogging career in 2013, things were starting to change. For the good and bad. Friends started to drop off like flies, their true intentions revealed. I landed my very first commercial in the UK. I went to Barcelona on a random solo trip. I still don’t have a man on the account of me being too “intimating”. I’ve cultivated so many relationships with so many lady friends and have built a tribe all over the world.

“Everything is going to change,” I said to myself right before I knew I was getting divorced. Right before I knew all the foolery that he was a willing participant in.  

I felt it in my bones. In my aura. I knew it was coming whether I wanted it to or not.

And, it did come. Sooner than I wanted but that’s not for me to control. I can only control how ready I am for it when it comes.

What has changed in your life? Were you ready for it? What kind of change would you like to see in the near future?

Xoxo,

Leah V

Doing The Impossible

It’s been a while since we’ve got deep. I mean real deep. I’ve been in this reflective phase for the last few weeks because several important days have passed. And, it got to me to thinking about how everything that has happened which has led me to be right here, right now. I think we all have those questions floating around our heads. Especially as we age. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Is this the right path to take?!?

I remember constantly asking people: can you tell me what I need to do? The good ones, the best ones, and most knowledgeable ones would tell me that they indeed cannot tell me to go right or left. That I’d have to use my skills and talents to figure that shit out. I’d sulk in my own misery. Wondering if they were indeed so great and knowledgeable, if so, then why couldn’t they just give me a straight answer and tell me WHAT I NEEDED TO DO TO GET MY LIFE TOGETHER!

Now, now, I know the answer to the question I so desperately was seeking from others. I had those answers all along. And, so do you. You just haven’t discovered it yet.

The two days in question that have me thinking so deeply was my 31st birthday and the 2nd year divorce anniversary. Which are only two weeks apart.

Custom Outfit: Lena Harbali (Detroit)

Because, I didn’t have any money left over and still waiting for checks to clear from my awesome yet tiring European travels, I rented a cheap hot tub and pondered what life was as a newly 31-year-old fat, Black, and Muslim woman living in the states.

It was deep. Because last year, only twelve months prior to that day, I was very down. My face in an overly spicy bowl of chili. I was more broke than I am now but also with no prospects. Everything I did seemed to fail. I threatened to quit modeling. Quit blogging. Quit it all. Just like my marriage went down. That’s how the rest of my life would follow.

The ‘You’ll never be anything without me” was finally coming into fruition.  

I was afraid. But, I accepted my faith. I was going to be another soul-less professor locked in, teaching eight courses, and making student’s lives a living hell because I was unhappy. I was prepared to live life as an overly educated person working a dead-end job that hadn’t offered benefits. I mean, I still don’t have benefits but that’s another story.

What I noticed that in my own ignorance I was living comfortably in my misery and self-doubt. The world had pumped so much negativity into me that I couldn’t even see beyond it, see what others had seen in me. I was stuck in between a rock and another rock. It’s hard to be uncomfortable. Experience rejection. It’s hard to be vulnerable and to put yourself out there for everyone to dissect and gawk at.

Whoever said success, personal or financial or spiritually was easy? This shit is hard. It’s hard to look at yourself and be like: yeah, the world is fucked up, but you are your own worst critic. You are the one that’s stopping yourself from progress and greatness.

A lot of us are. And, so was I. That hurts. I know it hurt me.

Because doesn’t society already do that? Why would we want to dim our own light?  

Fit: Lena Harbali

September 1, 2018. The 2nd year anniversary of our 10-year relationship. On that day, I had a podcast interview.

The interviewer asked me when was the moment that I just didn’t give a fuck anymore about people’s opinions where I’ve truly been able to become my best and true unapologetic self.

Honestly, I had many moments throughout my life where I was just like nope. I’m tired of being stereotyped and placed into these boxes. But, I thought about the end of my marriage. That was the epiphany, that ‘light bulb over the head’ moment.

“I’m afraid to leave you because you might be somebody one day,” he said. The ex. I will never, ever forget that. Ever.

That is something that I hold onto and use to push when I can’t push anymore. When I get too comfortable when in my head I know I can be greater. To prove to myself that on the other side of fear is greatness and that there is nothing behind that wall, that door, that barrier that I can’t take on.

By looking at me, you’d never know my story. You’d never imagine the things I’ve seen or the abuse I went through that still stick with me today. How much of the abuse was from myself at times.

Just in this year alone, I’ve made leaps. I’ve jumped across mountains, mentally and metaphorically. I’ve done the impossible. Without the people that I thought would, should’ve been there. I’ve broke down several times because of Imposter Syndrome and recovered. I’ve allowed myself to sit in those feelings of lowness but understand that it’s temporary.

Xoxo,

Leah V

BRUT Feature: Power In Numbers

So, this video went from 22k views to after me sharing it having over 130k views in over a week. Ya'll are just amazing. 

Watch it and keep sharing and liking and commenting on the video because in numbers we can change narratives. They aren’t going to take us seriously unless we show them that we can pull numbers. 

For a hot minute, I was getting these major features and interviews back to back. There were so many that I couldn’t keep up. I remember feeling validated. I was poppin *Tongue pop* 

Then they suddenly stopped. I wasn’t the “it” girl anymore. I was “normal”. Probably never gonna see that much shine again unless a sex tape surfaced 😂

Who was I if I was no longer validated by huge media outlets? Who was I if I wasn’t poppin on the net? 

Y’all know that I am constantly checking myself. Why? Because I’m not trying to slip and slide back into my past self. I refuse to be a slave to my old habits because I’ve worked damn hard to level up. 

I had to remember my why. My purpose. I hadn’t started my journey to seek validation for empty likes or a thousand retweets. I started because through my self discovery I could help others rediscover themselves. 

I’m delighted to tell you that I have been featured in Brut and they made a whole ass video of meee. Here’s one of the nasty comments: “If it wasn't for Brut we would have never heard of this person and we'll probably never hear from her again.”

I thought it was funny because you’ll definitely be hearing from me again. 

Go comment nice things on it 😎

Watch it and here and lemme know what you think: 

https://www.facebook.com/brutamerica/videos/1982250172073492/UzpfSTc5NTY3MDAyMzg3NzUyOToxNTk0OTMxMjg3Mjg0NzI4/

Transparency After Having The Hypothetical Tape Ripped From My Mouth

I always get asked, “Leah V, how are so comfortable with being transparent with your life?”

Growing up, I went from being very outspoken to quiet and withdrawn to being kinda sorta outspoken to shutting up and only saying the ‘right’ things to where I am now. And, even then, I still don’t say everything that’s on my mind. I’m getting more and more comfortable with each passing day.  

The reason that I’ve been through these waves of shutting up vs. not shutting up was because people always told me to be quiet.

My father, ahem, my sperm donor, because real fathers raise their children, used to always call me a ‘broken record”. Yes, he was an adult and I was a kid, but he was a liar and I knew that early on. So, in order to keep him in check, make him have accountabilty, I’d remind him of the things he promised to do. I’d give him follow up calls like a damn office assistant at the age of 8.

“You ain’t nothin but a broken record,” he said to me over the phone one day. “You always repeatin yoself.”

I was young. I didn’t have a response. But, my feelings had been hurt.

So, I stopped talking.

I noticed that when I expressed my feelings or dislike of something, people would get angry, offended, and say, “You talk too much.”  

So, I stopped expressing myself and kept it all inside.

No one wanted to hear what I had to say. Nothing I had to say was of importance. And, honestly, no one cared.

Model: @Fashionlayn

I ran away to books. That way I could communicate more effectively. I could live vicariously. No, they weren’t real people, but real people sucked.

Men hated me the most. Especially Muslim men. They still do actually. HA! Before I knew what feminism was and the women’s rights movements, I was an advocate and hadn’t even known. When, I’d see something foul or oppressive towards girls or women, I’d speak out. I’d be called names like “hoe” or would hear phrases like “She doing too much” and the best, “she needs to shut up because she don’t know what she’s talking about”. And, because I was married and didn’t want to rock the boat or embarrass him, I pick and chose my battles.

Again, I was quiet.

If you think about it, for hundreds of years, people have always wanted women to shut their mouths. To be quiet. To stop complaining. To disregard their truths and traumas. To get over it. The truth is a hard pill to swallow. And, it’s easier to control someone who is willing to bury the truth. Lock it in a nice fancy box.

Other than women, do you know who the world usually loves to have shut up? Women of color. It is ingrained in us to not speak up. Out of fear that we won’t be believed anyway, because we are less than. Out of fear that there will be retaliation if we dare to open our mouths. We are called liars. We are dismissed. Even by our own.

When other people’s truths are celebrated, called brave, our voices and stories go unheard. Our truths remain silenced and bottled.

There comes a certain point where a person gets fed up. Fed up of being called a ‘broken record”. Fed up of being told that you don’t know what you are talking about. Fed up of not being believed and afraid of repercussion.    

After twenty-nine years of being silenced, something marvelous happened. I got divorced and the hypothetical tape was ripped from my mouth. It hurt like hell, don’t get me wrong, but the sting was only temporary. On the other side of fear is greatness. And, my fear was being told to shut up.

I made a decision: not anymore. Not one more day will pass that I fear to speak my mind. I might not have all the answers, none of us do, but I know what I am talking about. I am not crazy, like some of them like to call women who speak their minds. We are not crazy. We’ve just transcended the oppressive societal norms that seek to silence girls.

Let’s keep the conversation going: has someone ever tried to silence you? How’d you get over your fear and start living in your truths?

Xoxo,

Leah V

The Last Straw: Kate, Now Anthony

I’ve been deathly ill for the last week and fighting to stay afloat. Sickness waits for no one. Especially a single artist whose staff is made up of one sole person. Me.

A few days ago, when my cold was a baby cold, I was at lunch with a friend when she gasped at her phone. My eyes widened as she explained to me that Kate Spade had committed suicide. The first word that slipped out of my mouth was ‘damn’. The next thought that came to mind was why? I mean she had the entire world at her feet. She was white and successful and rich and white and successful. Seemed like the perfect life to me, to most of us. I mean I had spent a large portion of my life trying to be a successful white woman. Until I figured out that that was totally wrong in itself.

Mental illness, suicide is something that has touched us—directly or indirectly—in some form. Yet, many of us have no idea. No clue how to contain the idea that someone just wanted ‘it’ to stop. So, they made it happen.

Growing up, we were taught that suicide was against our beliefs. And, it is in many religions and cultures. But, that’s such a small way to tackle the issue at hand. I think now that I’ve been through some things and seen some things, I look at it in a different way. I look at mental health in a different way.

Over the last few days more pieces of information were discovered about Kate Spade’s last moments, yet we still aren’t any closer to having an answer. Why’d she do it? What was the last straw? Could it have been prevented?  

Now that the topic is trending, I’m seeing comments like suicide is the coward’s way out, suicide is selfish, and suicide is not the way.

We have to be careful about making blanket statements, because we have not a clue what goes on in people’s lives. Life ain’t easy sometimes.

This morning, I woke up to more horrendous news: “Anthony Bourdain Dies at 61, Apparent Suicide”.

I screamed no in a hoarse voice as if he were a friend I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

His death hit me hard because I am such a diehard Bourdain fan. I first discovered him on the Travel Channel back in 2012 when I was working for a job I loathed. Every day, they’d make me sit with a patient that was abusive and needed much more care than I could give. For the majority of the shift, I’d be cooped up in the patient’s room, both of us shut off from the rest of the floor. I’d turn on Bourdain’s show, No Reservations, and drift off into an imaginary place. Vicariously living through his no nonsense travels, I aspired to be as bold and brave and as open and carefree as he was. He was a white man, but a down white man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty or to learn about another culture different from his.

I had mad respect for this TV personality that I’d never get to meet but could appreciate.

Again, Bourdain is rich and white and successful. But, we have no clue what internal battles people are struggling with that go way beyond success, beyond money, beyond the cars and the good looks.

These tragedies got me to thinking about my own. The ones I lived through.

I remember having a really bad mental break. I was so on edge for weeks, so manic that I started smoking cigarettes. I don’t even smoke cigarettes and I hate the smell. But, I needed something to calm my nerves. I wasn’t eating either even though I loved food. I just hadn’t had an appetite anymore.  

Whatever you can think of that’s valuable in life, I had lost it. The days leading up to it were bad. I was the lowest of the low mentally. The place I was, there was no light, no hope. Just nothingness and emptiness. I reached out. No one grabbed my hand. Maybe they hadn’t known how to deal with depression or maybe they just hadn’t found me a priority. Either way, I was left alone. I don’t ever remember being suicidal, but I do remember questioning why was I on earth? Asking myself what was the purpose of my existence, if I was just taking up space. No one cared. I was nothing. I meant nothing.

Had I sat in that misery for a day more, an hour more, perhaps I’d be in the same predicament.   

Mental illness doesn’t just touch certain people. It does not discriminate. It doesn’t care if you have money or religion or children. Sometimes its circumstantial and sometimes it’s a hormonal imbalance and other times, it’s just because the person sees no value in living.

For the ones who are still living, it is not our place to judge, tell them that they were weak or selfish. It’s our jobs to disassociate the taboos and stigmas attached to mental health and allow people to speak and live in their truths no matter what that might be. It’s our jobs to reach out to our strong friends and our weak friends and ask if there is anything you can do. Maybe they just need someone to listen, a hug, to know that someone cares.

Stop quieting people for talking about their mental health. Stop making them feel bad for reaching out. Stop telling them that if they were more spiritual or was a better human being then maybe they wouldn’t have such problems. Stop adding to the problem by pointing fingers.

Although, I am an influencer and share quite a bit about my life, I still cringe when I have to talk about my anxiety or depression or my personality disorder openly. I cringe because I don’t want to be scolded for sharing a manic episode. I don’t want people judging me or telling me that my issues aren’t valid or that ‘other people have it worse’. I know other people have it worse, but when I feel bad, I feel bad despite the rest of the world.  

But, every time I do share, I get an influx of messages from girls and women that are appreciative that someone, especially someone who belongs to so many intersections is opening the dialogue to normalizing mental health discussions.   

So, I keep talking about it, no matter how cringy. Because it’s apart of our lives, my life.

Let’s keep this discussion going: why do we feel the need to hide our mental instabilities? Why is this topic still taboo in many of our communities?

Xoxo,

Leah V

Fat, Black, and Carefree: NYC Video Project

The first time I went to NYC was in 2013. I had just started blogging and planned to crash New York Fashion Week. My ex, at the time, worked for an airline. So the flight was free. I packed peanut butter crackers and waters on my carry-on bag. I had about 10$ to spend on food. The crackers and water was my breakfast. 

I slept in a hostel, on the top bunk, in a room filled with drifters. Each night stay was 19$. I clutched my belongings to my chest as I slept.

But, I was in New York though, and I was humbly building my brand. 

The next time I visited. I was still broke. But, this time, I had met someone who offered me lodging. After the fashion show, I went to her place only to find out that her home was infested with roaches. With no money, I found a clean spot on the couch upstairs and hoped for the best. 

Five years later, I was flown to New York. I had shoots set up. Meetings with brands. And video collaborations. I was being paid. No uncomfortable bunk beds or roaches or water and crackers. 

For some reason social media has made life look easy. They’ve caused people to see the accomplishments without the struggle. You can question where I’ve come from or how I’ve gotten to where I am, but you cannot deny that I’ve put the work in. 

At the end of the day, like my friend, Madinah says: You will NOT outwork me! 

Here’s a video, proof of a fat, Black, and very Muslim Girl from Detroit against all odds in New York making a fashion video on her terms. Just as unapologetic and carefree🤸🏾‍♀️

Share your struggle and tell me where you are now? Let’s chat. 

Video: @mister_eman 

Dress: @eloquii 

Location: New York

The Deletion of the Perfect Instagram Hijabi

I was flown to Columbia University in New York last week by the Muslim Protag Student Organization to speak on a panel about how body-positivity and fashion related to authenticity in today’s times. Although very nervous—as I always get with speaking engagements—I felt right at home as the mainly student filled room interacted positively when I advocated about being an ally for Black Muslims, Muslims who’d been hushed by the media, fat people, disabled people, and dark people.

I told them to feel free to snap their fingers or to whip their turban or hijab back and forth if they heard something that I said which resonated with them.

And, girl, there was a lot of whippin and snappin going on.

Someone asked me about being an openly Muslim blogger, who also happened to be Black and fat, and how I remained authentic in that space.

For some reason, all the ‘Perfect Hijabi’ bloggers popped into my head.

Hijab: VELA Scarves

I responded, “Hmm, I’m not sure I want to say this here.”

The crowd gassed me up. Shouting, “Say it. Say it!”

“You know I’m really tired of the Hijabi bloggers being so damn perfect. Like, come on. They are all thin, usually white passing with the perfect wardrobe and the most perfect pastel Instagram aesthetic. They have the most perfect husband with the most luxurious and conditioned Muslim man beard. And they have like a ‘get into heaven’ free card because they are just the most perfect human beings.” I rolled my eyes and laced with sarcasm, I concluded, “I want to be like that one day.”

Eyes widened, jaws dropped, and laughs erupted. I heard claps and snaps. And, some even flew out of their seats.

No one had said it out loud until that moment. Said what we are all thinking in our petty little heads. Why do Muslimah influencers feel the need to push this oh-so-perfect agenda off on others?

And, I get that one could argue that being ‘too real’ can add to Islamophobia and that the world doesn’t need to see Muslims in a ‘bad light’. Ever since 9/11 occurred, Muslims have felt the need to put on this perfect persona so that others couldn’t stereotype them. Mistake them as aggressive or too Muslim or radical or oppressed. One of those Muslims that they saw on TV blowing up things and carrying curved swords and screaming ‘Death to all AMERICANS’.  

On top of the pressures of remaining perfect in the public eye, we have community-rooted issues of how a Muslim woman should be within her family as well as the community. And these circumstances vary, not all situations are like this, but I guarantee that you have either witnessed or been in one or more of these situations.  

You do not bring shame to your family under any circumstance. While your brother, Ahmad, is out living his best life, you are held to much higher standards. You look the part. Hijab is crucial. You don’t wear hijab, life is almost over and you have elders questioning your religion. Skinny jeans or leggings? Oh no. You are clearly on the path to destruction. Dating? While your brother, Muhammad A.K.A Mo, is bringing white chicks to the family functions. You on the other hand will fall straight into the pits of hell if you even ponder a hot guy before marriage.

Got a mental illness? Drop two rakats. You clearly aren’t praying enough. And, no, I’m not saying you shouldn’t pray when a calamity befalls you, but resources for anxiety and depression are available if you need them.

Other cliché topics that a lot of perfect hijabi bloggers don’t touch are sexual abuse, misogyny, racism, and body-shaming. Of course, because those kinds of topics don’t fit into their pastel social media aesthetic filled with fancy doughnuts and lavish trips to Dubai. Oh, yeah. I’m calling them out.

The reason why the perception of perfect, Instagram Muslimahs are so problematic is for several reasons.

You make your followers feel as if they aren’t good enough, that they aren’t Muslim enough. You create this bubble that just isn’t reality. What most influencers fail to understand is that there are other people on the opposite side of that screen. People place influencers on such high pedestals and will try to emulate whatever it is that they do. They don’t necessarily understand that these photos and blogs and projects are only curated snippets of an actual life.  

Newsflash: Muslim girls aren’t perfect. And, we don’t need to be. Perfection doesn’t exist. So, why are we punishing ourselves to attain it? Stop allowing your mom, husband, society to dictate how you should or shouldn’t be. Stop wearing masks to make others feel comfortable in your presence.

Life is about making mistakes and learning from them. It’s about exploration and maintaining an identity. It’s about connecting with your creator and striving each day to be better than you were the day before.

Instead of pushing perfection, which is really lowkey fakeness, try promoting individuality. Let your platform know that this is how you present yourself, but that it’s nothing wrong with stepping outside of the box and creating your own unique path.

XOXO,

Leah V

BodyPROJECT: Turbanista in the City

I'm super excited to share with you my newest body project collaboration in the city of Detroit.

I thoroughly enjoy the art of storytelling. Sometimes, we can tell a story without one word. But through images or movement. 

I often hear that people don't read anymore. That people don't care. That there's so much going on in the world that people have lost hope. 

I know what it feels like to be without hope. To not be able to see past the mental wall that's in front of you. To not see the good in people. To think that no one cares. 

None of it is true. Those are doubts. That is fear. We are our own walls...

I've become my own wall lately. 

But, I have to remind myself, others have to remind me of what I've become, what I am, and what I can be, and most of all, why did I start this movement in the first place. 

I started my platform to rebel. Against societal norms of weight and diet culture. To deconstruct the stereotypical ideologies of Black woman-ness. To shed the oppression of women in religious forms. 

This video is so bad-ass. So feminist. So full of fat, carefree, Muslim girl-ness. And, I am so proud to be able to create even when I'm broken at times. 

What does this video say to you? What emotions does it evoke? What's the story here? Let's chat. 

Video:  Nicole and Daniela Photography

Song: "Only" by Patrick Baker

Model: @Lvernon2000

Turban: @Hautehijab

Dress: @Societyplus

Jacket: @Eloquii

The Power of Transparency

I wasn’t always so transparent. Growing up I was very quiet. Always in deep thought or some imaginary land. I never said what I was thinking. When I had, my peers thought I was weird.

Then I went through a phase where I spoke a lot more. I was told that I ‘talked too much’ and that I ‘sounded like a broken recorder’. From an early age, I found out that adults needed to be reminded and that most of them lacked accountability. And, if I wanted to get things done, I had to be assertive and vocal about my needs.

In my teen years, the person I was inside hadn’t matched the outside. So, I hid within myself. I dove into writing fictional stories, that way I could live vicariously through characters, leaving the real world behind.

Years passed, and I still clung to fictional stories even as an adult. No one would accept me—the real me—if I ever spoke my truths. I’d get eaten alive by the Islamic communities and the online ones, too. For sure, I thought that no one wanted to hear anything other than what famous blogger I met in New York or what I wore that day or what lipstick I was wearing. They couldn’t possibly want to hear the ugly truths about my life. Why would they want my stories to taint the beautiful aesthetics of social media?

Location: Assemble Sound (Detroit)

For years, I posted what I thought people wanted to see. They liked my fashion. Not me as a real-life person. A human being who struggled with her husband or mental illness or eating disorders. A person who struggled with a Muslim identity, a Black identity in a Eurocentric-crazed society.

One time, I posted something about body insecurities. I didn’t go into full detail or anything. I just gave Instagram a snippet into an ongoing problem in my life. Women began commenting about their own body issues, just openly sharing their stories and praising me for being honest. My inbox was flooded with more stories about the hardships of being a fat woman and how my photos gave them hope.

Even then, that wasn’t enough to get me to completely come out of my shell. I was still very much so a ‘style blogger’ who kinda-sorta talked about body stuff.

I get asked a lot how am I so comfortably transparent about my life, on the internet and in person. Especially with the rise of hardcore trolling and judgmental-ness of peers. And the fact that I am in a fat, Black Muslim body that is constantly policed more so than my counterparts. I can’t tell you how I started to become more transparent on the ‘Gram’, but I know for a fact it was in small doses at first. I didn’t just jump out there like HEY! THIS IS ME!

No. No. No. Rome wasn’t built in a day, y’all. Nor is self-discovery and acceptance.

Dress: Fashion to Figure

But, on some real shit, the tipping point for me was the divorce. I most definitely 100% used the marriage as an excuse to ‘not say certain things’ that could embarrass him or the façade of perfection that he tried so hard to attain.

I felt like half a person when I wrote or shared things. Always keeping him in the back of my head. Is this appropriate? Would he be mad? Is this Islamically pleasing for me to say or post?

Transparency was a no-no. And it hurt me greatly. To be an artist is to be comfortable and transparent with your work. I was too busy trying to please others and forgot about pleasing myself. I played it safe and suffered for it.

To be transparent about my life, raw with you, the reader, the watcher is therapeutic for me as a writer. To be able to openly live in my truth is so much more rewarding than hiding my oddness. To be able to connect with a person half way across the world from a story, a photo is amazing.

Of course, I got a lot of backlash from my decision to go word-rogue and I have trolls on the daily who harass me. But, the people who I’ve touched and who have touched me through my journey is far greater than any negative thing someone says about me or my spirituality or my body.  

I challenge you to live in your truth and be a little more transparent each day. You never know who will be touched by your truths.  

xoxo,

Leah V  

I Was Called a Whore Because of This Photo

All day, I’ve been blocking Muslims on Instagram. Men, women, and children. Most of them from the Middle-East.

Why? Because a modest instablog, Modestroute, that showcases Muslim women around the world decided to repost one of my photos.

In the photo, I am fully clothed. I have on all black. A faux leather jacket because I’m poor. A shirt and a pair of jeans. I also have on hijab and black lipstick. My fist is balled and in the air and my eyes are closed. I originally posted the photo back in the summer to bring awareness to racial and social injustice. It’s a dope photo. I got like fifteen mosquito bites from standing in the tall grass that day during the shoot.

Instead of people liking the photo or just scrolling past my Black face and my fat body, they went into attack mode. Swarming not only the photo on Modestroute’s page but on my personal page. “This is haram,” a Muslim man posted.

“Sorry, but how is this modest?” another user asked.

“She’s gorgeous, but she can cover up more,” said a Muslim girl who hadn’t worn hijab in her profile photo.

“Muslim??? Feminist??? Make up??? Wallahi end of times is NEAR!!!” one person exclaimed.

One user argued, “Her clothes are more modest than many other Muslim girls out there. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t represent Muslims,” a girl said. If I hadn’t represented a real Muslim woman then who was I at all?  

On my personal page, the jabs were worse. Users sought out photos and trolled in the comment sections. They said: I should cover my body for the sake of Allah (swt), what I wore wasn’t proper hijab, I was even called a whore and shaitan (devil), and that I couldn’t possibly be Muslim. The last comment hurt most of all. That my Islam was so deeply rooted by what I chose to wear…or not wear.

I blocked so many folks that I lost count.

I’ve written about this before, but I am so very tired of having to validate my Islam. I’m tired of the ‘are you Muslim’ question when clearly ‘Muslim Feminist’ is stated in my bio. I’m tired of Arab-speaking Muslims treating me as if I don’t know the rules of Islam because I’m Black, asking me if I celebrate Ramadan or if I know the Al-Fatiha by heart. Clapping like I’m some kind of circus monkey when I reply yes. Why isn’t just me saying that I’m Muslim enough? When did we move into an era where we have to prove our closeness with Allah (swt) or spirituality? And, why do some Muslims feel the need to be super-Muslim and correct every wrong and cross every T? I feel like we are in a time where everyone is an internet mufti accredited by Sheik Google.

Guess what? I know the rules of proper hijab as stated in the holy book, but I choose not to do it. I choose to wear tight jeans and leggings and turbans and lipstick and nail polish. That’s what I choose to do. And that is my ultimate choice how outwardly Muslim I’d like to look. That choice doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim. I’m sorry to burst your Islamic bubble. I don’t go around harassing Muslims who choose to wear abayas or niqab just because I don’t wear it. Nor do I judge them solely based on what they wear or how they wear it. Newsflash: there are bad Muslims who wear modest clothing. There are bad Muslims who have full beards. There are bad Muslims all around the world. Just like there are bad people all around the world.

When we get down to the root of Islam, there is a way to guide a Muslim to the straight path or correct a wrong. Bashing someone on the internet is far, far away from it. You are not helping me dress more modestly. You are not helping me strengthen my spirituality or faith. You are harming yourself, because who knows, you may end up dealing with a similar situation.

We are so worried about appearances of Muslim women and girls that we forget what Islam is all about. The outer appearance is only a small portion of our belief system. Islam encompasses all levels of spirituality from low to high, and we all struggle with different trials. I may struggle with dress and another may struggle with speech and another with greed.  

Should we all just start calling each other haram? Should we all begin trolling one another? Maybe we should check our intentions and understand that there is much more to a Muslim than his/her way of dress.

XOXO,

Leah V 

A REAL Beauty Campaign

I talk a lot about representation of real bodies and faces in the media and especially in beauty advertisements.

I challenge you to open a magazine or check out the Instagram feed of your favorite makeup or beauty line and tell me what you see... Thin white women and thin racially ambiguous models.

Fat girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Black girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Dark-skinned girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Muslim girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. So, why aren’t we being represented? Why aren’t we being shown as equal or as beautiful as our lighter skinned counterparts?

I was glad to work with an all-girl team of students from @ccs_detroit on this inclusive mock beauty ad for @milkmakeup Many times, we talk about change but don’t put in the work. They have to listen if we speak louder. Our budget was damn near none, but we are passionate about changing the narrative of unrealistic beauty standards.

If you like it, SHARE it. If you feel what I’m saying, COMMENT. If you know someone who needs to see this, SHOW them. MiLK Makeup: Intergalactic Glow Stick on the cheeks, Eye Pigment, and Lip Metal

Videographer: @elysemarcinkowski

MUA: @ilamindell

Stylist/Model: @lvernon2000

Looking Back On 2017

I can’t believe that I made it. For a long time, I hadn’t thought that I could.

Many of you who have followed my blog or my Instagram feed or even know me in real life understand that 2017 was filled with high highs and the lowest of lows. Having to navigate the world as a freshly divorced Muslim woman who was left with zero. Zilch. After ten years. Separating myself from toxic family members. Being dragged into bullshit by supposed friends, trolled by Muslims, and fatshamed by strange men who knew nothing of me when my dance video went semi-viral.

It has been an emotional rollercoaster to say the least.

As I sit on my bed with two pillows propped behind my back and under two old blankets, I am reminded of 2017 and all its adventures and struggles.

In January, I was severely depressed. Being only a few months post-divorce, no job or insurance, I had no prospects. It was winter, the sun was barely shining, and I fought to hang on. I was still blogging and trying to restart my YouTube page and look for a low-paying job with two masters. I tried to keep myself busy and took a shot at applying for an artist fellowship. It took me a month to complete the packet. But, I did and submitted it.

Maybe I’d get it and maybe I wouldn’t.

Things were quiet. I had to sit with myself. Figure out who I was and what I was made of.

During the silence, I’d cry when I thought about what was done to me. What I’d been through. I started to get spiritual because it was the only thing that was going to save me. My life was spiraling out of control.

I told myself that if I was to come into any money, I was going to book a trip somewhere in the world.

Shades: Alley & Eye

I’d hurt my knee in 2014 at work and the job treated me so badly, claiming because I was fat was the reason why I got hurt when clearly a patient attacked me on camera and I ended up falling over a chair.

My lawyer called me and after three years, they finally wanted to settle. Although they screwed me mostly and my lawyer took almost half, I had money to last five months. I decide to book my trip and live off the rest and try to pursue my creative career.

I was so scared to book the trip to London and Paris. I’d never been overseas by myself before. I called all my friends who traveled, just freaking out. They were just like book the damn tickets and stop trying to control everything. I booked the tickets and almost threw up. Every day, I regretted booking the flights, but there was no going back.

That trip was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done in my life. I didn’t know what to expect and took everything moment by moment. Hell, I didn’t even have a working phone. I relied on strangers and my own intuition to get me through. I modeled (without an agent) for large companies, got my wallet stolen in Brixton, got lost a thousand times, I went on a date, I ate sushi, and semi-hitchhiked with a Russian. I made connections and I challenged myself like never before.

I came back refreshed and ready to take on the remainder of the year. During that time, I wrote another book. I’d written three books before this one, but they were all Sci-Fi. This was the first book about my life. I started with a story about being a poor fat kid growing up as the only Black Muslim in the neighborhood. Then the other stories began to spill out of me. The real story about my divorce, Mom’s mental illness, and my body image issues.

Musings of a Fat, Black Muslim was written in three months. I didn’t seek representation for it because I was running out of money and needed to look for a job. So, I put my project away. Many months were wasted filling out apps and sending my resume to hundreds of companies and not one responded.

I was being tested and failing miserably.

Skirt: Simply Be

A few gigs rolled my way and I was able to work with Go Red for Women on a social media campaign about body positivity and health, flown to New York to do a video about Muslim women for Conde Nast, and then hosted the Allied Media Conference’s opening ceremony at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

June rolled around and although I was gaining momentum, I still hadn’t found a stable job.

I started to have very bad anxiety attacks. Like the ones that come out of nowhere. Like the kind where you think you’re going to die because your heart is beating so fast and it feels like a heart attack. And, usually they’d come every once in a while, but they started coming like several times a day. I tried all the techniques and they weren’t letting up. I became severely depressed.

I was quitting everything. The blogging. The modeling. The writing. I shouldn’t have gotten a divorce; I should’ve stayed with his emotionally abusive ass because I hadn’t deserved anything better. I wasn’t shit. My work wasn’t shit. I was a fraud. But, most of all, I was alone.

Withdrawing from close friends, they tried to call, and I ignored them. I was a dark cloud and didn’t want to be bothered. No one could help me, I thought. Finally, my friend called again. I answered. She invited me to the mosque for dinner, it was free, and it was Ramadan. I was broke, so I went.

I sat down at the table as they chatted, happily. The plate in front of me went cold. Their attention went to me. They asked if I was okay. I wasn’t. They tried to help, and I started crying. My one friend ushered me to the bathroom. I told her about the depression and anxiety attacks. She allowed me to cry on her shoulder. I asked her what was I supposed to do? What had God wanted me to do? I didn’t have anything left to give.

“You are not lazy. You put in the work. I see you putting in the work. You’ve gotta let go and give it to him. You’re not in control. Let it go,” she said.

Her words swirled around my head that night. The next morning, I woke up with the heaviness that had plagued me for the last few months gone.

A few days later, the Kresge Foundation emailed me and told me that I had won the Gilda Award, which came with a $5,000 grant, beating out 750 applicants.

I didn’t plan on crying on stage in front of a room full of white people when I accepted the award. I planned on gracefully showing how I appreciative I was. The tears I shed were ones of gratefulness. That for once, I’d been deemed as a prolific writer when not too long ago, I wouldn’t even dare to call myself a writer let alone a creative.   

After the Gilda award, I bought a ticket to LA (where I hope to reside one day) and booked a few modeling gigs and met up with the Movers and Shakers. I went to the beach and laid there in a polka-dot two-piece and an Amber Rose cut. Listening to the waves as I soaked up the rays. I started crying again because my broke-ass had been blessed to make it to LA on a coach ticket and find a couch to sleep on.

As the summer winded down, I got a chance to work with Adidas Originals on their EQT launch, I was invited to do several video projects with the city of Detroit, I dropped a body-positive dance video that was viewed by over 200,000 folks and was featured nationally and internationally on CBS, CBS, Cosmopolitan, Buzzfeed, Bustle, and Teen Vogue (just to name a few). I was on local news! I was flown out to the University of Ottawa to talk about feminism and being Black and being fat. I was just featured in Elle Magazine. Yes, the hard copy.

And, the biggest accomplishment was that I was able to shop my memoir around. I sent my book proposal out to 100 agents in the matter of days. My fingers hurt from sending out all those emails. About twelve agents responded. Most of them offered me representation on the spot. On my 30th birthday, I was officially represented by a literary agency in New York. I one-day hope to see my fat ass face on the shelves of your local book store.

I never knew any of this was possible. And, I surely didn’t think my life would take this route, but I am so hopeful about the coming year.

Although, I’m still broke and figuring out how to make a living as an artist, a true artist that is transparent and raw and real, I know that my followers, my friends, and select family members will hold me down. I will hold me down.

My grandmother passed away last week, and we just laid her to rest. She was an avid reader, was photogenic, and loved makeup and fashion, like me. She was a pillar and the backbone of our family. Although, she had her quirks, like every other human, I’m here because of her. She even named me when I was born.

I have no choice but to go forward now. To push twice as hard as I have this year. To do the best I can to continue to show beauty where the media tries to hide it. To advocate for the little voices, the underrepresented, the folks that get shitted on daily. To push unconditional love and acceptance and equality of the sexes. Body positivity. Eradication of Islamaphobia and fatphobia.

To be the fattest, Blackest, Muslim with the loudest voice and the most contoured face you’d ever seen in your entire life.

2018 is gonna be litty.

xoxo,

Leah V

Dating in a Fatphobic World

There’s been many, many fat activists and body-positive folks responding to the topics of dating, finding love, and intimacy while being fat. And, let me tell you, the responses have been ridiculous and the backlash agonizing. Anytime, I post commentary about plus-size dating, the conversation grows long and weary. I mean, dating in general has become trash since the boom of internet faux-ness, where you can get anything and everything in the matter of a few clicks, but dating for straight-size versus plus-size is very different.  

When I got divorced, I went on a dating frenzy. Like, I had something to prove. I had never been boy-crazy prior to my marriage, but something about asserting my sexuality after years of being repressed was attractive to me. It became a sick obsession.

I had four dating apps in rotation. I’d spend hours swiping to the left or swiping to the right. I was on them so much, that I started to see some of the same guys on different apps. At a few points, I came upon the profiles of a friend’s ex and dudes I worked with in real life. So, if I saw them then they had to have seen me. And although embarrassing, it hadn’t deterred me from having seventeen separate conversations with different dudes in the city.    

I was born in an era with one foot in the age of online dating and one foot out. Basically, I was still a bit clueless on how to navigate them. I thought the guys on the other end were like me. Just wanting to test the waters and perhaps find real companionship. Boy was I wrong.

On my dating profile, I was covered. Like if you were to go on my Instagram account, you’d see the same photos. I mixed in face shots with full body photos. I wasn’t trying to catfish anyone because I wouldn’t want anyone to catfish my ass. I wanted the possible suitor to know that I was, indeed, a fat woman.

The first message I got was a couple trying to have me as their third, as in third wheel, as in a threesome. I politely declined. The following messages would start off with men requesting that I ‘sit on their face’. No hi, hello, or how are you? They’d make disgusting comments about my hips and butt. Some of the white dudes, especially, would objectify my Black body, highlighting the size of my lips and what they’d do to them. I was sent unsolicited dick pics by the dozens. Being asking to send nudes was a common request. I was also fat-shamed by angry users who I wasn’t interested in.

I would tell my smaller friends who were using the same dating apps my stories. They’d shake their heads and tell me that they weren’t getting the same messages. They weren’t having men ask them to sit on their faces or make comments about how big their butt was or any body shaming comments.      

I decided to delete every dating app because I was tired of being reduced to the curves on my body or the thickness of my lips. I decided to do some research on dating while fat and found so much stuff. I was not alone in my struggle. Women shared stories about being hidden away by their boyfriends because of their weight, being oversexualized and objectified based on the shape of their body, being fat-shamed, called names like pig and fat bitch when they declined sex or dates.

For women online who were plus-sized bloggers who dated or married a muscular or a socially ‘attractive’ man, trolls would leave nasty comments about how could someone so fat be with a fit guy, or he’s only using you for sex, or that’s impossible for him to actually love her.  

So, according to the census, fat women don’t deserve love, their bodies are only reduced to an object only used for pleasing sexually, and no one who is socially attractive should ever want a fattie.

Kimono: Black Lace Boutique

Before, I go any further I want to give folks who indulge in fatphobia a few facts:

Fat people are human beings. Stop asking fat people to hide themselves. We are allowed to take up as much space as we want. Don’t worry about why fat people are fat. Do you worry about why skinny people are skinny? You are not a physician. Clearly, you aren’t smart enough. Fat people deserve love. Fat people deserve intimacy. If you like fat women, that’s okay. Stop allowing your friends to dictate who you love. Stop being a coward and enjoining in fatphobic rhetoric when you truly don’t feel that way. And, lastly fat people aren’t fetishes.  

By no means am I saying that smaller women and men don’t get picked on or objectified, but we don’t experience mass skinny-phobia were a model has loads of trolls under her photos saying things like omg, she’s just so small, is she even healthy? Is she anorexic? Why doesn’t she just eat a sandwich? She’s so ugly, who’d want to be that thin?  

Instead we see comments praising her, we say that her body is bodygoals, we demean our own bodies, and skip a meal, we show our little girls that skinny is good and fat is bad. That if she is thin, she will be deserving of intimacy and love and money and beauty, but if she is big that she should go hide behind ill-fitting clothes and shrink herself. That she should just be happy with any man who deals her any ole kind of attention. That she shouldn’t strive for better because of the shape of her natural hips or the hugeness of her breasts and stomach.      

Stop allowing men to body-shame you. Nip it in the bud every time, so that the next time he approaches a big girl he’ll know what’s up. Stop allowing thin privilege to shrink you. You do not have to be skinny to live your best life. Stop teaching your little boys and girls that they don’t deserve to take up space. Teach them to be healthy and confident at any size.  

It’s time we nipped fatphobia in the bud.

Xoxo,

Leah V  

Reclaiming Time and Taking Up Space

This week has been very interesting. Well, this entire year has been interesting to say the least. I’ve learned much about setting boundaries, cutting off dead-weight friends and family who are clueless to that fact, not accountable for their actions, and high-key jealous. I’ve learned about drive, about pushing one’s self to the outer limits, where few people go. Fear of success and fear of loneliness. I’ve especially learned the two biggest lessons of them all: reclaiming my time and taking up space.

Last year, I remember asking myself, how can I top last year? How can I make my photoshoots better? My wardrobe fiercer? My voice louder? How can I be more authentic, raw, helpful? Although, I thought I was woke, I was only semi-woke because I hadn’t thought outside the box. Many of us think that we’re thinking so big, but are we really? Whatever you think could happen, could go so much farther, bigger. And, I hadn’t known this until I got to work with Adidas Originals and was flown to Canada by the University of Ottawa. All expenses paid.

Jacket Courtesy of Addition Elle

I want to talk about reclaiming time (thanks Auntie Maxine!). Now, we all know that you can’t actually reclaim time. When time is up, it’s gone, and you can never, ever get it back. With this fact, why the fuck do people waste so much of it? And, why do folks allow others to waste theirs? We have women who stay with men who verbally abuse them, treat them like shit on a stick, and they stay. Wasting good, vital years on a human who doesn’t even value their time. We have people who allow their family to belittle them, offer surface conversation, hurt feelings, and steal more of their time. Same thing with a dead-end job, how much time are they claiming from you?

Unfortunately, we can’t maximize every moment of every second of the day, and we will have to, at some point, engage in time wasted, but it’s up to you as to how much of your time you waste.

“I’ve wasted almost a decade,” I complained to my sister when I got divorced. “Do you know what I could’ve done with all that time?”

She replied, “You didn’t waste any time. You learned a lesson.”

“What did I learn?” I whined.

“Well, you learned what you don’t want in life.”

And, she was right. I did learn a great deal about what I wanted, what I needed, and what I hadn’t wanted ever again.

Do you ever meet up with someone or go to an event, and wondered why you even wasted your time going? Stop doing that. Reclaim your time. Stop doing things that you feel are going to make other people happy. Stop indulging in activities that you don’t want to do. Stop being friends with that girl that you really don’t mesh with anymore or that dude you feel inclined to be with just because. You are not doing yourself a favor. You are merely passing time, wasting time that could be spent on developing you.

I, honestly, feel bad for people like that. People who only have connections just to say they do or only going because ABC, but have no real interest in it. They aren’t really living life. Life is living them.

I used to be that person. Outwardly, I’d have a hard smile plastered on my face, but inside I was bored, dead, unenthusiastic. Why was I trying to be someone that I wasn’t? Why was I wasting time on relationships that clearly weren’t going to develop into anything but surface shit?

After being hurt by individuals who I tried to please for many, many years, I made a pact with myself. I was going to reclaim my time and only speak to people I was interested in, who I vibed with and do things that I liked to do. No more pretending to fit into this group or be cool with that group. Fuck that! In addition to my ‘fuck that’ moment, I was going to allow myself to take up space. Which meant that I was going to shine at my brightest watt without a care as to who was blinded by it.

For most of my circle, they accepted the Leah V who was changing, being more comfortable in her skin. For others, they started to hold resentment and dropped off like flies, which is fine, because that frees up space for better people to occupy. And, it has.

Sometimes, I get weirded out by all the folks that support me. It takes time getting used to. I’m a traumatized Black girl from Detroit with a trash family and a messy divorce that gets me mad from time to time, so when someone reaches out and is like ‘I got you’, it never ceases to amaze me.    

Give yourself the time and ability to reclaim your time and take up space.

xoxo,

Leah V

On the Verge of Quitting

Well, this is quite embarrassing. But, what’s ego nowadays? For the last few months, I’ve known this day was coming. The day where I ran out of grant money and maxed out of a few credit cards just to stay afloat.

I’m a 30-year-old woman with multiple degrees and face plastered on the internet having to beg for money.

I laid in bed, in the dark, trying to crunch the numbers. What can you possibly do to make a quick buck to cover next month’s bills? I could sell my plasma as I had done years before when I was at the bottom of the barrel. Yeah, I almost passed out a few times and the huge needles left scars on my arms but at least you had gas money. I thought about sex work. I could make an incognito Tumblr page. No one would know if I sold a few ‘butt’ pics to some scum dude living in a basement. Although, I’m not technologically smart enough to cover my tracks and not be exposed as ‘Leah V, Muslim Blogger Sells Nudes’. I could start taking on clients that I’ve recently denied and sell my readers and supporters shit like Flat Tummy Tea, bundles of Brazilian weave, waist trainers, teeth whitening kits, and miracle creams.

Just for the money.

Basically, I’d have to change up my entire brand just to make money. How stupid of me to think that I could possibly be an organic content creator, keep it real, and not go commercial, and still pay my phone bill.

I don’t want to sell you guys (gals) stuff that I wouldn’t buy. I don’t want to sell you pipe dreams. I want to keep my blog organic and helpful and my social media a safe place for us to congregate and speak our truths, but honestly, I can’t maintain this.

I’m crying as I write this because I shouldn’t be asking for money. I should maybe have a paid off home, a nice husband who doesn’t cheat, and a family that supports me. I should maybe have a job with insurance and a 401k and a savings account. I should have two sane parents that tell me that everything is going to be okay and that they got my back.

I don’t have any of those luxuries. I’m on my own in every way possible. And, I don’t have a choice but to figure out a way. Hustle.

“Leah V has been on all these websites and magazines, I don’t believe she doesn’t have money.”

Let’s dispel that myth. Just because you are Insta-Famous doesn’t mean that you are capitalizing off of it. How many people have gone viral and are still living in their mom’s basement? Social media attention does not equate cash flow.

I have NEVER made a penny off my blog. Why? I don’t believe in forcing ads on people. I don’t believe in forcing people to buy clothes they don’t want. I don’t believe that art always has to be turned into some capitalist system. I want my blog to be a place where people go for inspiration because they want to.

I don’t make money modeling. I don’t have the luxury of living in LA or NY where modeling gigs pay. I live in Detroit. They don’t pay models here. You get the photos and that’s it.

I give out free advice and consultation. All the knowledge I have and built and created is worth something. I must not know my worth because I give out free advice all the time. I give of myself free all the time. I help people build their brands, for free. I help people gain self-confidence, for free. And, I’m not saying this to make you feel bad or to make you feel like I was doing all of this for some ulterior motive, but I’m on the brink of quitting.

I cannot sustain myself by doing free or volunteer work any longer. I cannot host events for free. I cannot be on panels for free. I cannot blog for free or consult with you for free.

As my bills pile up, as the collectors call my phone, I am angered that I am giving so much and receiving so little. Do I not value myself enough to charge? Why do I have to hit rock bottom before I start to value myself and my work?

I’m an artist first and a business person last. I have a need to create and share my art, my work with you, the world. And, although I want to quit and say F it all, I will always find a way to create.

So, will you help me continue to create?

Instead of sex work or selling bodily organs, I came up with a campaign that I’m launching right now.

I’m selling ‘10’ spots of 1 on 1 sessions. We’ll call it “Chats with Leah V”.

In this 30-minute session, you can pick my brain, ask me questions about branding, building social media platforms, how to break into modeling, networking, content creation, fashion, style, body-image, mentorship, or you can just talk to me for half an hour about whatever you want. It’s your time.

I’m charging $99 per session.

All the proceeds will go to paying off my credit card bills, creating new content, rent, tissue, food, and toothpaste and gas in my car, etc…   

So, email me Leahjvernon@gmail.com or Paypal the $99 fee to lock in your session because I’m only doing ten to start.  

I just made a Patreon account, where readers like yourself can also donate $1 to $200 monthly. Some awesome goodies are attached to those donations.

And, if you just want to help a sister out, you can either Venmo (@LeahV) or PayPal (Leahjvernon@gmail.com) me a donation, so I can keep going, stay afloat and stop crying because I can’t pay my bills.

Support the arts and the artists that make it possible.

Paypal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon