Instagram Trolls: Body Shaming and Beyond

I shot this video last year and because I hate editing and it takes me so many hours, I just finished it and decided to post for your viewing pleasure. I've been getting tons of hate messages in my DMs as well as on my body-positive Instagram page. So, I thought I'd share the best of the best of body-shaming troll comments. We are taking something bad and having a little bit of fun with it :p

What's the meanest comment you've ever received online or IRL? Let's chat.

And, don't forget to follow me @ Lvernon2000 on Instagram for my latest fashion and body-posi updates :)

xoxo,

Leah V

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Growing up, I went from being very outspoken to quiet and withdrawn to being kinda sorta outspoken to shutting up and only saying the ‘right’ things to where I am now.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

Accepting My Body As It Is

My body has done some pretty amazing things lately. I mean, some things that I’d never thought it would do. It breathes for me when I sleep. It’s able to do an hour of cardio without stopping. It has allowed me to successfully complete a five-city college speaking tour. And, yeah, in between those good times, it’s been achy, moody, and fatigue, but it still pushes even when I’ve given up.

Do you ever take the time to appreciate your body?

There was a time for me when I hadn’t. I fully underestimated my body, my self. I fully allowed others to dictate how I viewed it, how I treated it. I policed its every move to the point of self-harm and self-hatred. I loathed everything about it. The way it spoke, the way it awkwardly moved and hid itself in the shadows of beautiful, thin people. How the light drained from it once I stepped on a scale and saw that the first number started with a 3 instead of a 1. The ‘you shouldn’t eat that’ and the ‘you shouldn’t wear that’ crumbled me to the point of extinction.

I couldn’t find one part of me that was acceptable, beautiful, worthy. What a cruel life to live. Walking around like an insecure shell of a human. That was me. For many years. An empty vessel filled with worthlessness.

How many of us are walking around like that right now? With our heads down, scanning the internet for #Thinspo and #BodyGoals. In search of the next quick fix DIE-t plan and flat tummy tea. Scrolling aimlessly through a Kardashian’s feed, pinpointing all the spots of skin with no stretch marks and wishing our thigh gaps could be as wide. Adding seventeen different filters to a selfie that we took out of a hundred selfies that all look the same. Swipe left. Swipe right. Swipe left. Swipe right. That’s my better angle. Hiding double chins and smoothing out cellulite from an app we paid 2.99 for. Comparing ourselves to the perky-breasted super-model on the cover flap of a popular magazine without knowledge that she has an entire team to make her look so ‘picture perfect’.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I, too, have fallen into the media trap where I’d fallen so deep that I couldn’t get up. One perfect page leads to the next perfect page and I’ve found myself comparing and contrasting my body to hers. Wishing I could have some of what she had. This perfect Insta-Model has got it all. And, I had nothing at all. Why had she been so lucky?

One day, I decided to not compare myself to others. Well, not completely, but much less. It’s humanly impossible to not compare. Less is better.

One day, I asked myself what if I loved and appreciated my body how it was in that exact moment? What if I worked on being healthy and strong and built my endurance, instead of weighing myself twice a day and starving to the point of migraines? What would it look like to accept my body as is?

I hadn’t known what it looked like because I’d never seen it before. But, I was willing to try.

I started with looking in the mirror instead of passing them by. Avoiding them. I started dancing in public. Instead of dancing on the sidelines, I moved to the middle where the action was. I became less aware of my jiggly parts. Thin bodies hadn’t jiggled. So, I was always conscious about my folds moving when I moved. That had to stop. I took selfies and I posted them. I tackled my insecurities head on and exploited them instead of hiding them. I told people to look at the parts that I tried so hard to hide. I claimed those parts, no matter how upsetting they were.

Why had they upset me so much in the first place? Because they hadn’t fit into the mold of traditional beauty? My jiggly parts, my spaced teeth, large forehead, wide-set toes, and hip pockets weren’t considered beautiful. They were very much so the opposite attributes of beauty that we seen growing up.

I hated myself because everyone told me to.

But, I had a choice. And, I chose to live life with my body as it was.

Many of times we go on these rants and raves about finding the answers to life’s questions. We go on these quests to figure out the root of our happiness. When the answer is always within us. It’s there the entire time. We just have to go through the process of internal self-discovery. And, that means making the choice to do something different. Making the choice to pull ourselves out of the loop. To view it from a different angle.

xoxo,

Leah V

Blogging 101: Finding Your Niche, Building Content, and Tackling Instagram

Last week, I made up my mind to stop reaching out to companies and universities. The rejection was just too much and clearly, I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur. I planned on redoing my resume and looking for a ‘real’ job. Which is hard in itself. People aren’t hiring like that here in Detroit. I’m overqualified and they would surely underpay a creative Black girl with two masters degrees.

My heart sank as I lost a little of myself.

Last night, my sisters told me that the knowledge I have is valuable. And that I’ve worked my ass off to build a platform. She said that I give myself for free and ask for nothing in return.

Last month, I asked God, the universe to tell me what to do with tears strolling down my face. My question wasn’t answered. I contemplated doing many things that had no good in it. Things that I’d probably regret later on...

Sometimes, the answers are within us, in front of us. But, we don’t stay quiet long enough to listen.

I’ve never thought of myself as an entrepreneur. Although, I’ve always wanted to be one. So, I’m trying one more time...I won’t be working on my resume to make a random company rich. Instead, I’m launching my own. I’m launching a Blogger 101: Building an Online Presence Webinar and compiled information from how to find your niche, building an online community, social media algorithms to get your work seen, as well as reaching out to companies for collaborations.

All night, I’ve been pouring years of mistakes and lessons I wish I was told and had to learn about building an online community and social media into a legit blogging webinar. I couldn’t even fit all the knowledge into one session! I want to make this a thing y’all! I’m scared. But, I’m hopeful that you trust me to guide you in your journey of getting your business or your craft or message out there.

So, I’m gonna start with 20 spots. And, I’m gonna push until those 20 are filled this week. I’m 30 and I’m tired of struggling, negative in my bank account, and bill collectors.

Support small Black, Muslim, and female owned businesses. That’s so important right now.

So, Blogging 101: Finding Your Niche, Building Valuable Content, and Tackling Instagram is NOW available.

-One Hour Live Session (Skype/Google Hangouts)

-Topics: Utilizing social media to build your brand, what you need to start, finding your market, and unlocking Instagram’s algorithm to get your work viewed by thousands, and more...

Price: 99$ to the first 10 folks to sign-up and after that, 149$

This is not just for bloggers! It's for anyone who has a service, product, brand, and/or non-profit that they want to get out into the open. If you want to grow your business, online presence, and get your work/services seen or heard, then this webinar is for you.

*Webinar open to all countries* 

Thank you in advance for supporting a fat, Black, and very Muslim entrepreneur from Detroit. 

Purchase Webinar Here: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/BeautyandtheMuse/100

XOXO, 

Leah V 

Stop Calling Women Selfish Because They Choose Birth Control

It really kills me how Muslims can be so judgmental. And, I’m not saying that ‘other’ people aren’t. Trust me they are, but because I’m very much so Muslim, we’re going to speak about that demographic right now.

Do you know how I know that the ‘haram police’ is so judgy? I used to be on the payroll. I was the girl who still maintained her virginity past the age of 13, never took off my hijab, never dated, smoked weed. Ha! Heck no. Weed was wack. And, if you smoked it you clearly were destined to dwell within the fiery pits of hell.

We grew up in a family where my mother only fed us halal meats, read the holy book to us when we woke up and right before we went to sleep (yup, the devil had to be creeping somewhere in the closet), and we weren’t allowed to watch anything over a PG-13 rating and even that was pushing it. We had to close our eyes if there were kissing scenes, and she’d fast forward any music with curse words in it. A man dressed in women’s clothing on TV? She’d turn it off completely. Magazines with Britney Spears in short-shorts, a no-no. She bought us magazines like National Geographic instead, stating it was more ‘educational’.

When I turned 19, I moved out. Her world had become overbearing and controlling.

Society had quickly let me know that the world was not as it was back at home and that judgmental shit had to be tossed immediately.

Although, I was out of Mom’s house, I still hung around a lot of Muslims and their parents. Their parents were judgmental in the wrong kinds of ways. Most of the parents were hypercritical when it came to other people’s kids and their daughters. If they had a son, they could basically be spotted in a strip club making it rain on someone’s ass and it’d be given 99 excuses plus one. But, let it be a daughter and she’s damned to hell forever.

Of course, this trickled down to the Muslim children. They ranged from middle-grade judgy to Muslim parent judgy.  

Shortly after moving on my own, I went to the doctor and requested birth control. I knew for a fact that I didn’t want to have a trillion kids like a lot of the Muslim women had in the community. Most of those women hadn’t held a job, was overly-dependent on their cheating ass husbands to pay the bills, hadn’t had anything past a high-school diploma (if that), they weren’t traveling to faraway lands or experiencing the wonders of life. A lot of them became career mothers, usually pregnant every other year.

Cheers to people who loooooooove having buckets of kids…that just wasn’t me.   

My friends are I were chatting on the couch and pregnancy came up. Someone had gotten pregnant. Again.  

“I’m 99.9 percent sure that I’m covered,” I joked.

“What do you mean?” Someone asked.

“Well, I’m on birth control now.”

By the facial expressions, you’d think I just tossed a cat out the window.

I got everything from ‘that’s not permissible in Islam’, ‘That’s unnatural’, ‘You won’t ever be able to have a child’, and ‘that’s what women are made for’.

I sat there and took the verbal abuse because that’s exactly what it was. Why was I selfish because I wanted to take control of my body? I mean, God gave me MY body. Not them or not my husband at the time. Why were they so adamant on policing my reproductive system in the name of Islam?

Years passed and I was still regularly on birth control. I’d get asked, “Why don’t you have any kids yet?”

My usual responses: because I don’t want to be a mom or I have no money or I’m pursing an education.

None of which were the correct answers for men and women alike. Every time the topic came up, I’d get shunned, told that it wasn’t Islamic, that I was poisoning my body. I’d go to my gynecologist in fear of infertility. And every time, she’d assure me that I’d be fine.

There was one time in particular this older Muslim lady asked my husband (ex) why we hadn’t had kids. He said something clever as to not expose me.

“Because I’m on birth control and when God wants us to have one, we’ll have one,” I said loudly. "Maybe I'll have a Jesus baby..."

She cut her eyes at me and pulled him away. I was shocked when I heard her telling him that she could help find him a wife that’d give him a child…

The last straw was when a friend told me that I was selfish for being on birth control because lots of women are infertile.

“Those pills are poison,” she huffed.

At that point, I’d had it. “So, the prescribed painkillers that you asked me for yesterday aren’t poison?”

Vicodin is okay but birth control is not… Things that make you go hmmm.

Over the years, I’ve gotten shit from both sides for my responsible decision to protect my body from multiple foreign invaders. Babies. I can barely afford rent or my car note. Ugh? How much does a kid cost again? *Counts loose change*

The very people that sit around shaming women for utilizing birth control are men who have multiple kids that they barely take care of, women who have used abortion as their form of birth control instead of just getting on actual birth control, and closed-minded individuals who like to hear themselves talk. Everybody wants to be a Google Gynecologist instead of focusing on themselves.

You are not selfish for wanting to be on birth control. Or not to be on it. You are not less than another Muslim. It’s your body, your choice.   

And, I really believe that this is a topic that should be more openly discussed in the Muslim community and not just shunned and told not to do. And, no I don’t mean a panel of Muslim men ‘man-splaining’ it, but women talking to other women and discussing the choices that Muslim women and girls have the right to have and make.

I can’t sit here and tell you that it’s permissible in Islam. But, Muslims like to pick and choose what they go against. They like to pick and choose what sin is worse than another. Which sin is more ‘acceptable’. That’s not how this works.

As a Muslim, my goal is to please Allah (swt) not man.

So, I’m sorry but not really sorry. I’m a firm believer in birth control as well as my right to make that decision, and I’ll stay on it until I feel the time is right to have (or not have) children.

XOXO,

Leah V

I'm LIVE! Art Detroit Ep 2

In the summer, i had the opportunity to shoot with host, Sheila Grant from the City of Detroit's new segment called 'Art Detroit'. 

I was really nervous, but it turned out really, really good. This 9-min video will also air on Detroit Comcast Cable Network on channel 21 (if you live in the city and want the exact times just comment below). 

I encourage you to watch and comment on the video. Let the City of Detroit know that they took a step in the right direction by highlighting a Muslim artist in the city! 

Let me know what you think *Squeals*

xoxo,

Leah V

One-Year Divorce Anniversary

I knew this day was coming. Just not so soon. I remember the moments. All of the moments leading up to the day where I would no longer be a wife, but a divorcee. A branded woman. Someone with more baggage than she already had. Someone that men would try to come at now because she was fresh out of a situation to see who could claim the floating prize. Tame me.

All have tried. Not one succeeded.

When I was living with my ex during the divorce process, I used to sit in the backroom, that was once our room, alone. At this point, I’d made him retreat to the lumpy couch. That was the least of his punishment for doing what he’d done, was still doing.

On said couch, he used to talk to other bitches on Facetime. Yes, I said bitches. Because that’s what a woman is when she knowingly enters into a relationship with a man whose married.

He’d have his little earbuds in, giggling and laughing at the side girl’s jokes.

I wanted to laugh, too.

I knew it was a female because of the way the tone of his voice changed. It was the same way he used to speak to me when we were young and in love. When he was trying to semi-court me. Before I just became a waste of ten years. Something disposable. A working vagina to him.

I’d lay in bed with only the thin door separating the both of us and not cry. He’d made me cry so much in the first few days of the initial process that I had used my allotted number of tears for the entire year. So, I’d NOT cry in the dark. I just laid there as he giggled with some other lady that was taking my place and thought about how fucked up that was. How fucked up that I thought I was safe from being cheated on like the rest of the women in my family and friend circle. That, somehow, I had the magic touch and that a calamity so great would never touch someone like me. How fucked that he could’ve at least gave me the decency of a human being who’d he’d known and grew up with for a decade, been to hell and back, to at least talk to that ‘other woman’ privately at his friend’s house, work, maybe, or his car. The same car that I helped him get that now she’d be driving in.   

It’s safe to say that a year later, I’m still bitter.

And, I don’t mean bitter in a messy way. A way that has me stalking the alleged girl’s Instagram page or calling him late at night or randomly popping up at his mama’s doorstep and beating the first bitch ass that tries me. But bitter in the fact that I feel as though he hadn’t gotten what he deserved. During the divorce, I was too nice. Too understanding. Yeah, I had my moments of complete insanity where I said some really fucked shit, but I didn’t do him like the black women do in the movies. Like my mama had done.  

He forced me to make him lunch. Pack it when he went to work. Wash his clothes. He tried to solicit me for sex, but I told him that I’d rather sleep with a hobo than ever touch him again. Yeah, that’s the kind of stranger that he turned into. An emotionally abusive stranger. I didn’t take his iPad and smash it to smithereens. I didn’t blast him on the internet. I didn’t bust the windows out his car. Bleach his clothes. Toss them on the porch. Harass his family. Harass the new girl. I stayed quiet. I stayed calm. I took the high road. Why? Because he wanted me to wild out, so that he’d have more ammunition to claim that’s why I was the ‘bad guy’. That’s why he did what he did because I couldn’t control my anger. And, I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of being able to talk more shit about me with his knucklehead posse. He’d already spewed enough one-sided lies. Playing the victim as usual.

One day, we were halfway into the divorce proceedings and he was getting ready for work. I was in the kitchen making a meal. Playing house in a house that was burning fast. He sat down and I placed his plate in front of him. I handed him a napkin and then poured him some juice. He looked at me with that awkward smile he had. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re getting divorced,” he began. “You’re being too nice. I’m starting to think you’ve poisoned this food.”

I smiled an uncomfortable smile. At that point, he was a strange man sitting in my kitchen. “All the shit you’ve done to me… If I were going to poison you, I’d have already done it.”

***

Last night, I was scrolling through Instagram since it’s like my very private yet public diary. I went back to the posts of last year around the time I was officially divorced. Officially moved out on my own. Officially confused and stunned. No job, no insurance, or income. Just a bit of savings. He left me with nothing. No alimony. Nothing.

One of the photos, I openly express a looming mental breakdown. On another, I’m celebrating my first Huffington Post feature. On another, I talk about hope. During that week, those following months, I had to pull myself together for photoshoots, for events, and projects. Although, I was going through deep pain and self-hatred, I still had to work and keep my brand going. I still had to blog and work my social media sites. I still had to show my face and let people know that I wasn’t all the way dead. That although I felt like shit, inside was a glimmer of me still in there buried somewhere.

I was told by many divorcees that it’d take me years to get over, completely heal from the trauma of divorce. Having someone there but not anymore. The familiarity being disrupted. The meanness that was so easily given in those last months. I told them all that it wasn’t me. That I was going to bounce back quick. I was going to work twice as hard to not fall into the category of the ‘usual’ damaged divorcee.  

And, I’m not going to lie. I had my days, still do when anger and resentment creeps up. When I have those woe-is-me moments that I just can’t kick. When I ask questions that I will never get the answers to. But, overall, I cannot deny the work that I’ve put in. The glow up that I’ve received one-year post divorce. It would be ungrateful to even skim over that.

I’ve accomplished more than I have creatively and professionally. I’ve been featured in newspapers, magazines, countless blogs and websites. I’ve been flown to NY. Modeled in LA, London, and Paris. I finished my memoir. Landed an agent for said memoir! My book will be on bookstore shelves. Mark my word. You’re witnessing the makings of a NY Times Bestseller. I’ve partnered with large name clothing companies. I won the Gilda Award. I’ve ate good food. Traveled to distant lands. I’ve got lost. Fallen on my face. Lost friends. Explored my body. Gotten stronger.

In twelve short months, I’ve done a lot.

Yes, today is the day that my divorce was finalized, but there is so much more to me than that.

So, here’s to another 12 months of growth, prosperity, and change.

xoxo,

Leah V