Just Dropping In :)

Hello my loves.

I have been sooooo neglectful. Ugh. I have yet another flight in about two hours going to Rhode Island. And, I am excited to visit the landscape, see my mentor who is throwing me a party after my talk, and on top of that I have two photoshoots all in 48 hours. 

Ya girl has been grinding. In the last month, I have been to Texas, New York, Chicago, New Jersey, and will be traveling to two other states for panel discussions and keynotes. 

So, now you know why I've been so in and out. LOL. On top of that I have some projects coming up that I can't wait to share. But, I am always on Instagram. So, if you want to see me everyday then that's the place to find me.  

Shades: DIFF Eyewear + Jacket: Addition Elle + Dress: REBDOLLS 

Hopefully, when the traveling pauses, I will be back to blogging on time. But, in the meantime here are some dope photos to carry you through the week of a fat, Black, and unapologetic Muslim girl being herself and hoping that through her art, her words that you will be, too. 

With the photos, I hope that you start your week off by being gentle with yourself and with others. And, know that if no one tells you this, I will. You are beautiful. You are worthy. You are valuable. You are worth it all. 

xoxo,

Leah V 

F is for Fat

Last week, I was asked to be on a panel discussion for Lululemon for International Women’s Day. It was entitled Worth 100, aiming to highlight the idea that all women should feel worthy and valued, no matter what. I was a bit skeptical about being on the panel, not because it scares the fuck out of me to publicly speak, but because it was hosted by Lululemon. None of their workout gear or t-shirts fit me. Their merchandise doesn’t include people like me. I am not their audience.

I am too fat.

I thought about it and ultimately accepted because if I hadn’t showed my fat face, then who would? Perhaps they’d replace me with a smaller, less Black, and less Muslim counterpart.

Bestie Blogger Friend Ushshi 

I was surprised that among myself were other plus-size women on the panel. There’s a first step for everything, right? Perhaps corporate at Lululemon will see our curvy bodies, hear our plus-size voices, and get the idea that fat women also workout and become a size-inclusive company.

The room was filled. All 100 seats. And, a standing room in the back. The moderator asked each one of us to say three words that described us. There were two people before me. I had a bit of time to possibly change my answer if need be. My initial words were fat, Black, and unapologetic. I looked at the audience. It was mostly filled with straight-size white women. I contemplated switching out ‘fat’ for ‘Muslim’. I knew the word ‘fat’ would cause a Caucasian unrest as it does for many other kinds of people.

I stood up. My stomach churning with IBS issues as I prayed that I wouldn’t shit myself (because that’s a legit fear). I said, “My name is Leah V. And, my three words are fat, Black, and unapologetic.”

Shirt Courtesy of Addition Elle

I heard scattered claps. Some faces remained stoic as their minds scrambled to figure out why in the world would this chick use such negative word to describe herself. I heard one ‘WOO HOO’, which I’m quite sure was my friend, as I smiled and took my seat.

I was going to blow their minds later on.

When people used to call me fat, I’d melt into a puddle. I’d crumble into a million particles and blew away with the wind. The word held so much weight—no pun intended—that it riddled me worthless, not valuable. I’d used to want to crawl into a hole and never emerge until I was perfect and thin. I hurt myself trying to be thin. I was almost thin only once in my life. And it wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was going to be.

Why? Because in my mind, I thought that thin people had more fun. I thought that they frolicked around in daisy fields and were debt-free and could pull any man they wanted. I thought that they were outgoing and smart and nice. That they didn’t have body image issues. That it was just fat people who hated themselves and their bodies.

And, was I ever wrong.

At my smallest weight, I believe I hated myself more during that time than at my heaviest weights. Mind blowing! Yes, I know.

Fast forward back to the panel. Stay with me. LOL.

It was my turn to speak. I told them a little story about why I reclaimed the word ‘fat’. Words only carry as much importance as we allow them to. And, I was tired of people having that much power over how I viewed my body. People—bad people—get off on disarming folks, making them think lowly of themselves. But, what if we could reclaim our power? Take that shit back?

By claiming fat-ness, I am taking back what is mine, rightfully. I am turning a negative into a positive. I am, hopefully, educating people about the word and about our bodies and how we view them.

Fat is a descriptor. Just like smart. Short. Tall. Busty. Brown. Pale.

Yes, I may be fat, but I am so much more. I am Black. Muslim. Obnoxious and impulsive. Loud. Loyal. Cute AF.

Fat isn’t a bad word. Its not forbidden or evil. It doesn’t mean worthlessness or ugliness. It means what it means. Extra rolls, curves, lumps and bumps, plump, and soft.

And, if someone does try to use it on you, or someone you know, negatively, then flip that shit around like I do. Tell em: I am fat, and so much more.

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

Mistaking a Woman's Trauma as Bitterness

It’s been nineteen years since I witnessed the first physical altercation between a man and a woman. Mom and my brother’s dad. Fifteen years since I saw my brother choke one of Mom’s temporary husbands because of yet another domestic dispute. Five years since I, myself, was incarcerated for domestic violence because that boy I used to be married to called me a ‘slut’ for wearing pants. Two and a half years since I was betrayed by him and a bitch at his job who stated he was a ‘good man’. Fourteen months since my messy divorce ended. And, four months since I saw him parading around the local mosque like an idiot, putting on a show for my family.   

I counted in the dark last night before I drifted off to sleep.

“Men are trash,” I said to my two closest friends.

The phrase that I’ve been living by for the last year. I mean, I knew they were trash before, but I just couldn’t openly say it since I was married and all.

Coat Courtesy of Addition Elle

“I don’t think you should make ‘all men’ statements,” she said. “That’s just not the case since you haven’t met ‘all’ men.”

I rolled my eyes. I mean, I do hate ‘all’ statements because it’s just not possibly true. Buuuuuut, humans make assumptions and have valid reasons of feeling how they feel from past experiences. And, you can’t invalidate someone’s experience, even if it’s farfetched. All you can do, really, is redirect.

You know when you’re doing or saying something it doesn’t seem that bad? I don’t trash men as bad on the internet as I do in person. Like, if I’m chilling with my friends, I will go into my ‘trash men mode’. Why? Because it’s relevant and they do it sooooo much. Trump grabbing em by the pussy, girls overseas being forced to marry old men, female genital mutilation, sex-trafficking in my home state of Michigan. Every time I see a #MeToo post or hear a story about yet another executive pulling his little dick out and waving it at a young actress or witness a hyper masculine douchebag trolling a sexual assault victim on Facebook, it really traumatizes me.

As a woman, I am traumatized by men. To be truthful, I’ve been traumatized by them since I was a little girl. Men scare me. Even now. They could hit me in the face or rape me or pretend they love me then drop me for another girl, or guy. Shit, I don’t know.

Shoes Courtesy of Evan's UK

I witnessed my first domestic violence fight at the tender age of six. It’s one of my earliest memories actually. I remember just standing there, watching as Mom tossed a computer at him and my brother’s father hitting her. Neither of them cared that I was there. Maybe I had become a fixture in their fucked-up world. What kills me now just thinking about it was that I never screamed or ran away or hid. I just stood there as if two adults throwing blows was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Mom had mental issues. Which didn’t help in her male selection process. We saw most of the dysfunction, if not all of it. In our home, men were disposable. If she didn’t like how they were, then she’d get rid of them and add another to the list. Mom was married about seven times before I’d turned seventeen, and I’m being modest by not including boyfriends or fiancées.

Mom taught her girls, in a nutshell, that men only wanted your body, they only wanted babies, and to use you, so to never, ever depend on them. Never tell them your finances, keep a secret savings because they weren’t to be trusted. Mom never trusted men. And, neither do I.

I’ve become her when I really never wanted to. Deep. I know.   

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

I got married young because I loved him, I thought I could change him, and I was Muslim and hadn’t wanted to sin anymore. I wanted to be a good Muslim girl in the eyes of God.

He brought the worst out of me. He also brought the best, too. Unfortunately, he brought more of the worst than the best.

At first, I didn’t trust him. Slowly, I started to. Then I let go and trusted him wholeheartedly. It took a while, but I’d done it. Growing up the way I had, I never thought it was possible. Then he betrayed that trust, and I reverted back to my old ways. Just like that.

And like an idiot, to curb my pain, I entered the dating scene right after the divorce. Bumble. Tinder. Plenty of Fish. You name it. Trying to flex the muscle that hadn’t been flexed in over a decade. Bad idea! What I needed was time. Time to heal.

I got messages from randoms asking me to ‘sit on their faces’, propositioning me for threesomes, and polyamorous relationships. I’ve had white men objectify me, commenting on the thickness of my lips and thighs. How they’ve never been with a Black chick. I’ve had men fetishize my hijab. Body-shame me. Tell me how intimidating I am because I have two masters and that I might be ‘too smart’ for them.

“I’m a feminist,” I told one dude, while on a date.

“So, you must hate men, then.”

“I do now…” I replied, in my head.

For additional winter coats check out Simply Be

Another guy told me that I hated men. I think he high-key wanted to call me bitter. And, that’s fine. If the shoe fits, right? Maybe it is me. Maybe I attract shit dudes because I’m a shit person.

“Maybe you should switch teams,” one friend suggested.

I cringed. “I’m not touching boobs.”

My other friend, who happened to be gay said, “Actually, same-sex relationships have many of the same problems as hetero relationships do.”

“Fuck,” I said. “Then it’s back to being asexual.”

And, who knows, maybe one day I will trust a dude again. Maybe all men aren’t trash. I’ve just come across some trashy ones.

xoxo,

Leah V