Ghetto DIY Tumeric Face Mask

Leah V. shows ya'll how to achieve the perfect crust-less face utilizing tumeric and other household items. 

xoxo

Leah V. 

The Non-Valentine’s Day Valentine’s Day

This is my first Valentine’s Day without a Valentine in about ten years. Which may seemed fucked up to the naked eye, but because I’m trying to live my ‘new and improved’ life as an Optimistic Sally, I’ve come to terms with my current situation.

I’m divorced. Single. I ain’t got no man. Or woman. Except for my friends, but that doesn’t count. I had a few suitors, but they got swerved and didn’t make the cut. Which again, makes me very single. I’m not bitter, though, I solemenly swear it.  

I won’t be getting any flowers.

I won’t be getting one of those cheap little bears with the heart in the middle that says ‘I LOVE You” that was made in China.

No romantic dinners at the local Coney Island.

Jewelry. Nope. Hotel. Nope. Sweet nothings. NOPE. How bout dah?

Turban: Flossy's Suitcase + Faux Fur/Pant: Forever 21 + Long Sleeve: Rainbow Shops + Booties: Pay-Less Shoe Source + Shades: Alley and Eye

All this in theory sounds great, until my timeline starts getting flooded with ‘happy couple’ selfies and photos of bouquets of roses. What is a single girl to do? Well, if you’re like me you can totally stay off the internet for that entire day. But because we are lurkers, we won’t. Which is fine. At least you’ve admitted it.

Valentine’s Day isn’t really the issue here. It’s the stereotypes of being single that irks me. If you aint got a man then what are you doing with your life? If you don’t have a bae to cuddle up with at the end of a long day then you must be unhappy, desperate, undesirable. The only goal in life is to marry, have kids, get cheated on, then ultimately be single anyway! So, why not just start now? LOL. And, I’m not saying that being single is the way to go for every person, because we all have that friend who just has to have a man or she feels incomplete.

But isn’t that a sad existence? If you need another person to make you feel whole. Shouldn’t that be something that you should be working on within yourself? With these types of situations of heavy co-dependency, I notice that the co-dependent person always get the short end of the stick in the relationship. They usually do anything to keep that other person around. They ended getting mistreated by their significant other because they know that they need them in order to thrive.

I, for one, neeeeever want another person to feel like I need them or I’d just crumble into nothingness. No, sir. You aren’t about to have that much power over me. I hold my own power. Boom!

Whether you’re married or not, you need to be OK with being by yourself. And I’m not saying shut everyone out and become a recluse, I’m saying that there is usually too much noise going on and you need to have quiet, self-reflective time for you and only you. Whether it’s five minutes a day or for a month trip overseas. You-time is good for the soul. It regenerates your ummph. Puts a pep in your step. And allows you to think more openly and freely.

Do you know how much I learned about myself by doing things alone? I’ve traveled alone and learned that I’m able to hold my own in hectic situations. I’ve gone to the movies alone and figured out that I didn’t look weird by doing it, and I really enjoyed not talking throughout the film. I’ve gone to an opera alone, I’ve had coffee and alone and read a book, I’ve been to networking events alone and was made to feel like an outsider because I hadn’t come with anyone. You win some. You lose some, but it’s a very cool experience to be ok with yourself. You don’t always have to depend on another person to dictate whether you have fun or not or are able to experience the fullness of that activity.

So, Leah V. what are you doing for V-Day? Well, if you must know. I’ll be on my first “Eat. Pray. Love.” trip to London. This is my first time overseas without my ex. It’s very bittersweet. I want to prove to myself that I can and I will. And, I’m so hardcore that I’m not even going with a friend. Yeah, they’re still hurt by it, but this is my journey that I have to take alone. I want to explore the culture without bounds, I want to get lost on the ‘tube’, and party with the locals. I want to take a train to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower and take one of those very touristy photos in front of it. I want to eat good food and take cabs to nowhere. I want to take weird selfies and visit the Royal Palace.

And, that’s what I plan to do.

But, if you’re not planning on taking a trip or don’t have a bae, it’s all good. I want you to get dressed anyway, put on some falsies, go buy an expensive yet not-expensive matte lippie, and be your own bae. Make a fancy reservation at a posh restaurant with some girlfriends and have a photoshoot in the bathroom. Post it on social media so everyone with a man can be jealous that you’re having soooo much fun basking in the glow of your single-dom!

As always, you know I have to give you the word with a dose of V-Day outfit inspirations.         

Xoxo,

Leah V. 

Feminism: I’m Not Your Stereotype

Although, I’m not political, recent events have had some of my close friends and I in a tiff. Before the whole Trump fiasco, women’s rights have always been under attack and governed by individuals who have never been cat-called to the point of annoyance, followed around in a club because they wouldn’t provide them digits, never had cramps that twisted their insides so badly that they basically died, or had a full-on human being claw its way out of their va jay jay.  

Men making certain decisions for women is like my black, Muslim ass applying for the pope’s position in the Vatican.

It ain’t gonna work.

Now, if I were a rich and powerful douchebag with no decency, I could apply, get the job, and slowly but surely begin to fuck stuff up. But then as a human being, why would I want to create life issues for another sect of people?

It’s a man’s world. *Ahem* Sorry. It’s a white man’s world. Nope. A rich white man who probably is straight and Christian’s world. I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t want someone like that making decisions about my reproductive health.

We are in dire need of a more diverse panel. Sorry not sorry.

And this isn’t a bash white people post. This is a bash-all-men-and-women-who-support-unequal-systems-put-in-place-by-the-powers-that-be post.

Feminism. The word most men cringe when they hear. I’ve gotten soooo much bullshit for saying I’m a feminist, especially because I’m Muslim. That makes it three times worst.

I was on a date with this African guy. Topic: dynamics between men and women. I like a good debate once in a while.

“You sound like a feminist,” he said.    

“I am a feminist,” I replied.

His brows raised. But he hadn’t said anything else.

After a few seconds of silence. I countered, “I’m a humanist.”

He offered a sigh of relief. “That’s a better answer.”

WTF. Needless to say, he got dumped.

I was chatting with this white non-Muslim guy. “That’s great that you’re Muslim and a feminist. It’s just so sad how they oppress their women.”

After I schooled him about how ‘men’ in general oppress women, he got dropped like a hot sack of shit.

The last straw was another guy who said, “I mean, I get feminism, but they just hate men and they take stuff too far, ya know?”

No, I don’t know. BYEEEEEE!

Not only do non-Muslims have stigmas attached to feminism but Muslims do as well. Bad. I’ve heard Muslim men and women say that feminism isn’t Islamic. Pump the breaks. Equality isn’t Islam? Oppression isn’t spoken about as something that is wrong in Islam?

Feminism doesn’t mean hatred of men. Feminism isn’t just for lesbians. Feminism doesn’t only equate to showing your tits, growing your underarm hair, or being white. Of course, there are extreme feminists out there who may or may not fit those above stereotypes, but to each its own. You can be Muslim and feminist. I am. And I know others who are, too. And it doesn’t compromise my Islam, it actually makes it stronger.  

Being a feminist means that you want the right to be who you want to be, whether that’s Muslim or atheist or Jew. It means the right to make equal pay as a man or a white woman, to have a say-so over what happens to your body, whether that’s abortion or having multiple children. It’s not about being right or wrong. Or good or evil. We have a God given right to make decisions for ourselves. That’s not too much to ask.  

Leah V. 

Taking Back the True Meaning of Beauty

Leah V. opens up about how she became a blogger, representation in mainstream media, and redefining beauty standards.

IG: Lvernon2000

Who Said Fat Girls Can’t Slay? Top 7 Outfits of 2016

OMG! We’ve made it into the new year. Bless up *DJ Khaled voice*. Ready for new beginnings? I know I am. We’ve shed some negative people: ex’s, frenemies, and maybe an annoying co-worker or two. Get your bucket list ready because I’ve asked my fashionable followers to vote for their top seven outfits of 2016. This list isn’t about my own self-gratification, or maybe it is… It’s about self-love. Confidence. And acceptance.

Anyone can put on makeup and slap on a bomb ensemble. But how many of us are sitting at home with stretch marks on their boobs, cellulite on them thighs, and a belly pooch that hangs over their pants? *Raises hands* I am as I’m compiling this list. Real life, bro!

So, for 2017, I want you to harness your inner Leah V. divaliciousness and as I always say, fuck it up! And by “it” I mean the world. Wear a color you’ve never thought to wear. Red lipstick? Smear that shit on. Dance when everyone is watching. Travel the world. Alone! Don’t let society’s standards stop you from living. FUCK IT UP! And when they ask why, tell em cuz Leah V. said so…

Check out these amazing ensembles from the last year of my blog, and see which styles made the list: 

#7 That pop of color though!

Photo: Adele Lane Photography

#6 So Parisian. Oui?   

Photo: Richelle Marie Photography

#5 Turbanista in red.

Photo: Danni Little

#4 Couldn’t nobody tell me nothin that day.  

Photo: Madinah Muhammad

#3 *Finger snaps in Z formation.

Photo: Brooklyn Cashmere

#2 I’ve always wanted to be a fairy.

Photo: Reel Clever Films

#1 On my Riri shit!

Photo: C. Los Productions

Wildcard! Gold Dress. Birthday extravaganza. This dress was designed by me! But I aint sew it though.  

Which one is your favorite? 

Leah V. 

New Year, New Me?

New year, new me? Maybe. Maybe not. I can dig the saying, to an extent. Some people want to do better, be a different person, emerge from a butterfly cocoon at midnight, but a date on a calendar isn’t going to propel you into greatness. It can be a push in the right direction, though.

Trust me, I get it. 2016 has been a year of revelation. And I use the word, revelation, because I keep seeing all these posts about how much 2016 sucked. I don’t know how to feel about that. I mean, did it have sucky moments? Yeah. Which year didn’t? But with those suck-ass moments, truths were revealed. We got to see what we were really made of when these calamities struck. Ain’t that worth something? To see how that arrow flew right at you and how you soared over that bitch. The arrow might’ve hit your mom in the arm, but hey, you can’t have it all.

2016. The year of revelation. For me, personally, I had no idea, clue, whatever that the year would be the way it was.  

I remember at the end of 2015, I had a plan for the 2016 takeover. The plan was to grind with my blogging. Turn it into a business. To work on my book and get it in the best shape possible so that I could land an agent and get it published. Finally start my career. To have better opportunities for my husband and I. I was 28, and at 30, I told him I was kinda, sorta ready to be a mother. And as long as he helped me with the little rug rat, then I’d do it. Finally. Although, I never wanted kids, I was going to do it for him. He’d waited this long. He deserved it.

Life had another plan…

I relaunched my blog and that took about two months, but I was happy with the results. With the rebranding, I was going to be more real, more lifestyle. Less blogger-y. People started to dig the new layout, and I started getting a lot of publicity. The money was going to start rolling in so the financial stress would be alleviated from him. Unfortunately, no money came. I was working for free. Started working for Muslimgirl and got some more publicity. As I blew up in my creative field, attention-wise, my relationship went downhill. I found out he was dating some girl from his job. That killed me. But I kept it between family and close friends. I still blogged. Keeping up a façade of okay-ness. We got therapy. I forgave him. New beginnings, right? Wrong.  

During this time of discovery, I asked myself a question. And, it really just came out of nowhere. Would you choose your career over your relationship? I was never able to answer the question because I could do it all, I could have it all.

When he’d say weird things about my accomplishments and how I wasn’t enough, the question always came up. Still, I never answered it. I was in denial.

More shit hit the fan with his infidelity. The blaming. The yelling. The resentment.

Still, I stayed. Trying to salvage the broken pieces.

During our divorce, I went through a lot of mental abuse. He said some really nasty things to me. I threw myself more into blogging, modeling, and other creative projects. I hired an editor to help me with my indie novel. I didn’t process the divorce thoroughly. Didn’t have time to. And that was ok with me.

I had no idea that in the beginning of 2016, that I’d be single by the end of the year. That I’d have to fend for myself. That I’d lose my mother to mental illness. That I’d lose friends to jealousy. But even with those revelations, I had gains that were equally amazing. I also had no idea that I’d become stronger by going to the gym regularly, that I’d be a staff writer, that I’d have dozens of features, or that I’d publish a book, or that I’d graduate from having five years of extensive therapy or that I’d be living on my own and be blessed to pay my own damn phone bill without him (because he said that I couldn’t).

It was revealed to me this year that I was much stronger than I ever thought I was. Because failing at an nine-year marriage made me feel so weak. So low. I questioned myself at every turn. Why this and why that? If you had only done such and such then you wouldn’t be undesirable, single, divorced. So, no, I don’t agree with anyone that 2016 was shit. It was THE SHIT! Because we are still here, still standing and living. Still able to grow, be hurt, and bounce back.

Because I’m corny, I have a few things that I want to leave with you for the new year. And a few tips to make sure it kinda goes smoothly. Note: I’m also going to practice what I preach as well.  

Drop the Duds:

Stop allowing people to enter and take space in your life that have no substance or value. I see this waaaaaaay too much, especially with girls. Got a fuck boy that’s been hanging on by the pinky cuticle? Drop him. Got a frenemy who always got some smack to talk when you’ve “blessed up”? Drop her. Got an evil cat that scratches and hisses at you even though you feed it premium cat food? Drop it off at the Humane Society. Just kidding. Or am I?

The point is, we don’t want to make people angry or uncomfortable. We don’t want to burn bridges. Right? Fuck those bridges. They have no problem with draining your energy, making you feel low, creating issues for you. So, if the bad outweighs the good then you may have to drop em. Sorry. You are the weakest link. Buh bye.

Stop Lying to Yourself… And Others

Are you the Facebook friend who boasts about who they are cutting off in 2017? The one who says they are going to hit the gym but then falls off once spring hits? Stop lying. Little secret here, everyone knows your full of it so just don’t. If you have no intention of doing something for yourself or others keep your mouth shut. Be truthful. You know your capabilities for the most part. If your goal is to save money, then you actually have to have a plan and implement it. Out of each check, I’m going to save 50 bucks. Boom! I call this the plan and do method. Too many people talk but don’t back it up. Write it down. Consult with others about how you should go about your goal. Research. Do it. If it fails, go through all the steps again and tweak where necessary.

Get the ‘F’ Out of Your Comfort Zone

Growth is necessary, and it’s uncomfortable. You can try to avoid if you want, but you will always be thrown a curveball. Facts. So, why not semi-prepare yourself. The more fluid you are the less force the hit will have.

For example, I hated going to events by myself because I didn’t like being the awkward girl standing alone watching other people mingle. What if I said something stupid? What if I got rejected? I had to ask myself: what’s the point of going to events anyway? Well, I want to connect with others and build my brand. If no one knows about you then how will you grow your brand? Know what I did? I forced myself to go to events. Alone. Although very painful and awkward, I set a goal. Talk to five people and then you can leave. Once, I got to talking and figuring out that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it got easier each time.   

In conclusion, what I want for all of you (the fantastic readers) is the feeling of rejuvenation for the new year. You don’t have to make a complete 180, but start thinking about it. Think about some goals you didn’t get to start or finish last year. Think about the relationships you keep and how that affects you: good or bad. Think about leaping into some shit that’s super cool, that you never thought of doing before. We don’t know when our last day is up. So, let’s go into 2017 making the most of our 364 days. 

xoxo

Leah V. 

Vulnerability Doesn’t Mean Weakness

I’m an extreme thinker, which comes mostly from my personality disorder. Or so I’ve been told by a mental health professional a few years back. No, I’m kidding. I really do have a personality disorder. Sounds a lot harsher than it really is. Kinda. LOL. Anyway, when an individual thinks in ‘extreme’ terms it usually means that they see the world in black and white. It’s either this or that. There is no middle ground, no in between or gray areas. Of course, that’s a skewed way of thinking, right? There is always an exception to the rule. Especially when we are dealing with the complexities of a human mind.

Vulnerability. The word scared the fuck out of me growing up. I’d witnessed acts of vulnerability in women and seen people get chewed up, mistreated, and tossed out like waste. Vulnerability equated weakness to me. And that learned behavior was a fact in my world. So, I stuck with it. And vowed to never be vulnerable. To never show more emotion than I should. To listen more than I spoke. To always have a one-up on anyone who wanted to fraternize with me.

Emotions. Eww. I’d cry in secret, burying my face deep down in the pillow to ensure that no one would discover my ‘soft’ core. Hugs used to make me feel weird. I’d stand there like a log until they stopped. A few of my family members nicknamed me ‘robot’. I thought it was pretty funny until I got into therapy and she started to unpeel the layers…

Publicly, I’d mask sadness and grief with anger and aggression. Always ending up in a verbal, and on a few occasions, physical outbursts. One time, one of my verbal altercations turned into a physical one. And I ended up in jail for the night. After I was released, I went to my therapist.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked with a straight face.

I hunched my shoulders. Still very much so mad that I’d embarrassed myself and gone to jail in the first place.

She asked again, this time more stern. And, I had a hunch that she’d keep asking until I gave her something.

“Because, I’m a villain and villains are always angry,” I said with a smile.

She chuckled. “How are you a villain?”

I sat up straight. “Villains don’t have emotions. Just like me.”

Her eyes shifted. “You must not be human because I’ve never met a human without emotion”

“Well, my family does call me a robot.”

“You do have emotions,” she concluded. “And you’re certainly not a villain.”

I rolled my eyes. “If I do have them they are completely under control.”

“Under control?”

I nodded.

“So much so that you just got arrested for domestic violence?”

My lips pressed together and she continued, “You’re always angry because your masking your emotions with aggression. It’s ok to be sad. It’s ok feel grief or fear. These are healthy emotions to experience.”

“Stuff like that is for soft people. People who don’t have a backbone. People who get trampled on. I won’t let anyone step all over me. Not happening.” I crossed my arms over my chest like a two-year-old.

“Who ever said that being less angry, vulnerable, and more open made you ‘soft’ or weak?” She explained, “There is a middle ground here. We’ve just got to find one for you.”

During this time, I was very hard-headed. I listened to her to an extent, which led me to keep bumping my head against the wall. Each time, I’d go back to her and explain my outbursts and she’d reiterate the same facts with patience, over and over again. It was ok to be vulnerable. It was ok to show emotions. Emotions didn’t mean that you were weak. She told me that I wasn’t weak. That I was the strongest person she’d ever met. I cried in front of her. She asked me how I felt about that. I told her that I hated crying in front of people and that it made me feel vulnerable. She said, good.

It took me some time to get over it. Well, not really get over it. But to sway my way of thinking about vulnerability as a fat, black, Muslim woman in the united states. How the act works with me or against me as an artist and as a budding business-lady.

In addition to the therapy, blogging and modeling has really helped me break out of the box I’d placed myself in. I find myself the most vulnerable when I’m adding content to my captions or writing an essay about how an event in my childhood unfolded or how experiencing an emotion made me feel. I feel much freer, lighter. More real. Much more like myself. A human being. And that’s pretty cool. I’m less aggressive, less angry. Don’t get me wrong being vulnerable with our emotions isn’t all lollipops and gravy, and you’ll get those jerks that will take advantage, but that doesn’t even add up to the benefits you’ll gain by being your true self. 

xoxo

Leah V. 

How to Wrap a Pin Turban

Leah V. shows you how to wrap an easy pin turban with a Kermit the Frog colored scarf. 

And don't forget to follow her on IG: @Lvernon2000

The Black Girl with Many Faces

When I was small, I was very watchful. Thoughtful. I’d watch Mom do everything. I wanted to know how she did it, how long it took her, her mannerisms. A little black sponge, I was. For the most part, I got it. But I never understood why Mom was extra nice, extra perky, and sounded differently when she talked to white folks. It all clicked one day when we were at the doctor’s office, that like her, one day I’d become a black woman with many faces, too.

I was around eight years old. It was hard for me to climb up on the clinic’s bed because my legs were so short. Mom pulled over a step stool and up I went. I sat on the rough white disposable barrier, kicking my scuffed gym shoes from Pay-Less at the edge. Back and forth. Quiet as usual as Mom pulled out her planner and jotted down notes.

Now, mind you, I was renamed Amerra (Islamic meaning is princess) when Mom converted to Islam. So, that’s the name I knew. None other.

The doctor knocked. A white male wore an off-white lab coat and had a manila folder in hand. He shifted through the papers, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Leah?”

I froze. Who was this Leah? My name was Amerra. Mom probably noticed the baffled look on my face, so she quickly said in the most white-black voice she could muster, “Yes. This is Leah.”

My name was Leah, too!?! I had two names. Not possible.

After some snooping, I saw that the name Leah Vernon was on my social security card and on my birth certificate. And that Amerra Jaahan was a Muslim name that she’d given me when we converted. I then found out that Mom didn’t name me Leah at all, but my grandmother had when I was born because Mom didn’t want any more children after my older sister and that I was to be given up for adoption… Ultimately, I wasn’t, but that’s a completely different story.

I never asked Mom why she didn’t tell the white doctor my Muslim name. Or why she put on her ‘professional’ voice when she answered the phone versus talking to us or her black, Muslim friends.

I already knew what most little black girls figured out eventually.

That as a black woman, we must wear many faces. And control what we tell others about our true selves for protection. We are not allowed to be our true selves. Because then we become stereotypes. We are called aggressive. We are called angry. Bitter. Rough. Loud. Too woke.

I was out with a girlfriend for brunch, which is what prompted this essay. She told me that her good friend, who happened to be white, said, “why can’t you, as a black woman, be your true self. I mean, I’d accept you in your truest form.”

My friend and I burst out laughing as she recanted the story. That’s how ridiculous the white girl sounded. We both blamed white superiority/privilege to the comment she made.

No, hunny, YOU, as a white woman CAN be a white woman. A black woman, cannot be true to herself because when she does, she makes everyone around her uncomfortable. She makes the black man uncomfortable with her tirades of being treated with respect. She makes the white man uncomfortable because when she stands up for her rights she is seen as aggressive, unattractive. She makes the white woman uncomfortable because when we say that ‘All’ women ain’t the same here in America we are seen as combative. I can go on and on…

The sad part is that I have fallen into this hole, this ongoing system of changing my genuine self to ‘fit’ in with uppity white people. To fit in with ghetto black people. To fit in with extreme Muslims. My family. My ex. Expectations set and looped in a strange time zone.

I’ve worn so many faces. And it has become so normal, so ingrained that I don’t even notice that I’m doing it. It just turns on like a light switch. But sometimes, when I catch it, I am disgusted. This is not you, I say to myself.

But what do you do? What do you do when it’s become a part of your everyday routine to be someone else for the sake of others comfort?

My friend and I ended the conversation with no resolution to wearing faces that weren’t ours. Our mothers did it. Our grandmothers did it. Hell, we’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. And they survived. We can survive, too. But at what cost?

We may not have all the answers. Or be the most perfect. Or most feminine. But no one can deny that we are Perseverant. Endurable. Strong. We both agreed that black women are the strongest of all women. I know that I’ll get flack for pointing out that fact, but you have no idea unless you’ve walked in my shoes. My black mother’s shoes. Or my black grandmother’s shoes. With that innate strength, we get beat down the most for it. We are the lowest on the totem pole. We get it from all sides. We are taken and objectified. We are told we are useless by our own men. We are thought less of by other cultures. We are picked apart and left to dry in the sun.

But still, we have this unending strength and beauty against all the odds.

Frankly, I wouldn’t change being a black, Muslim woman for anything. 

Beauty Review: Zahara Cosmetics

So, this week were going to get a little light-hearted. Last week, I bogged you guys down as well as educated you about mental illness and this time were talking about makeup???

On my blog, you never know what you’re going to get.

Zahara Cosmetics (located in Malaysia) sent me a nice little package filled with eyeliner, nail polish, matte lippies (oh, yes!), and eyeshadow pallets. It took about two weeks to get all the way over the sea and to my doorstep, but I was excited to try out the products.

As consumers, we are bombarded with tons of cosmetic companies telling us that we ‘need’ ABC product. When I link up with someone or tell them that I’ll write a review for their product there’s gotta be something that makes them standout. What makes Zahara Cosmetics any different? Well, I’m not a spokesperson for this brand, but let’s start with the nail polish. The polish is water-permeable and the formula allows oxygen to pass through to the bed of your nail. So, if you happen to be Muslim it is ‘wudu’ friendly. Also, Zahara’s polish doesn’t contain the five main harsh chemicals that other popular nail polishes have. They also have a ‘small business’ feel, which is cool.

Polish: I used the polish (Lovender) for my Tribal-Inspired shoot. And it glided on easy, dried fast, and I actually didn’t need the 2nd coat. It lasts about as long as other polishes on the market.

EyeLiner: I have very sensitive eyes. So the liner didn’t bother my waterline and it glided on smoothly.

Matte Lippe: I’ve tried all kinds of lipsticks, especially the cream mattes, so I know a thing or two. I’m wearing ‘Mystery’. So, the lippie glides on great. And the coverage is very good. No thinning like Colourpop or some of Kat Von D’s lip line. When it dries, it does gets a little gritty. I suggest exfoliating your lips before application. I’d say the lippie is far from Colourpop but slightly underneath Anastasia Beverley Hills in quality. There is minimal transfer as well.

Eyeshadow Pallets: I used the ‘Fifth Avenue Pallet’. Overall, the coverage was pretty good. The only complaint that my MUA had was that all the colors were very ‘shimmery’ and she wished that they had a few mattes available in the set of four.

Overall, I enjoyed the products, especially the lip colors.

You guys check out Zahara Cosmetics and let me know what you think.

Model + Stylist: Leah V.

xoxo

Leah V.

A Look Into How We View Mental Illness

It’s cold in Michigan. Dreary. Things are dying. Morale is at an all-time low for a lot of individuals during the fall/winter months. Lack of sunlight. Holiday woes. It’s super brisk and your usual cuddle buddy is being a fuckboy and not answering your texts. Yeah, I get it. It’s not the most wonderful time of the year so says the holiday songs on the radio. 

I’ve been in my ‘mood’ lately. When, I say ‘mood’ it’s code for mental lapses, anxiety, depression, or all three. Depends on the day or days. And I really hate when I get into these ‘moods’ because I know that I’m feeling these emotions or I’m being a certain way and for the most part, I have no idea why. It can strike at any moment. Even when life seems to be ok or running smoothly. Then I begin to feel ‘ungrateful’ because I’m feeling like shit when life dictates that it could be a lot worse.

Oh, isn’t life full of contradictions.

I understand that these ‘moods’ are either triggered by some kind of hormonal imbalance, or a word, a face, or even a song which jolts you back into some repressed traumatic moment which leads to these negative emotions.

But meanwhile, while people are telling you how ‘crazy’ you are for even showing any signs of distress in life, you are feeling like a trapped bat ramming its little bat face into a glass window.

If you were a better Muslim, you wouldn’t have those sorts of problems. Take it to the rug. Oh, you’ll be ok, just remind yourself of the people who have it way worse than you. Yes, when someone reaches out to you about not being right in the head or not feeling well mentally, please continue to pour icing over shit and not deal with the issues head on.

Do you know how many times I’ve reached out just to be called crazy or told to suck it up? Do you know how many times I’ve been made out to be a jerk because of misplaced emotions? Do you know how it feels to have the outside not match the inside, how confusing that is?

I’ve always had ‘issues’ growing up but was too afraid to tell anyone. When I got to college, the emotions started bubbling over. I was aggressive, sporadic, and in denial. I’d have these breakdowns, privately, and withdrew from other humans. I didn’t have drugs or alcohol to soothe my problems so my outlet became fighting.

I graduated college at twenty years old with a business degree. I got married two weeks after that. More mental issues came to play. Aggression on top of aggression. The police were even called on me a few times. I didn’t go to jail. Not yet anyway. I hit rock bottom. I had no one. No family support. My ex had left. And my friends wanted nothing to do with me or didn’t know how to assist. I was alone.

I remember lying on the beach, tears streaming down my face on the phone with my mother. “I’m going to admit myself to the hospital,” I said. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

She tried to console me. Tell me what I should do. She apologized for not catching my issues earlier. But it was a little too late. I was floating beneath the clouds. Watching my life unfold in a painful, slow motion.

I decided that before I admitted myself, that I deserved at least one more chance. I was going to seek out a therapist. I found one at this little Muslim family services place in Detroit. The female counselor was a hijabi. She was Somali. She was the hand that pulled me out of the darkness. That’s all I needed at the time. I went in twice a week. I cried. We talked. I wasn’t eating. She told me to eat colorful fruits and vegetables. She told me to make small goals for myself. She even gave me her personal number when I felt down. To this day, I see her around the mosque sometimes. I don’t think she understands how much I needed her. How much she helped me.

To talk about mental illness in Islam or to even admit it, I think are very hush-hush. Like a lot of issues in our communities. I see some strides being made to make it more accessible, less judgy, but we have some ways to go.

After five years of extensive therapy, and after hiding it for so long, I am very much so open about it. Why should I keep it quiet? Because I’m Muslim? Because I’m a black superhero? Because I’m a blogger that posts cute pics on Instagram and my life is so fuckin perfect?

When, I go through my ‘moods’, I sometimes share it on Facebook. Not to get pity or to get likes. I share it because of the Muslim girls and women who inbox me, secretly, telling me that they too have the same issues and can’t admit it in fear that their community ‘wouldn’t understand’ or they’d experience ‘backlash or jeers’. But even though they are not at the point where they can openly seek help or be honest about it, they have me. Someone they know who has and is going through the same outbursts. The same feeling of worthlessness. The same anxiety attacks.

Just like the Somali counselor reached her hand out and pulled me back into some light, by sharing my life, my triumphs, and downfalls, I want to do the same for others. I want to be that hand that reaches out. And I want others to do the same. If you see it, you have a duty to help. Listen. Provide a safe space for them to breathe. A hug. Giving non-judgmental advice. It’s the little things that count. Those little acts of kindness that could make someone’s day and be the difference between them stepping into the light or withdrawing into the darkness.

xoxo

Leah V.  

*New Youtube Video* Leah V. Gets a Brazilian

It's been a hot minute since, I've done a video. But, I'm kinda, sorta back. We'll see how it goes! Haha. But today, I'll be talking about Brazilian waxing. And my oh-so-crazy experience. Enjoy and let me know what your thoughts are on the video!

xoxo

Leah V.

This is What Real Body Positivity Looks Like

Just a few year ago, I would’ve never felt confident enough to stand next to Reetu in front of the camera. Not because Reetu is intimidating (she’s quite the opposite!) but because of my own insecurities about being the ‘token’ fat girl in a group of skinnies.

Yes. I was that girl. The fat girl who tried to keep her stomach sucked in when she sat down. The girl who never ordered food with her thin friends at a restaurant in fear that someone would catch her fat ass stuffing her face. The girl who would watch as her thinner friends got attention from the guys as she slowly crumbled inside and thought herself as repulsive. The constant thought always swirled around my head, if only I lost all of this weight then my life would be normal. If only I could change myself to have a body type similar to my size 2/4 friends, then my life would be much better. If I could only hop on the scale and it was a 1 in front of those two digits instead of a 2 or 3 then things would run oh-so-smoothly.

Models: Leah V. and Reetu

Did I starve myself to achieve that idea? Of course. I got down to my ‘goal’ weight. And still ultimately saw myself as a fat slob.

 It was never about the number on the scale. It’s about our mindsets toward body image in general.

And when someone who is dying to be thin (or to even gain weight) figures that out, oh man, it’s a freeing experience. To eat in public and actually enjoy your food. To sit down, breathe normally, and let it all hang out. To dance, roll those large hips and own the floor is freeing.  

This is what body positivity is. It’s about living the best life you possibly can with what you’ve got. A lot of people believe this movement is solely for ‘fat’ people. Nope. It is for ‘All’ bodies.

Before our shoot with the very talented Romanian-born photographer, Remy, began we met up. Now, Reetu is a Youtuber as well as a brand ambassador and she is super cute. Just looking at her photos on Instagram, you get a sense of her poise and confidence. Her face is beat and her hair luxurious and flowy. Social media has definitely created a lot of stereotypes. So, we assume that if a girl is too cute then she’s stuck-up, or she can’t hold an interesting conversation.

We met up in a quaint coffee shop and in walks this very short Indian girl with a huge smile on her face.

“OMG. You look taller in your photos,” I say.

“You too,” she replied.

We both crack up because we are indeed short. LOL.

MUA: TheeeBeautyQueen and Reetu

But as I got to know her more, she divulged that she too has been picked on about her height. She almost touches five feet tall. We are women. We are always going to have a feature about us that we get teased about or something we’d like to change. We are constantly bombarded with images of unrealistic looking women who have been chopped and injected and told that that is what real beauty is.

No. NOOOOOO! I define my own beauty. Not men. Not some magazine cover with a girl with fake tits. Not the media. Not my family. Not even the fat-shaming trolls on the internet.

Reetu and I gave no F’s during this shoot. We sported double chins, short legs, wide smiles, brown skin, and confidence. We wore invisible crowns. We had deep conversations during intermissions. We allowed our creative juices to flow. We embodied what real body positivity looks like. What real women and girls look like.  

Life’s too short to hide. Too short to despise your body. It’s your body. It’s an amazing body with its stretch marks, lumps, and rolls. It’s magical. You are a damn unicorn!!!

xoxo

Leah V.

Identity: I Wanted to be a White Girl

It’s embarrassing to admit that I wanted to be a white girl for a large part of my life. I wanted the two-parent household, the bed with the canopy in the suburb, the size medium North Face jacket, the long, bone straight hair that always got in my way, and all the privilege and fun that came with it. 

I was in my teens when I drowned myself in white culture. I knew their white movies, their white songs from the 80’s and 90’s, and I just knew that if I lost weight and became ‘flat bodied’ I could pull a white male to marry and have mixed children with, just hoping that they’d have a much better grade of hair that I had.

I had my Caucasian future planned out.

MUA: Madinah M.

Pasted on my wall and doors were pages torn out of magazines of attractive white women. I studied them every time I woke up and every time I went to sleep. I cried softly in my pillow wondering why God put me in a black body. A fat body. An unattractive body.

Magazines were important. They held weight. They notified me of the trends—what’s in and what’s out. Black faces were out. Black bodies were out. White faces, no curves, and long legs were in. Straight teeth, full lips, and light hair was in. Smooth skin, cinched waist, and narrow noses were in. I had none of those attributes. And would never attain any without the help of cosmetic procedures.

I hated myself and no one even knew. I hid my identity issues behind aggression and haughtiness. I was that bitch. That no one could mess with, penetrate, or compete with. But in that mindset, I was stagnant and didn’t even know it. I was closed and warped. I was a white woman trapped in a fat body. I was confused and misunderstood. I was a ball of contradictions. Dying inside, nowhere to turn, no one to talk to about it, no role model to seek out.

Vest: Society+

Just thinking about it now, makes me sad. Makes me angry. It also makes me ponder, how many other girls out there are going through this silent identity crisis? Competing against magazine reality? Wanting to be something that they could never be?

The magazines I trusted and idolized, the magazine that utilized only one model of color in the entire spread who was usually on the lighter side or mixed had betrayed me. The media only highlighting rail-thin models who were as tall as giraffes betrayed me. Those very white movies that I studied weren’t real at all because white-based happy endings didn’t happen in my black, Muslim world. All of it was a sham. Created solely to boost the agenda of what the standard of beauty was and to degrade another. Photoshopped covers of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears was all I could think of. How smooth their skin was, no stretch marks, both breasts the same size, not one hair out of place. I believed that they had attained perfection. That God had given them complete bodily perfection.

Model: Leah V,

Until I figured out that the media wasn’t for me. For us. For the underrepresented. The disabled. The dark. The short. The so-called unattractive. The Muslim.

I had to hit rock bottom before I realized who I was. Who I really was as a person from the inside out. And on the inside, I was not a white woman. I no longer wanted to be a white woman. God didn’t make me a white woman for a reason. And I had become content with that fact. I dived in my blackness wholeheartedly like a mermaid. I created my own beauty standards. Producing my own body positive and beauty campaigns with my own funds. My blood. My mental illnesses.

I stopped believing in those magazines. That reality TV show. Those airbrushed and photoshopped photos that I silently died to attain and started believing in my own abilities. My skills. And I emerged as a stronger black woman. A proud black woman. A crazy Muslim girl in her voluptuous hips and thoughtful mind.

xoxo

Leah V.

Upliftment Through Style: Detroit’s Body Positive Movement

I haven’t done a collaborative photoshoot in a while. So, when local Detroit based blogger, Alayna of FashionLayne on Tumlbr, asked me to do a conceptual project I was all ears! We met up at Bigby’s Coffee and chatted like we’d known one another for years. I enjoyed her spirit and flyness. We set a date and hoped for the best. But deep down, I knew when dope people come together, only greatness occurs.

MUA: (My face) Madinah M.

Alayna wanted to do the shoot at the beautiful Heidelberg Projects in Detroit. I’d never been there before, but it proved to be an awesome background for our stripped looks.

And, she brought along her very much so talented photographer (adding to all the #BlackGirlMagic), Richelle of Richelle Marie Photography who captured all of our ‘moments’.

LV: Why did you start FashionLayne?

FL: I’ve been blogging for almost two years. I started solely to boost my confidence and after that I began to love myself more and more. Ultimately that is what I want people to get from my blog is confidence. I want them to learn that you can wear what you want and feel amazing and confident. Nobody should feel uncomfortable in their own skin. I want all girls and women to embrace their bodies.

LV: Why choose to collaborate with Leah V.?

FL: I decided to collaborate with Leah because she unconventional, in a good way. She doesn't follow the rules of the fashion industry or the magazines. She does what she wants and wears what she wants and I admire that from fellow plus-size blogger. She is a risk taker and that is exactly what I was looking for in this ‘Body Positive’ project.

LV: What do plus-size Detroit bloggers bring to the table?

FL: Detroit plus-size bloggers understand the struggle. We come from a city that had nothing but blight, now it is the "come up city’. For me, I use my platform to show people where I'm from instead of just selling the outfit. I want people to view my blog and love the outfit and love the background, which is Detroit. My blog is like a to-do list for others looking to visit the city of Detroit. We have art here, fashion, everything.

My normal face... HAHA!

XOXO

Leah V.

I’m Muslim, But I’m not the Poster Child for Islam

I blog from the heart. I don’t have ten blog posts in the que or any idea of what I’ll say prior to. I basically blog about anything that pops into my head at the moment: an idea, a pattern, controversy, or clichés. A very disorganized blogger to say the least. But I feel that it brings about this certain spontaneity that I’ve come to love and enjoy.

Yesterday, I took a good friend and vintage store owner a hearty bowl of chili. She’s just as wacky as me and we vibe. She wants me to headline one of her in-store events. Talk about perseverance and failure. As we chatted about the logistics and how I felt about the event, the conversation took an interesting turn.

Now, she isn’t Muslim but I am. Some days I’m an OK Muslim and other times I drop the ball, fall into a bowl of hot soup, tumble down a mountain, and land face first into a puddle of mud. Yes, it’s true. Unfortunately, I’m not the poster child for Islam as many think or believe.

All Photos By: Clos Productions

But let’s go back a bit.

I told her that I may have a possible collaboration with a male model coming up.

“This might cause some controversy. Ya know because I’m Muslim and all,” I divulged.

“This would be such a cool topic to discuss,” she said. “Muslim women in artistic fields. Where is the line drawn between art and religion?”

I pondered the question for a bit. Where was the line drawn for me? Then I thought of Noor Tagouri, the covered hijabi who was featured in Playboy. How did she feel when she made the decision to collaborate with an established ‘sex’ magazine? Did she understand the ‘Haram Police’ backlash that she ultimately got? As a public figure, would I be tested with the same opportunities?

My friend then asked, “So what if Vogue called you right now and offered to have you on the cover of the magazine, but only if you pose with a man with his shirt off. Would ya do it?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. It’s Vogue for goodness sake. “I mean, I wouldn’t have an issue with it, but I’m sure some Muslims would.”

Photo: Clos Productions

But then things got really confusing inside my head. As a Muslim woman, why wasn’t I outraged at Noor for being in Playboy? Why wasn’t I uncomfortable modeling with a male? What’s wrong with me? Am I like half a Muslim or something? And the rocks started to fall. I thought about all the shoots I’ve done and my clothes being tight, the lipstick heavy, and I rocked a turban and not traditional hijab. What kind of role model was I being for young Muslim girls? Was I teaching them the wrong rules? Am I saying that it’s ok to go against Islamic guidelines? Rules that are set for a reason.

Oh, boy.

When I first started blogging, I never said I was Muslim. If people assumed or asked that was one thing. But most people just thought I covered my hair for style purposes. Why did I do this? Because I didn’t want to shame Islam. I didn’t want people to get me confused with what a ‘good’ Muslim girl looks like. So, I hid it because it was easier. It’s always easier to run away instead of hitting the issue head on.

On the flip side, I argue, what does an ‘acceptable’ Muslim look like? Sound like?

I haven’t found out yet and I probably never will. I know so many Muslims on different levels of deen and life. Some are very horrible people, the scum of the earth while others are the sweetest and most caring individuals you’d ever meet.

One thing I do know is that art and expression is life for me just as my identity as being a Muslim is. Is it possible for religion, spirituality, and art to go hand in hand? Or will there always be a tug of war between these identities?

I remember when I was little, I wanted to take up ice-skating and cheerleading. Both had a uniform of tights and leotards or short skirts. Mom wasn’t going to let me do them because I was Muslim and Muslim girls didn’t show their curves. As a kid, I was so limited. I couldn’t do anything fun and be Muslim. I couldn’t write stories that had kissing in them and be Muslim. I couldn’t go to prom and be Muslim. I couldn’t say anything wrong and be Muslim! Being Muslim as a child and teen wasn’t an amazing time for me.

What I wanted to ask was what could I do as a Muslimah…

Makeup: Madinah M.

I believe that’s why I am so ‘out there’ with my expression and art today because I was stifled for so many years. Unable to explore and experiment.

So to tie all this randomness in, I say that I’m not a poster child for Islam, but in saying that have I just become the poster child for Islam? LOL. Have I become what one of the ‘real’ Muslim women in 2016 looks like?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

*Shoutout to Carlos at Clos Productions for the super fly photos. See more of his work at Clos Productions on IG.

XoXo

Leah V.

Objectification Of A Fat Woman

With this newfound divorce situation, I have officially entered into the ‘dating’ phase or as I have dubbed it “The Hunger Games”. And it is as I had expected it. Harsh af. I’m not even going to lie, I got married super young and was in my previous relationship for almost a decade. I’ve been thrown to the wolves per se. I’m a guppy now swimming with sharks. I created a Tinder account and a few others that shall not be named!

But this ain’t about me being Muslim and entering the dating scene and how wrong it is or how the ‘Haram’ police are going to troll me to death for writing this. This is about the countless men who have objectified me during the process. Let the bashing begin (told ya it was The Hunger Games).

So not only am I Muslim but I’m fat. So you can see my predicament here.

MUA: Madinah Muhammad

On my little Tinder profile, I talk about my likes and dislikes and so on and so forth. Trying to make myself appealing to the Metro-Detroit bachelor. I’ve hit a new low. I’ve accepted it. HAHA. On each of the photos I chose to share, I’m covered from head to toe. I have no boobs out, no backside shots, and no type of anything that would warrant unsolicited dick pics or 50 Shades of Grey freaks.

Oh, no. You and I thought wrong. That doesn’t matter at all. Because whether I’m naked or not, all the guys see are my curvatures. Mainly the butt and hips. And for some reason, they can’t see past those attributes. Yes, America. I’ve been objectified.  

I’ve gotten unsolicited/unwanted dick photos. I’ve been asked to ‘sit on’ someone’s face. I’ve been asked to participate in a threesome. And countless inappropriate comments regarding what they would ‘do’ to my butt, hips, and lips.

And these comments were all before even saying hello, asking my name, or inquiring about how I was doing… After I finished grimacing and taking multiple showers to scrub the filth away left by these nasty dudes, I either deleted or blocked them. If they happened to have had my number, I gave them a chance to redeem themselves. Hey, we all need a second chance to bounce back from being a sleezebag. It can happen to any one of us. Honestly.

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

One White guy, in particular, was the worst. After he let me know that he was obsessed with my lips and ass, I told him upfront that I wasn’t anyone’s fetish and to basically treat me like a ‘normal’ person aside from my curvy parts. I even went as far as to asking him to tell me what his rendition of what feminism meant. He told me. I was satisfied with his answer. The next day, he texts me referring to my hips. Then got an attitude when I told him that it wasn’t acceptable to greet someone referring to a body part. DELETE!

I get it. Men are very visual and physical beings. I also understand that ever since the Kardashian/NickiMinaj/AmberRose faux curve revolution began fat and curvy women have been overtly sexualized, fetishized, and objectified. I mean, we are sexual beings but make sure you gauge the 'freak radar' before you start asking people to, let’s say, sit on your face.  

Either way, whether you're thin or curvy, it doesn't give men (or women) the right to objectify you or your body. We get so caught up in not wanting to make others feel uncomfortable, when in turn, we are really only hurting ourselves. I'm sorry. I'd really like that date to the movies, but if you feel like you can't see past my hips to get to the real me, then no thanks. I'll take single-life-Ben-and-Jerry's-Netflix any day of the week.

Also, want to give a huge shoutout to my photographer Brooklyn Cashmere for coming up with the "Fat Girls Can Slay' concept that you see above. Yall follow her on the Gram! And give her some love.

XOXO

Leah V.                   

Style: First Time Wearing A Bisht

In Westernized fashion, they tend to believe that the clothes must accentuate the female body, hug her curves delicately. And of course, I thought the same way. If it didn’t have a shape, then I wasn’t touching it. I was already plus-size; I’d look like a garbage bag for sure.

Since I became a style blogger, I’ve been a lot more ‘out there’ with my fashion choices. I like to up the risk and try new things. Also, I’m waaaaay more comfortable with my body now, so anything goes!

It was the last week in Ramadan. My friends from Yemen invited us to a feast fit for a king, and to top it off, they had the hookahs in rotation. I thought that the night couldn’t get any better. One of the Yemini women had a wide set of hips, small waist, and petite chest. Similar to my body type. Between puffs of smoke, we chatted about shopping and how hard it was to find fashionable items for us ‘hippy’ gals.

Her eyes widened. “I have something for you,” she said and disappeared into the back room.

She brought out a black and gold embroidered bisht. It’s like an oversized abaya. I’m not sure where it’s origins are in the Middle East but trying it on felt like I had instantly turned into Arab royalty. I paraded around her living room, gushing about how beautiful it was. I finally took it off and placed it back on the hanger. I handed it to her.

She put her hand up and shook her head. “It’s yours.”

I died.

A happy yet fashionable death.

Xoxo

Leah V.

The ‘F’ Word: FAT

At Buffalo Wild Wings, I ordered lots of food. Hey, I was super hungry. Plus, I have a tendency to order too much then complain about being too full halfway in. Yes, annoying. I know. I’m working on my indecisiveness.  

Anyhow, after the waiter leaves, I said to my guy friend playfully, “OMG. I’ve ordered half the menu. I’m soooo fat.”

His eyes swelled with fear then shock. If he had pearls, he probably would’ve clutched them.

At first, I thought I had lipstick on my teeth. “What?” I croaked.

“You. Are. Not. FAT!”

I rolled my eyes. “Boy, bye. I am fat.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You are curvy. Trust me, I know fat. You’re just thick.”

“I’m fat. I’m obese. I’m overweight. It’s fine.”

What was interesting was that the ‘F’ word for him was so negative, so vile that he couldn’t possibly equate that nasty attribute to me. He got an A for effort though. Haha. But like him, so many other men and women avoid the word ‘fat’ or if they do use it, it’s become one of the main cuss words.

I’m not even going to lie. In my adolescence and early 20’s, I was once one of those people that if someone called me fat, I’d melt and dissolve into the wind. No coming back from it. I’d go over it a million times in my head. Fat. Fattie. You’re FAT! Why the fuck are you still fat? Be skinny. Skinny is better. Skinny is acceptable. You will be great when you are skinny.

Funny thing is that when I did have an eating disorder and got ‘skinny’, I was the unhappiest I’d ever been in life. But, everyone else seemed to dote on the fact that I’d lost so much weight so fast and blah, blah, blah.

Why do we glorify thinness but bash fatness? And I know the internet trolls with their Google degrees are going to come out of their troll lairs with the following argument: fat acceptance glorifies obesity and health problems.  

Firstly, I welcome them with the real ‘F’ word. After that, my rebuttal consists of not only fat people have health issues. I’ve been fat mostly all of my life, and I’ve had no major health problems. I have fat and skinny friends with health issues. Good or bad health doesn’t discriminate like we do. And if I did have bad health from being fat, that still has nothing to do with you because you aren’t me nor do you pay my medical bills.

Back to our scheduled program…  

So why am I talking about this? In an interview, I was asked about the word ‘fat’. Why is it such a negative word? Why do most girls and women cringe and melt when they are called it? And most importantly, when I decided to reclaim it.

I reclaimed the word when I started having open conversations about body acceptance with other body positive activists in the community. The conversations were real and enlightening. These women (and men) were not only fat but they were other things, too. They were fat and business savvy. They were fat and confident. They were fat and stylish. They were fat and athletic. They were fat and sexual.

They smashed the fat stereotypes in half and I set out to do the same.

Let’s say this at least eight times: Fat isn’t a bad word. Stop making it that way. It’s starts with you. It’s an adjective, people. Just like any other adjective. Sometimes, we’ve got to take a look at ourselves and stop being so freakin’ sensitive. So what if your boyfriend calls you fat. Do what I do and say, “Yes, I know. Anything else you want to point out Captain Obvious?”

If you are obese, overweight, curvy, or thick, 9 times out of 10 you are probably fat. And that’s ok. And if it’s not ok, then change it. Simple as that. But let’s not wallow in the fact that our bodies are shaped differently or the scale gives us a number that isn’t ‘acceptable’ to society’s standards.

Why not start living right now? Don’t let a couple pounds deter you from enjoying what life has to offer. Your body is good so be good to your body.

You’ve only got one.

xoxo

@Lvernon2000

Divorced and Almost 30... Where to Now?

I got married young. Well, not too young. I had just turned 20, and I thought I had all the answers. Me then versus me almost 10 years later…oh, boy. What a difference.

A lot of maturing and growth occurred between now and then. And for that, I’m grateful.

If you had only seen the immature Facebook rants and friendship drama I was involved in. Ugh. Very embarrassing.

But that’s all in the past now.

See, at this point, I have bigger fish to fry.

I had just turned 29 — and divorce happened.

No matter how we view the unfortunate and fortunate events in our lives, everything happens for a reason. I believe it. This is more of a personal self-discovery piece.

Hmm… *Shifts eyes back and forth*

Before we dig in, this is not a “bash” essay or a “woulda, coulda, shoulda if I had only known” essay.

No matter how we view the unfortunate and fortunate events in our lives, everything happens for a reason. I believe it. This is more of a personal self-discovery piece — the thoughts and questions on the aftereffects of an Islamic divorce that’s on everyone’s minds, but no one dares to utter out loud.

No matter what issues I had in my marriage, I never, ever thought we’d end up divorcing. I mean, after eight years of matrimony, I thought that was it. Right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

We’ve all sat around the table listening to our friends talk about their marriages — the good and the bad — but we never realistically put ourselves in their shoes when it came to the big one, divorce.

We can’t control outcomes; we can only control how we deal with said outcomes.

“What if your husband did that? Would you leave him?”

“What if you just wanted to move on? What exactly would happen next?”

I was that person. For some reason, I thought I was exempt from the “D” word — that if I did A, B, and C, then it would make it all better, and everything would automatically work out.

What I failed to understand was that people change, and we have absolutely zero control over it. The only person I was in charge of was my own self. And no matter what I did, it wasn’t going to change the outcome.

Sometimes in life, we have the tendency to think that just because we do A, then B should inevitably come next. We can’t control outcomes; we can only control how we deal with said outcomes. And this isn’t just for marriage, but friendships, jobs, health, etc.

Another thing about being Muslim and getting divorced is how we perceive it as the “End-All, Be-All” for the woman. Sister such and such is getting divorced. Who will marry her now? Will she uncover? How will she support herself? Will she date? It was probably her fault anyway. If she had only done what she was supposed to do, then divorce wouldn’t have happened.

Unfortunately, there is a stigma attached to an Islamic divorce. And usually, somehow, it becomes the female’s fault. Bullshit. Marriage is a two-way street. If you are divorced or going through one, don’t ever let anyone bait you into believing it was all your fault.

The interesting thing was — when I was going through this divorce, everyone kind of became relationship gurus. LOL. This is fine for the people who either went through it or just gave good advice, but others? Not so much.

Here’s a bit of advice. No one knows your spouse like you do or did, so keep that in mind when seeking consultation from others.

There is a stigma attached to an Islamic divorce. And usually, somehow, it becomes the female’s fault. Bullshit. Marriage is a two-way street. If you are divorced or going through one, don’t ever let anyone bait you into believing it was all your fault.

During my divorce period, I was asked to write about my experience. I thought it was too soon to talk about it. I didn’t want to come off as the bitter, Black, Muslim writer. So I held off. I planned on writing a few pieces when everything was finalized and when I was in a little bit of a better place.

A few people encouraged me not to reveal my divorce publicly because of the backlash I’d receive from the community (Oh, yes. It happens). The dreaded questions about what happened — and the sad, droopy faces and awww’s.

I’m not going to lie. In the beginning, I was very ashamed of the divorce. I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead. Everyone in the community knew my dirty laundry. It was etched into stone and followed me around like a dark cloud with lightning thundering around it. I felt exposed and basically like a failure.

Divorced. Divorcée? DIVORCED!

That word became me. And I was it.

But then, I got to thinking about life in general. A bit of a reflection. I thought about all the positive things I’d accomplished during the marriage. And all the things that I still planned on accomplishing after it. I figured out very quickly that I was still the same writer, blogger, sister, and friend that I was before… just without the other half and a ton more bills. Haha!

I’m not going to lie. In the beginning, I was very ashamed of the divorce. I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead. Everyone in the community knew my dirty laundry.

Then the question arose, why should I be ashamed of my divorce?

I share a lot with you guys already. Plus, this is a major milestone — one that many of us have either experienced or will experience (I hope not, though!). How many women have been through the same thing, doubting themselves through a divorce? Thinking much less of themselves? Wondering what’s next for them?

I feel like, through my life stories and gift of gab, I have a duty to share and teach. Trust me when I tell you that I’m not in the running for “Divorcée of the Year,” but I’m still growing and learning through this process, and I’d like other girls and women to do the same.

We aren’t these empty human shells. We have emotions and we go through divorces. It’s not a death sentence. It’s not the end for you. Or me.

I feel, as women, we should be able to talk about these deep, risqué issues that plague us every day.

As a Muslim, sometimes a lot of topics are hush-hush, but how is that really helping? By being quiet and not sharing vital information, how is that going to elevate us as a whole, as a community of badass chicks?

I guess I’m kind of a rebel when it comes to these things.

But it’s time to break out of this mold that we, as Muslim women, have created and allowed society to keep hold of. We aren’t these empty human shells. We have emotions and we go through divorces.

It’s not a death sentence.

It’s not the end for you. Or me.

There is so much more to the world than the small label of divorcée.

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xoxo,

Leah V. (@Lvernon2000)