Halloween: Why Do We Really Celebrate Spooky Season?

Posted on 28/10/2023 by Boris Clair

Love it or hate it, Halloween has a long rich history – and has been a significant celebration in our culture for more than a thousands years.

While its religious connotations have now faded, and the event is associated with dressing up, pumpkins, and everything eerie, the occasion is still full of references to its pagan roots.

Here’s why we celebrate October 31, and why some curious traditions (bobbing for apples, anyone?) have stood the test of time.

What does paganism have to do with Halloween?

A lot, really. The whole event comes from the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, a religious, pagan celebration which was meant to mark the official end of summer and welcome the harvest.

Of course, if you live in the UK, by the end of October, summer feels like a lifetime ago.

But, for the pagans in the Celtic regions of Ireland, the UK and northern France, who lived around 2,000 years ago, lighting bonfires and wearing costumes to ward off ghosts was the best way to ring in the special occasion.

And because the dark, cold winter, is often linked to death, they believed the line between the world of the living and the dead blurred around this time – so the ghosts of the dead could return to the living world.

These spirits not only caused mischief and damaged crops, but they made it “easier for the Druids or Celtic priests to make predictions about the future”, according to History.com.

Pagans would burn crops and animals as sacrifices to their gods, and would wear costumes usually made out of animal heads and skins, to tell each other’s fortunes.

History.com said it was their way of ringing in the new year.

And, just to quell any misconceptions, it’s not the same as Mexico’s well-known Day of the Dead celebration, which is about the afterlife and the continuation of life – not about death and ghosts, like Halloween.

As Britannica explains: “Although often linked to Halloween, the Day of the Dead is a time when death is celebrated, not feared.”

The sixth annual Broadway Halloween Parade

How did Samhain become Halloween?

The Pagan event evolved over time as Celtic culture faded.

After the Roman invasion in 43 AD, two other festivals were incorporated into Samhain.

History.com claims one was called Feralia, a day in late October when Romans honoured the passing of the dead, and the second was a day when Romans, honoured the goddess of fruit and trees, Pomona.

But it really started to change when, according to the US government’s Library of Congress, Pope Gregory III decided to make November 1 the time to honour both known and unknown saints who have attained heaven, in the eighth century.

History.com claimed: “It’s widely believed today that the church was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, church-sanctioned holiday.”

The online encyclopedia, Britannica, explained that All Saints Day – also called All Hallows’ Day – then started to weave in some of the Samhain traditions from the day before.

That meant Samhain started to be called All Hallows’ Eve, which is how we now know it as Halloween.

And once the occasion moved to the US and trick or treat became increasingly common at the start of the 20th Century, History.com claims parents were “encouraged by newspapers and community leaders to take anything ‘frightening or grotesque’ out of the celebrations”.

That’s probably how the event ended up losing its superstitious and religious overtones.

Why do we carve pumpkins?

This tradition actually comes from Ireland, where turnips were used instead of pumpkins.

According to the Library of Congress, the myth comes down to a man called Stingy Jack who supposedly fought with the devil, was rejected by Heaven and refused to go to Hell – so he ended up wandering the world as a ghost.

All he had was just a gift from the devil, a burning lump of coal with a turnip as a source of light – and that’s why we call carved pumpkins called Jack o’Lanterns.

Over time, it became associated with a means to banish evil spirits.

Why do we talk about ghosts so often around Halloween?

Ghosts are often associated with this time of year, because the pagans believed spirits walked the Earth during the festival – a belief reinforced by Christian missionaries who introduced All Souls’ Day.

That’s why we wear scary costumes to repel the spirits.

What about bats?

As bonfires were said to light the way for souls looking into the afterlife – and keep away the evil spirits – the light would attract insects, and therefore draw in bats, which is how spotting bats became part of the festival.

Where did trick or treat come from?

There are several different theories floating around.

One potential explanation is that Celtic people would leave food to appear the spirits travelling the Earth at night – and then people started to try and get in on the trend themselves.

Another suggests people may have been collecting food and money from local homes in return for prayers for the dead on All Souls Day, and it then evolved into trick or treat.

The US Library of Congress said it may have come from the German-American Christmas tradition of “belsnickeling” where children call on their neighbours to see if they can guess who they are. They were rewarded with food or other treats if no one could identify them.

Britannica also pointed out that this custom became popular in the early 20th century as Irish and Scottish communities revived the Old World tradition of “guising”. Someone would dress up, tell a joke, or perform, in exchange for fruit or a treat.

Why do we go bobbing for apples?

It was allegedly a courting ritual that was part of a Roman festival honouring Pomona, who was the goddess of agriculture and abundance.

Essentially, those who played would predict their future relationships based on their performance in the game.

I Was 6 When My Dad Decided We’d Sail Around The World. I Was Trapped On That Boat For Nearly A Decade

Posted on 26/10/2023 by Boris Clair

It has taken me decades to be ready to tell this story. Until I reached the safety of adulthood and created my own family, I wasn’t able to confront my parents’ story about my past. In their telling, I was “privileged.” After all, I grew up on a beautiful boat called Wavewalker, sailing around the world.

Of course I knew their story wasn’t true. Although I had grown up on Wavewalker from the age of seven for almost a decade, I was trapped there — unable to go to school or have friends. While my brother was allowed to help out on deck, I was expected to cook and clean down below for hours each day.

My normal life in England ended when I was six years old and my father announced that we were going to sail around the world. He wanted to recreate Captain Cook’s third voyage, which would take three years. This was a long time – but we would be back, he promised, before I was 10. That meant that even though I was leaving my best friend Sarah, my beloved water spaniel Rusty, and my dollhouse behind, they would all be waiting for me when we returned.

Except that wasn’t what happened. We set sail from England a year after that announcement, and it was a decade before I returned alone at the age of 17. Most of the time in between I lived on Wavewalker and was unable to go to school. We often ran out of fresh food – and sometimes almost ran out of water – on longer voyages. When that happened, we relied on canned and dried food, and my father allowed us each a cup of water a day for drinking and washing.

One of the challenges of my childhood, I grew to understand, was that my parents’ narrative looked true – we seemed to be living a privileged life by being able to sail to gorgeous places like Vanuatu and Fiji in the South Pacific. But the reality was very different.

For a start, I learned early on our voyage how dangerous the ocean could be. A few months after we left England, we were hit by an enormous wave when my father attempted to cross the Southern Indian Ocean accompanied only by two novice crew members, my mother (who didn’t like sailing) and his two small children. I fractured my skull and broke my nose in that accident and had to endure multiple head operations without anaesthesia on the small atoll that we eventually found in the middle of the ocean.

But my life on Wavewalker wasn’t just physically dangerous. Living on a boat for a decade meant that I could rarely have friendships, I had little or no access to medical care and I couldn’t attend school.

As I turned into a teenager, I had no private space. Instead I had to share the one working toilet we had on board with my family and up to eight or nine crew, and to share a cabin with adult crew members.

As the years went on, it became clear that my parents had no intention of fulfilling their promise to return home. I had no way of leaving the boat — I had no passport or money. But more than that, I had nowhere to go.

We’d set sail when I was a small child, and after that I never saw any of my relatives again. Apart from my parents, I had no other adults in my life apart from the crew members who came and went. The only people I saw in authority were the customs and immigration officials who boarded our boat when we arrived in each new country, and they never expressed any interest in the welfare of the two children they found there.

While Wavewalker represented freedom for my parents — they could pull up the anchor and sail away whenever they wanted — it was a prison for me.

I eventually realised that the only way I would ever escape Wavewalker was if I found a way to educate myself. I tried to convince my parents to let me go to school, and six years after setting sail, they finally agreed to allow me to enroll in an Australian correspondence school. I was 13 years old.

While it was clear to me that my only possible escape was through education, studying by correspondence on a boat was very difficult. By this time my father had turned our boat into a sort of “floating hotel” to pay for our endless voyage, and my parents wanted me to work rather than spending my days with my nose in my books.

There were also more practical issues. I had no postal address and I had no space in which to study apart from the one small table in our main cabin. Sometimes I would hide myself inside a sail at the front of the boat to study, knowing no one would come looking for me there. I had to fight my father for paper, which was an expensive commodity in the South Pacific. Whenever we reached a major port, I sent off the lessons I’d completed and asked the school to send them back to the post office at our next port of call, but if my father decided to change course, my lessons went astray.

I found the correspondence lessons very challenging, partially because I had missed a lot of education and because it was very difficult to learn remotely without being able to talk to a teacher. I knew, however, that I had no choice ― it was my only way out.

After three years of studying by correspondence while at sea, when I was 16 and my brother was 15, my parents decided to put my brother into a school in New Zealand. (As my father once explained it to me, my education was less important since I would never have to support a family.)

When my parents sailed away, I was left behind to look after my brother, doing the shopping, cooking and cleaning while he went to school each day and I tried to keep studying by correspondence. For nine months, we lived alone in a small hut beside a lake in a country in which I only knew one adult (who lived several hours away). My father left a small amount of money in a bank account that I could only access by forging his signature.

I kept working through my correspondence lessons, posting them off each week. I also wrote to every university I’d ever heard of, asking them if they would let me apply to be a student. Most wrote back saying that they would not consider me.

The local universities wouldn’t consider me because I was an English citizen, and the English ones wouldn’t consider me because they thought my qualifications were too hard to assess. But eventually Oxford University wrote back and ― after I sent them two essays – offered to interview me if I could find some way to get myself back to England. So I used money I’d earned picking kiwis, together with a small contribution from my father, to buy a one-way plane ticket, betting everything on that meeting.

Amazingly, Oxford gave me a place, and I went to university the following year. By that time, however, my relationship with my parents was tenuous. I really struggled that first year at university — not only because I had almost no money and survived mainly on cans of tomatoes and dried pasta, but also because I found it hard to fit in socially after so many years of isolation.

The good news is that after that tough first year, I started to make friends, and with access at last to libraries and laboratories, I thrived academically. After finishing my degree, I went on to do a Ph.D. at Cambridge University and then joined the U.K. government, working in the Treasury. It was there that I met my wonderful husband, Jeremy. When I became a parent myself — Jeremy and I had three lovely children ― I was determined to treat my children very differently. I make it clear to them that my love will always be unconditional, and that I will always be there for them if they need me.

The author's book about her time on the boat. — The author’s book about her time on the boat.

When my parents eventually returned to the UK, I tried several times to talk to them about the past, but they always reacted defensively, stating that it had “all worked out fine in the end.”

I knew I would probably lose the remaining relationship I had with them when I told the true story about my childhood. However, I never doubted that I would write about my time on Wavewalker.

When my children reached the same age I was when I was struggling with my loneliness and lack of access to education, I at last saw my childhood through a mother’s eyes. I knew that I no longer had an obligation to maintain my parents’ narrative: My childhood was certainly unusual, but it was never privileged.

Author’s Note: This essay is an account of my childhood as I experienced it, and based on extensive diaries and other documents from the time. Others who were present may have experienced it differently. But this is my story.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch.

Turns Out You Need More Than A Good Sense Of Humour To Bag ‘The One’

Posted on 26/10/2023 by Boris Clair

Listen, we all love to laugh. But according to new relationships research from the University of Queensland, being funny isn’t necessarily the key to bagging you a second date.

A team of researchers tested heterosexual couples to find out if humour really is as attractive as we think it is.

They tested two predictions. Firstly, that humour is an attractive trait and secondly that men are more attracted to how women receive their humour, and women are more attracted to men who make them laugh.

Henry Wainright, lead author of the research paper, said the results were quite surprising.

They found that irrespective of sex, participants who laughed more at their partner or people who received more laughs didn’t rate their partner as more or less attractive.

“It’s interesting that this result opposes the commonly held belief that women are more attracted to funny men and that men are more attracted to women who find them funny,” Wainright told PhysOrg.

He continues: “In the past, it was thought that being attracted to funny individuals was useful because your children were more likely to inherit beneficial characteristics, like intelligence.

“However, our results suggest that trying too hard to be funny on a date might be more counterproductive than helpful – you should just be yourself.”

Gigi Engle, a sex and relationships psychotherapist, says we put too much stock in believing that humour is the thing that people are on the lookout for when dating.

“I do think that a shared sense of humour, that shared value, can be really helpful. But what I think is more important for us to have is a sense of emotional connection and emotional safety,” she says.

“Some people might attribute a shared sense of humour to a shared sense of emotional connectedness.”

She suggests that while it’s true that a shared sense of humour can mean you’re on the same page, misunderstanding each other’s sense of humour can also cause rifts in relationships.

“There’s a big difference between thinking your partner is funny, and being safe in the knowledge that your partner understands you,” she adds.

In short: look for emotional connection and laugh away to your heart’s content – or don’t. Just be yourself.

I Told My Mum I Wanted To Get My Tubes Tied At Age 20. Her Response Changed My Life

Posted on 24/10/2023 by Boris Clair

I love my little nephew. He has a kid-sized broom that he uses to dance around in his diapers to Freddie Mercury songs as if it’s his microphone.

And I love my little niece, to whom “uppy” means both “pick me up” and “put me down,” and to whom “no” is a magical word for exercising newfound willpower.

I’m always happy to see them, and I have a great time learning from and with them about the world. But when they go home, and the house is so nice and quiet, I breathe a deep sigh of thanks: I get to give them back!

Then I can decide with my husband, Tim, to suddenly go out for dinner (without a diaper bag or babysitter), to go camping, or to visit a casino. We can go see some raucous band and stay out till 1am, or we can fall asleep on the couch watching TV and drinking wine, and wake up whenever we want.

I’m in the phase of life when so many people I know ache to become parents, but meanwhile, I love being child-free. This is, believe it or not, all thanks to my own mum, who also loved her child-free life before she had kids, and made sure to let me know that was OK.

My mum is a badass. She was a nerd growing up, just like me. And just like me, she wanted to travel and go to college, but she had very few financial resources.

So, one day, she joined the army as an interpreter. She went to a language institute and passed a Russian-language program that only a tiny portion of her incoming class passed, and then flew to Germany to work on a mountaintop compound. She was one of three women in a company of 300 men listening to German and Russian soldiers on the radio, translating it all into English for Army intelligence.

That’s where she met my dad. They got married and travelled, came back stateside, and went to college. Roughly eight years later, they had me.

It’s no wonder, then, that when my mum asked me what I wanted from my life as I was having a teenage existential meltdown, I said: “I just want to have an extraordinary life.”

I wanted to travel, take risks, get into trouble, have adventures, go to college and, eventually, make what I hoped would be a positive difference in the world.

I was inspired by my mum’s own life. And at that time in my world, like her, I felt limited only by money, as I had all the other great propulsive forces of youth, like energy, recklessness and idealism. Plus, after my parents’ divorce, my mum, my brother and I lived in my grandmother’s attic, and space was a little tight.

I wanted to explode outward into newness. So when I did move out of the house with my first boyfriend, at about age 20, and my period was late one month, that potential pregnancy felt to me like a very bad thing – not a boon.

I hadn’t travelled.

I hadn’t gone to college, or had any adventures.

I hadn’t taken any big risks.

I sure hadn’t made a difference in the world.

Nick was a nice boyfriend, and he told me he’d get on board with whatever path I wanted to choose: get married and have the baby, have the baby and not get married, put the baby up for adoption, or get an abortion.

I thought about it for a few days and tried on all of these options in my mind. But after much mulling, the only way that felt right was to go on with my original plan of having a wild and free life. I didn’t want a baby. I didn’t want to be pregnant.

I felt like I was about to get stuck in my hometown for the next few decades, changing diapers and picking out public schools.

I decided I would get an abortion on the same day my period came back of its own volition, and I heaved a mental sigh of relief.

However, I was very aware that I had dodged a big baby-sized bullet, despite all of my birth control efforts from the age of 15 onward. And I decided, if I was not to become a mum, that I wanted to be able to have sex like a man, with fewer consequences in the reproductive department.

The author, in her early 30s, with her mom in Arizona.

I was able to admit to myself for the first time that I knew I did not ever want to have kids – at least not in any traditional biological sense. If I ever changed my mind about mothering, well, there are millions of kids in the world needing homes.

So, I went and talked to the only person I felt might really understand my need to not mother: my mother.

My mum did something very important for me as I was growing up: she’d told me about some of her experiences in the sex realm, helped me to understand what I was feeling when these experiences started to arise for me, and answered all my questions about how this weird and impactful part of life worked.

Because of this open channel of communication, I knew that my grandmother had flown my mum to Japan in the ’60s for an abortion when she was 18, after American doctors they’d consulted said she “didn’t look sad enough” for a procedure here.

And just as I’d hoped she would, my mum helped me. She offered to take me to get an intrauterine device. I said I’d prefer to just have my tubes tied and be done with it, having already heard my fair share of IUD health horror stories (including hers).

And instead of telling me to “just wait and see” or that I would “probably change my mind” like so many other people have, she called around and got me into an abortion clinic, where I sat down with a counsellor and earnestly explained my desire never to have children. Within a week or two, I had an outpatient tubal ligation procedure.

Looking back now, I realise it must have taken my mum a lot of searching to find a doctor willing to perform this on such a young woman with no previous children; most doctors wouldn’t have, whether out of fear of being sued if I did “change my mind,” or because so many people still believe that all women inherently want or ought to have children.

I also know now, having had my own health care plans and understanding what “elective surgery” means, that when my mum said she had “wrangled things out with our health plan,” she meant she had in fact quietly paid for this surgery for me out of pocket.

So here I am, child-free at 40 and at the doorstep of menopause, remembering, with gratitude, this generous gift. I also remember those other voices:

“You might change your mind.”

“You’re just not ready yet.”

“Your biological clock will kick in someday.”

These are sentiments that have floated around me for years, before and after my tubal, not only from the popular media but from people I’ve loved and trusted. And these are mythologies that surround every woman on the planet, every day: the idea that we are born and built to breed.

“Womanhood is not synonymous with motherhood. For many of us, our truest selves are the selves without progeny.”

We are, as an American culture at least, very much in midprocess of correcting this idea. Womanhood is not synonymous with motherhood. For many of us, our truest selves are the selves without progeny.

And when people, often women, ask me how I feel about things now, I tell them wholeheartedly that I’ve never regretted my decision to amend my reproductive capacities – not once. (I’ve even recommended the procedure to interested parties.) But it’s also important to acknowledge that if I did have regret, it would have been my own choice to regret – not anyone else’s. And that kind of regret, born of agency, is still good; it would have been mine to own.

Needless to say, it’s since become important to me that other women know this “child-free by choice” option is viable from early on in our lives.

I would have been a bad mum at 20: resentful and risky and selfish. I’d still be a mostly bad mum – a little more risk-averse, but covetous of my time alone, my mobility, and my ability to have sex anytime I want without period planning, birth control side effects, and potentially life-changing consequences. I’ve gotten to move over 25 times in the past two decades, meet a ton of people, see and do crazy things, and go to college – a lot.

I’ve been able to reallocate my energy to get really good at other things besides mothering. Not that I buy into the “either-or” myth of motherhood; there are many amazing women who can manage an impressive amount of autonomy, professionalism and wildness while still doing right by their children. It’s just that I knew I couldn’t – and I didn’t want to anyway.

And it’s because people listened to me – my mum and the counsellors and doctors at Oregon’s Lovejoy Surgicenter – that I was able to live the life I wanted to live.

So my takeaway here, besides the closely related “vote pro-choice” sentiment, is that when someone, especially a woman, says, “I don’t think parenthood is for me,” we need to honour and respect them in the same way we would an aspiring parent. Both choices are equally natural, equally potent and equally rich with possibility.

Doctors, support women in permanent birth control when they ask for it. Friends and family, believe what women tell you about their bodies.

Then there remains just this little bonus takeaway: We should remember to enjoy, and to spoil, our nieces and nephews, at least a bit, before we give them back to their parents, who chose the hard work that parenthood entails.

Lydia Paar is an essayist and fiction writer. Her essay “Erasure” was of notable mention in the 2022 “Best American Essays” collection, and was the 2020 winner of North American Review’s Terry Tempest Williams Creative Nonfiction Prize. The New England Review nominated her as a finalist for its 2021 Award for Emerging Writers, and her works have been showcased in outlets such as Literary Hub, The Missouri Review, Essay Daily, Witness, Hayden’s Ferry Review and others. The recipient of an MFA from Washington University in St. Louis and a master’s from Northern Arizona University, Paar is also a former recipient of a Frederick & Frances Sommer Fellowship and of a Millay Arts residency. She currently co-edits for the NOMADartx Review and teaches writing at the University of Arizona. Her first full-length essay collection, “The Entrance Is the Exit: Essays on Escape,” is forthcoming from the University of Georgia Press. She can be reached there or at www.lydiapaar.com.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch.

The 3 Things A Brain Health Expert Would Never Do

Posted on 21/10/2023 by Boris Clair

Raise your hand if you’ve ever thought about brain health. No? Well, apparently it’s quite a big deal. And, there are things we absolutely should not be doing that — I hazard a guess – you are doing every single day. I know I certainly have been.

According to neuroscientist and TikToker Emily a.k.a @emonthebrain, there are three big no-nos when it comes to brain health.

But why? How do these three things affect our mood and brain age? If you open your phone first thing in the morning, like to indulge in highly processed food and engage in a little negative self-talk (my personal fave), then you’re going to want to read this.

Time to cut out morning screen-time

Does this sound like you? Wake up in the morning, reach for phone, scroll, scroll some more and then get up?

If it does, this could be why throughout your day you’re addicted to checking your phone. Here’s why.

Turns out, there’s a science to waking up well, and it’s all to do with brain waves.

When you wake up, your brain goes from producing theta to alpha waves. These tell your body you’re in a state of restful wake, rather than sleeping or extremely relaxed. And, according to Emily, this is a time when you are more susceptible to programming. So whatever content you’re consuming will have a greater impact on your mindset.

The result? In her TikTok, Emily says, “It messes up dopamine for the day so we continue to check our phones.”

*Adds traditional alarm clock to basket immediately*

Put a stop to the negative self-talk

“What you say to yourself matters, and the more you say the more it gets wired in. And what’s wired in is what we manifest,” says Emily.

She’s not wrong – the way you speak to yourself affects cognitive function. So if you’re engaging in negative self-talk, you’re more likely to rewire your brain to believe it. Whereas if you opted for affirming language you could teach yourself to feel more positive about yourself.

It’s easy to get caught up in self-flagellating thought processes, there’s enough going on in the world to make us feel bad about ourselves. From comparison on social media to feeling under pressure to achieve more at work.

Approaching these moments with self-compassion and acceptance can help us overcome some of these negative cycles, as can cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT).

No more eating ultra-high processed foods (cries in McDonald’s)

Okay so, bad news. Highly processed foods lead to brain ageing, otherwise known as cognitive decline.

In a study conducted by ZOE, they found that those who ate the least amount of ultra-processed foods experienced slower cognitive decline.

Eating these foods is especially bad for you if you’re over 60, but — there’s some good news. Interestingly, the researchers in this study were only able to identify links between ultra-processed foods and cognitive decline in people with a “generally unhealthy diet”.

A lot of healthy foods and naughty little treats from time to time won’t do you much harm.

So, it’s all about balance!

I Was Given 6 Months To Live. I Made 1 Unexpected Decision That Helped Me Beat The Odds.

Posted on 20/10/2023 by Boris Clair

On October 1, 2021, after having what I had thought was routine thyroid surgery, I was diagnosed with anaplastic thyroid cancer, a cancer so rare that none of my doctors had ever seen it before. It’s so aggressive that it only exists as Stage IV.

The typical survival rate? Six months or less. One in five patients lives 12 months.

It’s October 2023.

I did a 10K race in July. At 6,000 feet. Last winter, I was a ski instructor. I’m a rock ’n’ roll DJ at the mountain town station that I used to stream when I lived in New York, fantasising that I was living here. Now I am. I have the life I’d longed dreamed of.

Every morning, as I watch the sun come up over the mountains I never thought I’d live in again, I give thanks for everything in my life that brought me to this moment. Especially that diagnosis. It taught me that I had no time to waste. It taught me how much I love life — rough, bumpy and hard as it often is. It taught me how much more I wanted to do. And now I’m doing it.

But on that fall day in 2021, I was terrified. I was also furious.

I was two years out from a divorce after an unhappy marriage that I had long wanted to escape but had been afraid to leave. I felt I’d spent years quashing my voice and my spirit to keep that marriage going. Being a wife had become my identity. When the marriage tanked, I felt betrayed by the society that still pushed the fallacy that a woman had to have a man to be something. I felt betrayed by the husband who dumped me. Most of all, I felt I had betrayed myself by staying instead of standing up for myself and leaving.

I was desperate to resurrect the young woman I’d been back when I’d first gone to New York for grad school after ski bumming in Aspen. That me had planned on spending just a few years in the city before returning to the mountains. But you know how it goes: I met a guy, fell in love, marriage, kids, mortgages. And, hey, New York is pretty damn fun — until it nearly kills you.

The author after her second surgery, this one at MD Anderson in Houston, in October 2021.

The final years of my marriage, the divorce and its aftermath were brutal. I routinely woke at 3 a.m. staring into the darkness. My weight plummeted. I landed in the ER with what I thought might be a heart attack but was really a panic attack.

I struggled to pull myself together. I kept on running. I became a certified yoga sculpt instructor. I read self-help books. I not only talked to my therapist once a week, I sent her email after email filled with grief and fury.

And then I did something I never thought I would do: I started singing rock ’n’ roll. Onstage! Me! Who had all but died when faced with piano recitals at St. Patrick’s School. In high school plays, I stayed behind the scenes and did makeup and worked on costumes. I was solidly in the audience.

But now I was running from the firestorm of my old life. I came to a cliff, closed my eyes and jumped. I was desperation personified when I took that leap. I was shaky as hell, but singing in the spotlight gave me a solid piece of ground in a world that had turned into quicksand.

The stage was a place where I could escape my pain for a few hours. But it was still there. The wounds wrought by my past were still raw inside me, haunting my dreams and shadowing my days.

COVID hit. Stages everywhere, including mine, went dark. I lost my refuge.
I still planned to leave New York and return to the mountains, but I was waiting for my youngest child to graduate from high school.

She went off to college. I stayed in New York. COVID still raged. I rationalised it was a bad time to move to a town where I knew no one. And I thought my kids should still have their mama’s place to come home to in New York, even though my new apartment was a fraction of the size of the one they’d grown up in.

The author power-walking with her IV pole, nicknamed Slim, during her MD Anderson treatment.

What it all boiled down to, though, is that I was afraid to leave. Yet again.

So the universe kicked me in the butt. Hard.

As I lay in my bed on that October night in 2021 after being told I had just months to live, I railed against my fate. What gives, universe? I thought we were in sync! C’mon!

I knew one thing: I was getting the hell out of New York. But I wasn’t going to the mountains. I was going to Houston, one of the flattest places in the United States. It’s also home to the MD Anderson Cancer Center, which my cousin discovered has a special clinic — named FAST — that specializes in my type of cancer.

I packed up what I thought I would need in Houston. I ran around New York gathering my medical records. I went out to dinner and drank margaritas with friends.

And then I bought something many people facing cancer like mine would never think to buy: a T-Card, a discount ski pass for Telluride Ski Resort, near where one of my brothers lives in Colorado.

I bought it because of one line in the anaplastic thyroid cancer printout I’d gotten the day of my diagnosis. After learning I probably had just six months to live, I read this sentence: “Despite these discouraging figures…” (Discouraging? I had thought as I read it. What comedian wrote this?) “…there are some long-term survivors.”

“I’m going to be one of them,” I had promised my daughters. We were all crying. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

And that was why I made the decision to buy that ski pass. I was going to do more than live — I was going to be strong and healthy enough to ski. And this purchase was going to be the thing that kept me fighting no matter what came my way.

See that, universe? I thought as I clicked the “buy now” icon.

Five days after my diagnosis, I walked in the doors of MD Anderson.

The FAST clinic was aptly named. MD Anderson kept me on the run. I liked that. I had CT scans, PET scans, brain scans, MRIs, blood tests. I even got to look at my vocal cords during a laryngoscopy.

I had a second surgery.

“The odds aren’t good,” the surgeon told me. And then he added, “But we do cure some people with this cancer.”

I had five weeks of radiation and chemo. I stayed with my cousin in Houston. She has a big house, a bigger heart and a long-suffering husband. Both of my daughters, one accompanied by her boyfriend, came to cheer me on. Each of my three brothers (one with his almost house-trained new puppy), my sister and three of my besties from New York came, one after another. We talked. We power-walked. We partied. I had Zoom calls with friends and family. I couldn’t drink alcohol, but I asked everyone I knew to drink for me. And they did.

I finished my treatment. I rang the proverbial bells, one for my last chemo treatment and one for my last rad cure, as I had started calling radiation. But I wasn’t done with MD Anderson. I had to come back every two months to get scanned. Anaplastic thyroid cancer is like Rasputin — it comes roaring back 80% of the time.

At one point, I noticed a small growth on my face. “It looks fine to me,” said my radiation doctor. “But you never can tell with this cancer. I’m sending you to dermatology.”

The growth was benign and the dermatologist just froze it off, but I remembered the doctor’s respect for this cancer and the need for constant surveillance.

I headed to the mountains of Colorado to be near my Telluride brother. I rented an Airbnb near his family’s home in case my radiation side effects got bad. I hired a moving company to empty my apartment back in New York and put my belongings in storage in Hoboken.

I was scared. I could feel unfamiliar prickling sensations in my neck. Was it just after effects of radiation? Or was it something terrible?

The author running a 10K in Park City, Utah, in July 2023.

Two days before Christmas, I got a call from Houston.

“We think you’re a good candidate for immunotherapy,” the nurse told me. “Can you come back to Houston next week?”

Damn straight I could.

I flew back to Houston. CT and PET scans showed I was still disease-free. I was the perfect candidate for immunotherapy.

“Basically,” my endocrinologist told me, “it opens your immune system’s eyes to cancer.”

It helps my body keep me healthy and disease-free.

“Go back to Colorado and ski,” my endocrinologist told me. “Just don’t break any bones.”

As I walked out of MD Anderson after hearing the good news, I wept tears of joy and gratitude. The deadly cancer I’d been diagnosed with had just become a disease that is chronic but manageable.

On a cold but clear blue-bird-sky January day in 2022, I stepped into my skis and glided over to Lift 7 at Telluride. The liftie scanned my T-Pass and up I went.

On that first run down the hill, I revelled in the moment. The sparkling snow. The crisp air. The sky above me. Skis, mountain, snow, gravity and me, all working together. I was alive!

I wanted to do that first run on my own, but then I caught up with my brother. He and I and one of his ski buddies rode up the Prospect Express lift together.

“What brings you here?” the friend asked me.

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

The author's first time back in her skis and using her T-Pass at Telluride after she finished her cancer treatment (January 2022). — The author’s first time back in her skis and using her T-Pass at Telluride after she finished her cancer treatment (January 2022).

“Well,” I said. And I told my story — Aspen, New York, love, marriage, divorce. And cancer.

“I always planned on returning,” I told him. “And now, finally, I have.”

The friend was silent for a moment and then he looked at me.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Kate Rice is a runner, rock ’n roll singer and stand-up comic who performs mostly in the shower but sometimes on stage. She’s an author and former reporter. She lives in Park City, Utah, where she is a ski instructor and rock ’n roll radio DJ. Her new memoir, “Cured: A Tale of Badassery,” will be released on November 15, 2023.

I’m Almost 30 And I’ve Never Even Had A Crush. I Finally Figured Out Why.

Posted on 18/10/2023 by Boris Clair

I turn 30 in less than two weeks and I’ve only been in one “relationship.”

I was 19 when I met Greg on Grindr. I understand now that the way I felt about Greg is the way I often feel about intimate partners: We enjoyed each other’s company, I found him physically attractive and I could be physically and emotionally intimate with him, but we lacked that “spark” I so often hear about when it comes to romantic partnerships.

I never had even had a crush on Greg; I just enjoyed his company and was excited to finally be in a relationship, this thing that so many people seemed to be after.

We were together for just shy of three months before he broke it off. Right before we split, my dad asked me if I loved Greg. I struggled with the question because it wasn’t something I had even considered. I wavered for a while before I finally said, “maybe … probably” — less because it was how I felt and more because it seemed like the correct answer.

I’ve tried dating a number of times since, but I could never find that warm, gushy feeling, the romance that I’d heard others describe as they pursued new relationships. I enjoyed talking with new suitors and was sometimes attracted to them, but the idea of being in a romantic relationship felt stifling and inauthentic.

Eventually, I realised I was aromantic, which means having little or no romantic attraction to others.

Romance, like gender and sexuality, can be understood as a spectrum. There are folks who fall hard and quickly, easily developing crushes on others, and there are people like me, who simply don’t gravitate to those feelings easily or at all. I am open to the possibility that one day I will have a crush or fall in love, but so far it hasn’t happened.

Not all aromantic people are asexual. I’m surely not. And aromantic people still have love in their lives; they just get it outside of romantic relationships. My life is full of love from my friends, family, even my intimate partners — it’s just not romantic love, that special bond that’s so difficult to put into words (especially as a person who’s never experienced it).

The fact that I have gone the entire decade of my 20s without being in a traditional romantic relationship is often met with a sense of confusion from my peers. This used to feel alienating, but today I know that it isn’t because of some personal fault. The traditional approach to committed relationships just isn’t for everyone.

Since I still crave physical intimacy and sex, I enjoy having partners I can explore those elements of myself with. But our relationships don’t come with many of the same feelings or tethers that a romantic relationship typically would.

I find it challenging to date in a traditional sense. In my mid-20s, after recognising that I was aromantic, I found the term “quasiplatonic relationship.” Quasiplatonic relationships are not romantic but still involve a close connection, often beyond what we may see in a friendship. They may or may not involve sex.

While these might not look like the “traditional” versions, some aromantic people have long-term partners. Some cohabitate and even get married. Seeking out this kind of relationship was a challenge for me, however. Trying to find another person who was a good fit, and who was also looking for a relationship that wasn’t traditionally romantic, started to feel just as restrictive as shooting for a committed romance.

Over time, the idea of seeking out and being with a single monogamous partner also began to feel extremely limiting. Nonmonogamy wasn’t really a conscious choice I made; rather, it eventually clicked that there was no other option for me. As an aromantic person with different relationship needs than most, having multiple partners who could offer me a number of different things felt most conducive to my identity as I was beginning to understand it.

Eventually, I stumbled upon the phrase “relationship anarchy,” which to me means my relationships have a more fluid structure, without hierarchical differentiation between sexual, romantic and platonic relationships.

After a decade of trying to fit inside one specific box society deemed “correct,” I’ve found solace in stepping outside of it and creating my own box, one that works for me.

Today, I have a number of relationships in which I embrace varying levels of intimacy. Some are mostly physical; others feel more like close friendships. We’re invested in each other’s lives, we hang out together ― some on a regular basis, and others simply when we can make it work ― and sometimes we share physical intimacy. I now understand that I operate best by simply letting things flow and figuring out naturally how a person fits into my life.

This year I started a relationship with a man who is in an open marriage. This dynamic feels comfortable for me, in that we can share a connection without there being broader romantic expectations — we aren’t necessarily aiming for anything bigger. We’re focused on the now, whatever we end up cultivating together. We talk intimately about our lives and goals. We do things that friends would do together. Sometimes we have sex, but it’s not an integral part of our relationship either.

I consider myself single, and I prioritise my relationship with myself first and foremost. After the one with myself, some of the most valuable relationships in my life are those I have with my platonic friends. Most of my spare time goes to my best friend, and my relationship with her often feels the most profound and connected.

As a queer nonbinary person who is attracted to folks of all gender identities, I’ve begun to see the idea that we are all meant to have a single romantic partner in our lives as outdated, part of a rigid cisheteronormative system that exists to uphold traditional family structure.

I don’t want children and I’m not sure I ever want to get married, so for me that concept has often felt fraudulent. There’s nothing wrong with preferring traditional monogamous relationships, but humans are complicated, and the idea that all 8 billion of us should treat relationships in this one limited way ignores how expansive our identities can be. It’s selling our species short to insist we all conform to such stringent guidelines, and it ignores history and culture to claim that this has always been the case.

I currently have no desire to date, as I pretty much have everything I need. I am always open to new relationships, but I don’t have guidelines for what they “need to” offer me. It’s simply up to me and that other person to decide what works best for us.

As I write this essay, I am preparing to fly to my home state of Colorado to celebrate the weddings of two longtime friends. I love to see those I hold close find what they need and affirm it. I think romantic love is beautiful, and I’d love to experience it for myself one day. I also accept that maybe it just isn’t in the cards for me.

I am open about my journey to give others like me, who have struggled with the standard relationship models, permission to venture out and explore their own paths. If there’s one thing my 20s have taught me, it’s that many of the rules and guidelines we have in society are arbitrary. I get so much validation from those in the younger generations who decided early on that they would go their own way, and from older folks who throw away the rulebook they’ve lived by for the majority of their adult lives.

I also admit that I don’t have it all figured out. I’ve settled on a dynamic that works for me today, but I leave myself open to any possibilities that present themselves as I journey through life, rather than comparing my experience to that of others. I can’t wait to see what lies ahead.

So THAT’s When We Should Start Preparing For Menopause

Posted on 17/10/2023 by Boris Clair

Picture this. Lately, you’ve not been feeling yourself, sex has become painful and your periods are haywire. You’re feeling anxious, depressed and all ’round things just don’t feel right. Your hair is thinning, you’re forgetting things, having heart palpitations, migraines and hot flushes. The worst part, you don’t know why.

Menopause usually begins between the ages of 45-55, with perimenopause (the period of time before menopause where symptoms begin) starting up to 15 years beforehand. While menopause usually hits in middle age, some people will experience it before the age of 40 – this is known as early menopause and affects 5% of women.

A recent study conducted by the Women’s Health Journal in 2022 found that a staggering 90% of participants had never been taught a single thing about menopause. As a result, 60% reported feeling unprepared and uninformed.

Common themes emerged in the study relating to knowledge gaps and the impact and severity of symptoms. Being unaware of menopause comes from a lack of education and social taboo surrounding “women’s troubles”. Those of us who experience menopause are more likely to speak to a friend about symptoms than their partner, or even a doctor.

It’s perhaps unsurprising, then, when HuffPost UK sat down to speak with Dr Shirin Lakhani, an award-winning cosmetic doctor and intimate health specialist, that she tells us; “When I was growing up, my grandma, and my mom never talked about going through menopause, they never talked about the symptoms they experienced.”

Menopause is caused by the natural biological decline in female fertility. Egg reserves run out, oestrogen production fizzles as the ovaries become less functional and, slowly but surely, the female reproductive organs cease to function the way they used to. Periods stop and pregnancy is no longer possible.

Dr Helen O’Neill, CEO and Founder of Hertility Health, says that; “The main perimenopausal symptoms are changes in menstrual cycles, often accompanied by hot flushes and night sweats (known as vasomotor symptoms).”

But this natural wind down doesn’t end in a soft landing for everyone.

“For men, hormones decline like a gentle stroll down a hill. For women, we fall off a cliff,” says Dr Lakhani.

The sudden onset of menopause symptoms can be debilitating.

“Perimenopause and menopause affect many other parts of the body, and cause symptoms such as mood changes, memory issues, joint pain, vaginal dryness and sexual dysfunction,” says Dr O’Neill.

For many menopausal people, it can have a huge impact on their relationships and careers.

Shelly Hatfield, Middlesbrough Manager at LUSH and Menopause CN Chair, tells me that for her, menopause almost made her resign. “At one point I was going to throw in the towel and pack in my job because I was having a hard time,” she says, “And then I realised it was just that I wasn’t being open enough about it.”

Shelly isn’t alone in this. Shame can prevent many women from reaching out to employers for help. Up to 10% of people leave the workplace because of menopause despite the fact that those in this age group are typically at the peak of their careers. This is because employers are failing those experiencing menopause. Eight out of ten women say their employer hasn’t shared information, trained staff, or put in place a menopause absence policy.

Shelly knew she would have to take it upon herself to make change happen. “I started talking to the right people, and people were listening and very interested so we set up the menopause network community and soon we had 66 members,” she tells HuffPost UK.

Her proactive thinking has now meant LUSH sales assistants have received specialist training on menopausal symptoms and are able to recommend products that can help with symptoms like restless leg syndrome, general aches and pains and sleep disturbances.

This training has normalised conversations surrounding menopause, creating space for their customers to feel supported and seen. Additionally, staff at LUSH now have access to training materials and internal support systems that create something of a safety net for menopausal employees.

Education on menopause is seriously lacking, and the workplace is only one location that needs more resources. Dr Lakhani tells HuffPost UK that, in her opinion, schools should be teaching menopause as part of the sex education curriculum. “I think you need to have the education in place to understand what’s happening to your bodies,” she says.

And yet, menopause isn’t something we learn about in school, despite 86% of women reporting that they would very much like it to be.

Truth is, little is done proactively to assist those experiencing menopause symptoms across the board. Sometimes this is because of cultural taboos, but there is also discrimination at play.

One 2023 study found that doctors were significantly more likely to prescribe HRT (hormone replacement therapy) for white women than for other ethnicities. Highlighting the need for more education surrounding racial bias and menopause amongst GPs.

So, when should I start prepping? And, how do I prepare?

“You’re never too young to start learning about menopause,” says Dr Lakhani, who is of the belief that having as much knowledge as possible on what symptoms can look like, and being in tune with how those symptoms appear in your body is of great importance.

She says that most people think of hot flushes and the absence of periods when they think of menopause. But, when it comes to seeking support, these symptoms are the last thing on their mind. She explains that while the physical symptoms can be an inconvenience for her patients, and in some cases quite debilitating, most of them can take it in their stride.

“What they’re not prepared for, is the mental health issues that go along with the hormonal changes. Anxiety, depression, losing all their confidence, feeling like they don’t belong in the environment that they’re in, they get impostor syndrome,” Dr Lakhani lists.

Explaining further, Dr Lakhani says that the best way to prepare is to get to know your base level of normal and monitor any symptoms you feel creeping up on you. Be that achy joints or sudden feelings of anxiety or depression (especially if you’ve never experienced these things in the past).

If you’re concerned you’re beginning perimenopausal, the best thing to do is speak with your GP about your symptoms. “A thorough medical evaluation and discussion of symptoms with a healthcare professional are vital steps in understanding your menopausal transition,” advises Dr O’Neill.

Dr O’Neill explains that there are several tests that can provide valuable information on where you’re up to. “Hormone level testing, such as measuring follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) can help determine if you’re approaching menopause. Other hormones (such as oestradiol and luteinising hormone) can also be helpful to assess whether you are going through menopause,” she says.

Continuing, she states that, importantly, these tests should be analysed along with your menstrual cycle patterns and symptoms. “This is why you cannot diagnose menopause in people who are using hormonal contraception, as these medications skew natural levels of FSH as well as affect your menstrual cycles,” she says.

Her advice to anyone worrying about menopause, or wanting to know more, is to learn about the symptoms, available treatments and lifestyle adjustments you can make.

“They will empower you to manage this phase effectively,” she encourages. “By fostering open dialogue and eradicating the stigma associated with menopause, we empower women to take charge of their health and well-being during this significant life transition.”

I Travelled To Israel To Finally Meet The Man Of My Dreams. 12 Hours Later, The War Began.

Posted on 16/10/2023 by Boris Clair

I left Israel on Wednesday, 12 October, and everyone I know is relieved I am safe.

My friends and loved ones can sleep tonight, knowing I am back in Canada. They have done me proud: They have fretted and worried and fussed. They have checked in. They have asked me how I am doing and feeling and if there is anything they can do to help. They have offered sincere condolences, sympathised with the situation, and promised me that everything will be OK. I am very grateful to have people who love me so much.

I am safely ensconced in our bubble of collective ignorant bliss — but I do not feel safe.

This is Avichai Refael Sofer:

Avichai Refael Sofer, the author’s boyfriend. “Avichai took this selfie immediately after we parted ways at the airport,” the author writes.

He is a 29-year-old Jewish Israeli citizen living outside of Tel Aviv. He works a job, goes to school, hangs out with his friends, and has hopes and dreams for the future. He is one face out of millions of faces. He is no more and no less important than those millions of other faces — both Israeli and Palestinian — who have never felt (and may not ever feel) safe.

We met online in late 2020, in the earliest days of the COVID-19 pandemic. He “woofed” at me on a gay dating site called Scruff from 10,700 miles away, reaching out across the distance because I had a “kind face.”

We began a very lighthearted yet intimate correspondence that stretched on for several years. He was bright and funny and playful, handsome as fuck, smart as a whip, and wise beyond his years. We would talk about his dream to see Canada, how he longed to experience the Northern Lights, and how much he wanted to visit Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver… and Halifax… and Quebec City… and Calgary… Once he fully comprehended the vastness of Canada as compared to Israel (which is similar in size to the state of New Jersey), we decided he would have to visit more than once if he was going to see everything his heart desired

It was easy. He lived there — I lived here. It was a dream.

Over time, our correspondence turned into a relationship, and then it was not so easy. It was real — and real is harder.

We texted all the time and FaceTimed for hours, and though we lived thousands of miles apart and had never met in person, we fell madly and hopelessly in love.

I bought my ticket to Israel on 6 September. We planned “nine days in heaven” from 6 – 15 October. We would be together in just one month’s time.

Avichai organised the most beautiful vacation for us in the land he calls home: visiting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, camping under the stars in the heart of the Negev, and spending time in Haifa and Zefat in the North. In what would turn out to be a cruel and ominous bit of foreshadowing, I told him that none of the details mattered — that I’d be happy to spend all nine days alone with him, locked in his room, just being together.

I landed at Ben Gurion International Airport on Friday, 6 October at 8pm. Avichai was waiting for me with a sign that said “bumblebee” and the brightest smile I had ever seen. We hugged, cried, and looked into each other’s eyes, and it was easy again.

We drove back to his place, chatting excitedly about the nine-day adventure that awaited us, and I felt on top of the world.

Avichai had prepared me a sumptuous Shabbat dinner, which we ate with abandon. There was nothing to fear. We were together.

We awoke very late on Saturday, 7 October, to 38 missed calls and hundreds of unread text messages from his family and friends. Something had happened, but with my extremely limited understanding of Hebrew, I had no idea what. As Avichai began to return the missed calls, I opened my phone and read the headline: “Netanyahu says, ‘We Are at War.’”

It did not feel real until I felt Avichai’s hand on my shoulder and heard him say, “We need to talk about some things.”

He started by assuring me that everything would be all right — that we were not in any immediate danger — and then he told me to put on some pants. He explained that most of the fighting was in or near Gaza, which is 70 km to the south of where he lived. With tears welling in his eyes, he laid out the atrocities that had taken place while we slept: the rockets launched, the destruction, the terror, the hundreds of Israeli people killed or taken hostage.

He made it clear that there would be many more rockets. He calmly told me that when we heard the air raid siren, we would have 90 seconds to make our way to the bomb shelter in the basement of his building. There, we would wait out the barrage, and once a minute had passed from the end of the siren, we could return to his apartment. We would shelter in his building for the rest of the day, assessing the situation as it developed. We would not be going outside. He asked me if I understood, and I told him I did.

I did not understand a single thing that was happening. How was this even possible? Nothing in my privileged life had prepared me for this. Air raid sirens? Rockets? What about our vacation? What about our nine days in heaven?

Admittedly, I have a very narrow understanding of Middle Eastern politics. I, like many people, receive my “news” via Western media, a sanitised version of “the truth” (whatever that is at any given time) that typically follows the narrative of whichever government is currently in power. We receive just enough information to know something is terribly wrong in the region, but most of us do not grasp exactly what or why and after we put down our phones or turn off our TVs, we continue living our lives without much thought of what these people are facing.

The first siren sounded in the early evening. Avichai, very calmly, reached for my hand and said, “Grab your phone and your glasses. We’re going downstairs now.”

He led me to the basement — the “bomb shelter” — and put his arms around me.

“Everything is going to be OK,” he promised.

The author (left) and Avichai inside the bomb shelter in Avichai's apartment building. — The author (left) and Avichai inside the bomb shelter in Avichai’s apartment building.

When the dull thuds began, I thought, “This isn’t so bad.” When the rending, unearthly scream of metal meeting mortar began, the walls shook, the windows rattled, dust fell from the ceiling, and my bones moved inside my body. I told myself, “This isn’t so bad.”

I was lying — it was bad.

It was just about as bad as anything I have ever experienced.

I lied to myself, and I lied to Avichai because it was all I could do. I needed him to believe I was OK so he would be OK. I understand now — far removed from the daily onslaught of sirens and rockets — that he lied to me, too. It was all he could do. He needed me to believe he was OK so I would be OK.

As the sirens came and went, his brothers were called into service. As the trips down and up the stairs came and went, his best friend was called into service. Sometimes, there were no sirens at all, just an overbearing silence from the sky that was suddenly ruptured by explosions. The walls shook, the windows rattled, the bones moved inside my body, and we lied to each other.

This was the way of things. The pretence. I saw it in the faces of the people in the building who would join us in the shelter: The woman with the 1-year-old who never cried once, the elderly lady from the first floor with knees not meant for climbing long flights of stairs, the girl with the wet hair and a towel wrapped around her midriff; the boy from the next building over with the pottery mud drying on his hands.

These were our “instant friends,” they smiled and made me feel welcome. They promised me that “Israel is a beautiful country.” They said, “You’ll see when you come back.” And when I returned their smile and said, “I’ll see when I come back,” I did not lie.

I left Israel on Wednesday, 12 October at 12:40am on a flight to Dubai after four days and four nights of war, and I do not regret my trip. I got to be with the man I loved. We held each other tight, we played Dungeons and Dragons and listened to music, we ate good food, we talked about important things and not-so-important things, we laughed and cried and felt alive. And though we were not safe, I felt safe with him.

The hardest part of my “vacation” was letting go of his hand, averting my gaze from his beautiful brown eyes, and walking away to find my gate and wait for my flight. I asked him to come with me to Canada, away from the chaos, but he refused. He said he cannot leave his family.

I equally respect and loathe his decision. There is a decidedly real probability that I will never see him again. I cannot look after him if we are not together, which is terrifying.

It is possible to be both pro-Israel and pro-Palestine if you are pro-human being. Israel is not those in power who would see Gaza razed to the ground, just as Palestine is not the group that is raining rockets down on Israel. We must separate the regime from the people, just as we must separate the terrorists from the people.

I don’t want to speak for the people of Israel or Palestine and won’t pretend I could ever understand what they have been through or are going through now, but I know the average Israeli and the average Palestinian do not want war — they want to listen to music, eat good food, talk about important and unimportant things, laugh, cry, feel alive and above all else feel safe.

They want to live.

I am back in Canada, re-ensconced in my bubble, and I recognise how fortunate and privileged I am to return home to a place where I do not have to worry about my safety or the safety of my family and friends. But I can say I do not feel safe.

I will not be safe until the man that I love is safe. I will not be safe until the woman with the 1-year-old who never cried once, the elderly lady with knees not meant for long flights of stairs, the girl with the towel wrapped around her midriff, and the boy with the pottery mud drying on his hands are safe. I will not be safe until the innocent people in Palestine are safe.

The author (right) with his boyfriend Avichai in Israel in October 2023. "This photo is from the only night we went outside to eat," he writes. — The author (right) with his boyfriend Avichai in Israel in October 2023. “This photo is from the only night we went outside to eat,” he writes.

Ultimately, I do not care if someone is Israeli or Palestinian. I only care that they are human beings.

I FaceTimed with Avichai this morning before I finished writing this essay. He had traveled to the North to be with his parents. There have been many sirens. His sister came by with her children. His brother-in-law came by with his nephew and niece.

The sky above him was alive with the heavy hum of military aircraft.

More innocent people are dead.

He sent me a short video of his family outside, singing and dancing in the late afternoon sun.

More innocent people will surely die.

Avichai told me he is good, and I allowed the lie.

He said seeing me outside on a rare sunny day in mid-October in Vancouver makes him happy.

I told him I am good, and he allowed the lie, too.

Robbie Romu is a freelance writer living and working in Vancouver, Canada. He can be reached at robbie.blogs@gmail.com.

Yes, Really – Period Sex Is Good For You (And Here’s How To Do It)

Posted on 10/10/2023 by Boris Clair

The number one film on Netflix at the moment, Fair Play, is an erotic thriller where the two characters have to conceal their relationship due to work policy.

As the film progresses, tensions rise as one is promoted and their relationship takes a dark turn.

However, this tension isn’t actually what’s got people talking, it’s actually a scene featuring period sex. Once considered highly taboo, this scene has been praised by Men’s Health, GQ, and viewers on X.

Love that the first few minutes of Fair Play shows that sex can be messy too and a lot of things, like a sudden period, can go on. We’ve had enough of those always perfect wattpad sex scenes pls. ✋🏽

— Simi (@simikunleoni) October 8, 2023

While period sex is unexpected in the film, it can actually be incredibly beneficial and enjoyable for both parties as long as you’re both comfortable and consenting.

Additionally, according to a period sex survey carried out by the period experts at Bodyform, half of adults say that they’d ‘never’ have period sex but 39% of people that get periods say that during their period is when they’d be most inclined to have sex.

So, what are the benefits of period sex?

So, aside from being something that 39% of us just want to be doing on our periods, what are the actual health benefits of having sex during your period?

According to Healthline, the biggest downside to having period sex is just the mess. Blood can get on you, your partner and your bedsheets, especially if you have a heavy flow. But, when isn’t sex just a little messy? Isn’t that part of the fun? Just me?

However, when it comes to the benefits of period sex, it seems that they can make having a period… almost enjoyable which is huge news for the 80% of us that will experience period pain at least once in our lifetimes.

This is because when you have an orgasm, the muscles of your uterus contract and release, bringing relief from period cramps. Of course, sex also triggers the release of endorphins, which are “feel good hormones”.

Finally, if you’re a migraine sufferer that tends to experience attacks during your period, a 2013 study found that many of those who do have sex during their periods say it partially or entirely relieves their attacks.

Are there any risks to having sex during your period?

Regardless of where you are in your cycle, you should practice safe sex but during your period, you should take extra caution. According to Sherry A.Ross, MD and women’s health expert, “It’s possible to not only get pregnant during your period but also to contract an STI.”

How to have period sex

Basically, it’s up to you! According to the period experts at Clue, some people choose to have sex in the shower to reduce mess while others simply put a towel down and others just enjoy getting a little bit messy!

Your period and sex life are both individual to you so whatever you think you’d feel most comfortable doing is what matters. If you’ve never done it before, you may want to work your way up to doing it without the shield of a shower or towel but there’s no shame in diving right in and either way, your uterus will thank you!

Let’s hope that representation like on Fair Play helps to stop period sex stigma all together.

WellnessMaster

Get The Latest News on Holistic Wellness

Tag Archives: Life