#exercising while disabled

[enbycrip]

I’ve not been posting about various stuff I’ve been doing over the last few weeks for various reasons - partially sheer exhaustion, partially a sort of weird holdover of “not wanting to go on about things because that’s performative” thing, partially that, tbh, much of the time when I’m posting I’m so *tired* that dragging complicated things about my own life out is so emotionally taxing and difficult that posting about them feels like a spoon hit I don’t have the capacity available to absorb.

But that’s probably not helpful. So here we are. Post One is going to be about the rehab programme because that’s been one of the main focuses of my time and energy since November.

I’m in the last week of my initial free 12-week chronic joint pain rehab programme at Nuffield Health, which has meant free membership there with specific classes which include exercise and also a whole bunch of advice on things that are supposed to affect pain. I’ve found it - complex but overall positive?

- It’s a rolling programme so when I first joined I was with a whole bunch of older women near the end of their programmes. That was really difficult for gender reasons, feeling maybe this wasn’t aimed at me at all etc etc. It became much more positive as they rolled off and a much more diverse group of folk in gender and age rolled on with me, and I’m honestly going to miss my peers in this. I’m still the youngest in the group, and I’ve not talked about gender in it because honestly that’s spoon-heavy, but it’s been a lot less difficult genderfeels-wise than I initially feared. I have been wearing my pronoun badges at least. I’d love some more Pride and non-binary-specific gym gear - please feel free to link any you know out there from ethical companies; I suspect a lot of it may be beyond my price range, but saving up exists.

- My initial health check showed I had put on a *lot* more weight than I thought, so I’ve been doing my best to utterly revamp my diet and how much sugar I was eating in particular as a maladaptive way to manage fatigue. My next health check is on Thursday after my last class and I’m trying *really* hard not to hope that I’ve lost tons of the weight because a) weight is not an indicator of health or worth b) I’ve been doing a LOT of weights work over that time and it’s entirely possible I’ve acquired a lot more muscle. This would be a very good thing. Trying to manage all of this and getting to a better way of eating with the old ED demon on my shoulder has been *complex* AF tbh. I do actually really need to thank person-centred therapy, many years in the disabled community in general, and FatDoctor and other people in the fat-positive community, esp the trans part, for this not fucking up my head more than it has. I should probably drop my old therapist a personal email to thank her for the help she was to me on this - is that a weird thing for an ex-patient to do? Does that cross boundaries?

- The “general advice on things that are supposed to reduce pain” bit was a barrier for me because it brings up so much trauma about pain clinics and other medical BS about pain over the last decade plus. The fact that it’s ten minutes before exercise has helped; not enough time to build up anger and then physical activity to release it. It’s also helped that we’ve had a lot of group discussions and almost everyone there is chronically ill or chronically injured so it’s been sharing experiences of the genuine systemic life problems that come with that and a *lot* of discussions about how unhelpful the wider medical system has been. Patient solidarity is helpful. Who’d have thunk it? 😜

- I’ve had to *keep* fighting my own “ADHD extremes” personality tendencies all the way through this, as I have through much of the last decade plus. I am *bad* at not throwing myself at things I’m trying to really engage with, y’all. I am *bad* at sensible moderation. It’s not how my brain works at *all*. But I’ve only had one sublaxion and one POTS collapse in the entire programme, and I am fucking proud of myself for that.

- That notwithstanding, this has been A Lot, esp as one of the classes is on a Thursday, the day I see my brother. I don’t talk about him on social media a lot because he is nonspeaking and can’t consent to me sharing stuff about him, but getting weekly contact with him again has been incredibly important to me, and to him, from what he has communicated to me. It’s also high-energy and sometimes exhausting, when he is having a particularly high-energy day, or a tough day, and means cleaning up afterwards. Given how often much less high-energy social contact just kicks the shit out of me, I’m really proud that I’ve missed very few days with him, but it has been *exhausting*. I have spent every Wednesday and most weekends since starting the programme entirely in bed, just crawling to the bathroom, and even with that I am *still* just bone-deep exhausted right now, though I think some of that is still fallout from the *great* weekend away we went to for a friend’s 50th a fortnight ago, of which I *still* spent much too much time in bed.

- I think that, no matter how hard I tried not to, I let myself somewhat entertain the idea that this programme might utterly transform my health if I put enough work into it. Because no matter how hard I try not to, it’s *difficult* not to get sucked into the prevailing medical orthodoxy about fatigue disorders that a big part of the fatigue is “deconditioning” and fixing that will fix the fatigue. Instead, I’m doing a thing that is genuinely helping my mobility but any effect on fatigue levels is very much on the “increasing” scale than otherwise, despite the level of pacing involved (which is the only thing that lets me do anything at all). So after the classes end I am going to be in the space where I need to keep on doing this to keep the mobility improvements and the long-term effects on my health (particularly re reducing my huge osteoporosis risk) and that is going to be *tough*. Some of it will help, esp re the flexibility to pace around other things I’m doing, but making sure I *keep* doing this when it’s going to mean keeping on having to ask my dad for lifts to the gym and the level of exhaustion involved is going to be *tough*. Going to do my best to keep up with other group people there in the hope that will help.

- Doing this at a time when, frankly, Labour is increasing attacks on disability support is extra-scary. I am *really* afraid any improvements in mobility etc will be read as “well you’re cured then” as opposed to “you’re improving prospects for your longer term health and increasing your capacities in certain ways but the work it takes to do and maintain that has at best huge knock-on effects on the energy, including the cognitive energy, available to do anything else with”. The proposed cuts to Access To Work mean any work I can ever get is even more going to have to be remote, which is scary too. The way disability is continually viewed in such zero-sum, capitalist-centered ways continues to just sap my energy across the board, and I’ve got so little to start with.

[primrosebitch]

Tbh it really is something to have grandmothers (one late 70s other late 80s) who are in better shape than you are, like I go see my grandma and we walk somewhere and i'll be panting before she's even slightly out of breath and it's not like she's in the best of conditions either, and then don't even get me started on my other grandma, she still does sports.

[autistic-katara]

are u even queer if u havent pounced on an opportunity to get beat up by ur crush?

[mo-ondial]

does apple watch seriously force you to set a standing goal of at least 6 hours??? im disabled?? if this thing tells me to stand up im killing it

[toomanyacronyms]

I love that I have to Google heat exhaustion symptoms for my shift at work tomorrow because none of my bosses believe me when I say cannot physically walk/move for 4-5 hours straight without moderate/severe symptoms. One of them "promised I won't get heat stroke" but I'm still at a higher risk of heat exhaustion!

I'm getting a doctor's note next week at my appointment. I might not have a job after I give it to my job but I think I'm okay with that. They've been trying to get me to quit for the last year and a half anyways.

[arctic-hands]

The fact that my official diagnosis for my knees so far is chronic patellafremoral syndrome is so fucking dumb because the other name for that is "runner's knee" and I quite obviously Do Not Do That

[yuribeam]

& listen to your body! you do not have any obligation to exercise if it would hurt you or even if you just don't want to. it's okay to rest, it's okay to be "lazy"

Shout out to fat people with chronic pain. Use that mobility aid, get yourself a tasty treat, and don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Your body deserves love and care no matter what!

[enbye]

Rarely have I felt the frustration that I'm feeling now from not having health insurance. I just got a theory for the cause of my leg pain but i can't run it by a professional bc the stupid us government hates poor people!!! And also the medical industry hates poor people.

(And I'm not even that poor rn)

I guess I'll just do what any sane person would do and post it on the internet for strangers to comment on

Basically, I've dealth with leg pain for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest (and only) memories post 5-6 years old is taking a handful of pills. 1 adhd med and 3 pain killers. And I think 1 other drug but idk anyway

My leg pain hasn't really decreased since then, my pain tolerance has just increased. The only thing that decreases my leg pain is decrease the use of my legs. In fact, like I said, my leg pain *never* gets better from time OR exercise. I used to regularly go the gym!! I liked doing it! But when the muscle soreness from running o. The treadmill would go away and I'd go back to college, the walking from class to class would hurt just as bad as it did before I started exercising. You'd think, that with how exercise works, I'd be able to handle more the more I exercise, but no! My muscle pain stays the same no matter what. The same activities that caused pain, still cause the same amounts of pain even after I start committing to regular exercise. When I do doubles, I still hurt just as bad at the end of the day as I did when I started doing doubles. Doesn't matter how long I've been doing them, it still hurts just the same.

so, you must be thinking, "oh, well, sage, you must not be gaining any muscle tone!" WRONG!

My thighs are actually really well defined. I'd post a pic but I don't want weirdos looking at my thighs so ig you pervs will just have to use your imagination. I weigh, like 110ish pounds, and I promise you, most of that is my thighs. They're probably the biggest part of my body and it's all muscle. They're hard even when I'm not actually flexing, and even more so if I am, ofc. People have been genuinely shocked by how much muscle I have in my thighs, bc you wouldn't think it! My thighs are very strong tho

So, my theory would be that maybe I have smth that causes rapid and/or easy tears of the myofibrils in my thighs, therefore causing increased hypertrophy (or muscle growth). Basically, where my muscles are reacting to ANY bit of exercise like it's intensive training, and is tearing from basically anything I do, and bc it's having to heal so much I've experienced more hypertrophy than what one would expect from my usual activity level. Or maybe like a condition where that's a symptoms or a byproduct or smth idk

[5-htagonist]

lol i did acid the other day and realized once again how deeply deeply autistic i am for art and media. and characters. and specifically laios and kabru. god bless

[curlicuecal]

playing science telephone

Hi folks. Let's play a fun game today called "unravelling bad science communication back to its source."

Journey with me.

Saw a comment going around on a tumblr thread that "sometimes the life expectancy of autism is cited in the 30s"

That number seemed..... strange. The commenter DID go on to say that that was "situational on people being awful and not… anything autism actually does", but you know what? Still a strange number. I feel compelled to fact check.

Quick Google "autism life expectancy" pulls up quite a few websites bandying around the number 39. Which is ~technically~ within the 30s, but already higher than the tumblr factoid would suggest. But, guess what. This number still sounds strange to me.

Most of the websites presenting this factoid present themselves as official autism resources and organizations (for parents, etc), and most of them vaguely wave towards "studies."

Ex: "Above And Beyond Therapy" has a whole article on "Does Autism Affect Life Expectancy" and states:

The link implies that it will take you to the "research studies" being referenced, but it in fact takes you to another random autism resource group called.... Songbird Care?

And on that website we find the factoid again:

Ooh, look. Now they've added the word "some". The average lifespan for SOME autistic people. Which the next group erased from the fact. The message shifts further.

And we have slightly more information about the study! (Which has also shifted from "studies" to a singular "study"). And we have another link!

Wonderfully, this link actually takes us to the actual peer-reviewed 2020 study being discussed. [x]

And here, just by reading the abstract, we find the most important information of all.

This study followed a cohort of adolescent and adult autistic people across a 20 year time period. Within that time period, 6.4% of the cohort died. Within that 6.4%, the average age of death was 39 years.

So this number is VERY MUCH not the average age of death for autistic people, or even the average age of death for the cohort of autistic people in that study. It is the average age of death IF you died young and within the 20 year period of the study (n=26), and also we don't even know the average starting age of participants without digging into earlier papers, except that it was 10 or older. (If you're curious, the researchers in the study suggested reduced self-sufficiency to be among the biggest risk factors for the early mortality group.)

But the number in the study has been removed from it's context, gradually modified and spread around the web, and modified some more, until it is pretty much a nonsense number that everyone is citing from everyone else.

There ARE two other numbers that pop up semi-frequently:

One cites the life expectancy at 58. I will leave finding the context for that number as an exercise for the audience, since none of the places I saw it gave a direct citation for where they were getting it.

And then, probably the best and most relevant number floating around out there (and the least frequently cited) draws from a 2023 study of over 17,000 UK people with an autism diagnosis, across 30 years. [x] This study estimated life expectancies between 70 and 77 years, varying with sex and presence/absence of a learning disability. (As compared to the UK 80-83 average for the population as a whole.)

This is a set of numbers that makes way more sense and is backed by way better data, but isn't quite as snappy a soundbite to pass around the internet. I'm gonna pass it around anyway, because I feel bad about how many scared internet people I stumbled across while doing this search.

People on quora like "I'm autistic, can I live past 38"-- honey, YES. omg.

---

tl;dr, when someone gives you a number out of context, consider that the context is probably important

also, make an amateur fact checker's life easier and CITE YOUR SOURCES

[mousegirlheart]

it's really annoying being fat and disabled because everyone always assumes i just need to lose weight and i won't be disabled anymore. that im just lazy or something. they never consider the fact that i actually became disabled while i was thin. the chronic pain began when i was thin. my loss of mobility happened when i was thin. i used to go on runs several times a week. i walked and biked absolutely everywhere. my job allowed to do good manual labour every day, lots of heavy lifting and exercise. i ate healthy and balanced. i didn't become fat until after my disability left me functionally housebound. they just tell me, lose the weight, fatty, and the disability will go away. they don't understand. they don't want to. they just hate fat people. they hate disabled people. I'm fat and disabled. they despise me for daring to exist.

[moss-opossum]

I've been working out consistently for just over a decade now. For the past three or so years, I've been exercising 5-6 days per week while not recovering from surgery, migraines, or injuries.

I love exercise, it does so much for me; it has been the only thing I could enjoy in the darkest times of my life; and on days where I exercise first thing in the morning, my chronic illness symptoms are mitigated.

However, I spend a LOT of time worrying about which little pains and clicks are going to turn into big ones, how I can adapt my normal routine when something is hurting worse than usual. I'm lucky I'm able to exercise, because it really does mean a lot to me, but I really need to be so careful monitoring my pain every single day so I can work out again the next day, too.

When you're mentally ill or physically disabled, exercise is one of the first things many doctors ask about, as though it's some sort of panacea. While I don't recall the exact onset for many of my health issues, a lot of them showed up or worsened well after I'd been exercising regularly for several years. Exercise didn't save me from that.

Is it a good habit to have? Yes, but that doesn't make it a universal magic pill, and it's not even accessible to everyone who does want to do it. Don't treat it like it's for everyone and like it'll cure all your ills. It's just another potential tool that will help some people and hurt others; and like for any treatment or prophylactic, it should be used in conjunction with other methods.

[notjustjavierpena]

Hello, i hope this isn’t too much but i really admire your courage to write the hard stuff that goes on between javi and his wife. would you ever write something about the struggles they had about conceiving lucas?

Crazy

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Hiya, anon! This was such a rollercoaster to write but thanks so much for giving me the needed push. Also tysm for the compliment 🥺

Summary: Thoughts of infertility take a toll on you and Javier's marriage.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Infertility, arguments, apologies, hurt/comfort, angst, emotional sex, lots of kissing, pussy eating, piv sex, mating press, creampie, pillowtalk, aftercare

Word count: 6k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64569853

Crazy

You can’t help but count the months. Seven long ones with still no baby growing in your belly. Seven and counting since you went off your birth control, a ridiculous thought that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth since it turned out that you hadn’t needed it anyway in the first place. Okay, maybe you had but it is your exhaustion talking, whispering it in your ear.

You remember the conversation that Javier and you had in the kitchen that one time a while back, where he promised you that if everything else failed, you would let Steve and Connie set an example and find your own Olivia. Yet neither of you has dared go into the discussion of exactly when it’s time to stop trying, or if you’d truly be ready to adopt. 

However, now as you anxiously pace around the kitchen, waiting for Javier to come home and cleaning off stains that aren’t actually there from yesterday’s dishes, you wonder if you should call Connie to hear her opinion. 

You stop halfway to the landline to stare at the calendar on the door to the refrigerator. The red circle around today’s date mocks you and you lift your hand up to flip it off, giving it a roll of your eyes now that you’re at it. Seven fucking months of anxiously charting your cycles, tracking ovulation windows, and feeling hope slip away with each negative test. 

What if it never happens at all? Connie hadn’t seemed to entertain your worry the last time you brought it up, had shaken her head with a smile you wanted to wipe off her face, and pulled out her authority as a nurse to reassure you. There’s still plenty of time before you need to start worrying, she keeps saying, and it feels like it is the only reason you are still taking vitamins, avoiding caffeine, and doing your exercises. 

You’ve reached the phone now, your hand hovering over it in midair. It would be so easy to ring Connie right now and tell her every worry that is constantly going around in your head, every frustration of being in a battle with forcibly loving your body when it isn’t working the way it should. But then you think of Javier and decide against it, convinced by the guilt that nags at you. It feels like a betrayal to begin that particular and very tough conversation with anyone else but him. 

You stand there for a moment longer, staring at the phone, silently hoping it will ring and Connie will be on the other end of the line. It would make it easier to justify running your mouth to her. 

“Don’t look at me, it just happened,” you would say and still know it wasn’t okay.

Keys being inserted into the front door and the handle rattling makes you tense up in nervous anticipation. Javier is home from work. This is the day you’ve been waiting for a whole month, the one you’ve rearranged your entire schedule around and taken off work because if there’s any chance of being a mom, it has to be now.

“Baby?” He calls when he’s inside the house. You can hear the thud of his bag hitting the floor and the sound of his footsteps going towards the living room. 

“I’m here,” you answer through the house. You peek into the living room and see him shrug out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the couch and letting himself fall into the cushions with a contented sigh. You know you’re supposed to go in there and spoil his relief. 

“Come in here,” he says and taps his fingers on his knees, eyes soft from hoping to see you materialize in the doorway. He always tells you he misses you at his job.

Carefully, you enter the room and approach him with urgency in your body. You have a single mission today and it is a delicate matter. 

Get pregnant. 

Getpregnantgetpregnantgetpregnant. 

Get fucking pregnant.

“Hey,” he says with a tired smile when you stand right in front of him, glad to see you. He holds out his hand for you to take. You don’t reach for it and his smile fades.

“We should have sex,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, staring down at him as he reaches for his tie instead. 

“Baby, I just walked in. I just sat down,” he says softly and tugs at the knot on his tie, pulling it loose with a small noise. There’s an underlying emotion to his voice, a hint of frustration to his tone even if he doesn’t want to upset you. 

Your focus, your tunnel vision, makes you ignore his complaint as if it isn’t a ticking bomb right between your hands, “If I’ve calculated right, it’s been twelve hours since we last had sex, Javi. I’ve read that it’s a good idea to—“

“We have sex all the time, baby. Three times yesterday. Once at night. We fuck a lot,” he reaches up to run both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands afterward. He does a quick inhale and then sighs.

“Yes, but we have to do it today too to be sure. Connie said that—“ you quickly argue but his jaw muscles flex as you talk. Javier pushes himself to stand with exasperation in his next breath.

He pushes past you as if he cannot take being in your presence for a second longer despite just having arrived home, doesn’t even look at you as he throws back a sarcastic comment, “Oh, Connie said? Really? Wow, you really know how to turn me on.”

“That’s not funny. Hey, come back here,” you say as he starts walking towards the kitchen instead, leaving you with your mouth a thin line. You follow him but don’t go any further than standing in the door, “I’m the only one who initiates sex lately. What if my ovulation is peaking right now? The day is over soon.”

He leans against the kitchen counter, reaching back to grip the edge of the table, “The day isn’t over yet. It’s five in the afternoon. I just got home. We can have sex tonight.” 

You finally step fully into the kitchen now and it feels almost like you have crossed enemy lines. You can feel your tears build inside of your chest, crawling steadily up into your throat till they burn but you don’t allow yourself to cry. Why doesn’t he understand the pain of losing another month to grief? Why is it not as important to him? You look desperate, “Connie said it’s best during the day.”

“Stop,” he suddenly commands, causing you to flinch. He looks angry at you, unable to register the impact of the tone of his voice because of his own state of mind but it makes you tremble. He is never this way, “I can’t fucking take another fucking word about eggs and sperm and fertile windows. It’s too much now. You’re being crazy.”

Something breaks inside of you at those words, a beast that’s been hidden inside a cage in your chest threatening to escape and go for the kill. You watch him carelessly turn away to open the fridge, detachment on his face as if he has just argued with you about what you’re having for dinner. He leaves you feeling in complete disbelief and disarray, your heart ticking like a bomb. You need out right now or you might suffocate in the large, childless space that you moved into with the idea that you would be a family of three soon. 

You leave the room with your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The walls feel like they are closing in on you, close to trapping you here in this feeling forever if you don’t hurry up and reach the front door quickly. 

You slam the door behind you, no shoes on your feet, and then suddenly you are close to running down the street, breathing harder and harder while your arms swing along your sides in your haste. 

He has never called you crazy before. The word feels like he has just spat in your face, wrapped you in barbed wire, as if he sees you as just one more woman suffering from hysteria. Dismissible and unserious. Crazy. You swear you can feel all of the women before you right behind you, giving you the wind in your back to run faster than ever even with no destination. You don’t even feel your feet hurt from being bare against the harsh ground. 

However, you are barely a few blocks away from your home when you hear Javier’s voice calling out your name with the same desperation that you have felt since the first negative pregnancy test. 

The second you hear him, you automatically start running faster, determined to escape something you can’t quite pinpoint what is, but it only lasts a few seconds. Eventually, you finally slow down. Not because you want him to catch you but because your chest is heaving and your eyes are burning with tears, blurring your vision and disorienting you. 

He grabs your arm firmly when he reaches you and tries to pull you into an embrace. You resist at first, stiffening against him as he wraps you in his arms. 

“Stop!” You sob violently but he doesn’t let go even when you start crying loud enough to attract attention. Instead, he tightens his grip around you to calm your nervous system. How odd it is to want comfort from the man who also made you cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he says repeatedly, his cheek against yours while you try to hit his chest. You can hear the regret in his voice but your pride makes you unwilling to soften. 

You struggle further, almost like a panicked animal, wanting to kick and scream to escape a trap, but the fight is going out of your body quickly, gripped by exhaustion and making you sag. Another sob rips itself from your throat, “If I’m so crazy then there’s no reason we should be together let alone have a baby.”

When you’re less resistant, he cradles your head in his hand to make you look at him, “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean any of it. You’re not crazy. Dios, soy un pendejo (God, I’m an idiot). I’m so sorry, mi amor (my love).”

You sink to your knees but he catches you before they hit the sidewalk.

“I’m not crazy,” you insist weakly as you slump into his embrace.

“You’re not crazy,” he confirms quietly, “I’d take that back if I could.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too… You were frustrated and tired,” you sniffle and your bottom lip trembles, “I shouldn’t have pushed you the second you walked through the door. I’m just worried that we have to wait a whole month before we can try again because we’re too lazy to have sex. And I hate that it is ruining our sex life because I love having sex with you.”

Javier says your name but it’s clear that it has caught him off guard.

You pull back to look up at his face. His brown eyes are soft and full of apologies, like the impact of his words only hits him now, “Now I’m scared that this is all responsible for you not finding me sexy anymore. I know it’s stupid but what if I’m the reason why we never get there? What if all this pressure makes you stop wanting me? What if I–”

“Now that’s crazy,” he says in an attempt to smooth things over with a joke but that one crease in his forehead, the one that he gets when frustration hits, is back because it doesn’t work.

You compose yourself enough to step back and give him a warning look, a look that says don’t you dare say that word again. He holds his hands up in surrender and then just reaches for your wrist, tugs it until he can entwine your fingers.

“What?” You’re the one to bite now, "I'm serious. I don’t want to lose you in this."

"You're not going to lose me,” he groans in exasperation. A few heads have popped up in the windows of the houses surrounding you. 

“Then why aren’t you upset like I am?” You ask harshly and pull your hand away to hug yourself. You avoid his gaze. 

Javier looks at you as if you’ve cracked him wide open right there on the sidewalk. He furrows his brows, opening his mouth without any words coming out. He turns away then, needs to gather himself without staring at your face. 

You know immediately that you have crossed a line, that you have hit a nerve that wasn’t supposed to be as exposed as it suddenly is. 

“Javi,” you murmur shamefully. 

“Is that what you think?” He turns back to you, the look in his eyes frantic and desperate. He also looks furious but for some reason, you can tell it isn’t directed at you, “That— That I’m not scared or upset enough? I’m terrified all the fucking time but if I let myself be as scared as you are, I’d be fucking useless to you.”

The realization hits you like an oncoming train, making tears start falling from your eyes again. You don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you. Javier feels the exact same way as you but he simply hides it better.

You want to say something but he beats you to it, pointing at you to stress his point, his chest heaving, “And for the record. There’s no fucking universe where I stop wanting you.”

You don’t know what to say, so you do the next best thing and show him. You reach to cup his face, your thumbs stroking along his cheekbones, and then you kiss his lips. 

He sighs against your mouth, his broad palms finding your waist and tugging you as close as possible until he can wrap you in the harbor of his arms. Then he kisses you deeper, several times too, each brush of his lips releasing more of the tension between you. 

You’re here. In the same boat. And you love each other so much. That should be enough, even when it doesn’t feel like it is.

When the kiss is over, you don’t draw away from each other. Instead, he pulls you into a tight hug, holding you protectively close to his chest and stroking the back of your head. You link your arms around him, clinging tightly to him with a few tears staining his shirt because you have hurt each other so much. 

“I want to go home,” you murmur softly into his shoulder while he strokes your hair, “Por favor (please).”

“Okay,” he answers just as gently, placing a kiss on your forehead before drawing back, “We’ll go home.”

You walk home side by side, no words spoken between you. The tension is still there, sizzling in the air but it is charged with something else too. You almost feel like a teenager again, back when you were too scared to speak to the person you’ve decided late at night that you’d go through fire for. 

The first block is spent with your hands brushing as they hang by your sides and the both of you holding your breath when it happens but then Javier laces your fingers together and a quiet understanding settles over you. 

When you enter the front door together, none of you even glance in the direction of the kitchen or the living room. There's no hurry to move on from the storm of intense emotions that you have just been through, no hurry to busy yourself with anything that’ll simply push it down or bottle it up. 

The only urgency now is that storm, your hearts tense but only with the need to reassure each other. His mouth finds yours again, his body pushes you against the wall and the intensity behind his kiss grows from how he had kissed you in the street. Your lips meet in a kiss so deep that Javier coaxes a moan from your mouth. 

For once in all of this, you’re not scared of the outcome of being together, entwined. The need to conceive a child with your husband is still very much there but right now, it is overshadowed by a need to connect fully, to lick each other’s wounds even if you caused them. 

You reach to untie the knot on his tie completely. He hesitates for just a breath, a hand on your wrist to gain your attention. 

“Are you sure?” He asks despite how you still pull the tie out from underneath his collar. 

“Yes,” you don’t hesitate a second and drop the tie on the floor, desire ignited in your belly, “I’m so sure. I want you.”

He lets out a shaky breath with a smile, nodding his head while you move in to kiss his throat where his pulse thrums. His eyes close at the contact, his head tilting back just a little until a soft moan escapes his mouth. Your body grows warm from hearing it and you take it as a cue to move in silence, sharing searing kisses all the way to the bedroom. 

When you get there, Javier closes the door behind you and turns the lock, not because there’s any chance that you will be disturbed but just to keep the outside world at bay for a little while. It feels more intimate like that, like you are the only two people in the world.

You stand by the end of the bed, watching him do it and feeling your heart pounding in your chest from anticipation. You smile softly when he approaches you, too afraid that words might mess up the way that air crackles with intimacy and tenderness. 

He reaches out first as if promising to take the lead of you, curling his fingers around the edge of your top to lift it up. You raise your arms in the air to let him peel it over your head, goosebumps erupting on your skin where his knuckles brush you. He drops your top on the floor. 

You finally reciprocate by moving to undo the buttons of his white shirt. Your hands tremble slightly as you do it but Javier is patient, just reaches to gently steady your wrist by holding it. 

When you have reached the last one, he takes over and shrugs the fabric off his shoulders to reveal his warm and safe chest. You step closer, hands finding his shoulders as you lean in to kiss along his collarbone. He takes the opportunity to unclasp your bra while you’re at it, a palm skimming up your back while the other rests at your waist. 

When your breasts are bare, your nipples have hardened at the sudden exposure to the colder temperature. He undoes his belt and jeans, and when he bends slightly to take them off along with his boxers, he presses a tender kiss right over a nipple and skims his nose and lips across your chest to do the same thing with the other. 

You moan softly. He grabs around your waist and helps lowering you down onto the bed. You sit on the edge but not for long, moving back until you can lay down spread out. He follows you like a magnet, ends up kneeling between your legs so he can undo and yank down your pants. 

You help kick them off and then bend your knees briefly to let him drag your underwear down too. His mouth is everywhere he can reach; your ankles, your calves, knees, and thighs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs softly on his way down your inner thigh, breaking the silence, and while he says those words a lot, there’s something different behind them today. It is almost like he is telling you something else; you’re not broken, not defined in your femininity by your body’s ability to carry his child.

You hold tears at bay and run your hand over his hair, looking down at the top of his head as his face disappears down between your thighs. Your mouth falls open in a soft gasp when he first mouths along your cunt. 

“Javi,” you sigh a moment later, your head knocking back into the bed so you can look up at the ceiling while focusing on the velvety feeling of his mouth. 

He eats you slowly, the flat of his tongue gently moving over your clit until you can’t help each sigh and moan that falls from your lips. His fingers spread your cunt open, his other hand squeezing your thigh as he pulls your legs further apart to dive in. 

“Please,” you hear yourself say. It’s the moment you realize how long it has been since you last were together like this; he hasn’t gone down on you for months because it doesn’t make a baby. The room is quiet except for your labored breaths and the filthy wet sounds of his mouth teasing you towards the edge. It feels so good to be wanted like this, reassured of how sexy you are without all the pressure to procreate. 

Hearing that soft plea makes Javier wrap his lips around your clit to kiss it repeatedly. He moans into you when your legs start to tremble in his peripheral vision. He switches it up and sucks. It makes you whimper, your back arching off the bed as he worships you between your thighs.

You are sure that he’ll pull away when you lift your pelvis up to meet his mouth further, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he just slides the hand on your thigh down under the small of your back to hold you there, then breathes heavily through his nose and hungrily continues to make you inch closer to the edge. 

Like always, he can hear your orgasm knocking by the way you begin to hold your breath between small gasps of pleasure. He intensifies the pressure and the precision just so, and you slide both hands through his hair - something he has clearly been waiting for with the way he groans - while your toes start to curl. 

When you actually come, it drags a sinful groan out of the both of you. Your thighs lock around his head and you pull at his hair. It’s not pretty and polite. It’s pure release, and it is ripped out of you like it has been buried under your prickly skin, underneath heartbreak, forever. 

You say his name until it makes no sense anymore, swallowing down desperate gulps of air. He lets you ride it out on his tongue, making sure to tease out every little aftershock before releasing you from his grasp. Yes, you needed this but it is almost like he needed it more. 

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he breathes heavily while you come down. He trails off and rests his forehead against your thigh, “You don’t fucking know what it does to me… when you look at me like you did earlier… Like you’re done.”

“I’m not,” you whisper in reply, voice shaky with tears that have finally found release. You cry softly, “I’m not done. Never done.”

“Don’t cry, baby,” he looks up at you with those brown eyes that are so hard to resist because of the silent plead within them. It hurts your chest to watch him so full of remorse, hurts to be loved this much. 

“Come here,” you whisper softly and hold your arms open for him but he wants to take it slow. 

He kisses his way up your body instead - a kiss to your hip, your belly, one right beneath your ribs - and you use the opportunity to slide your fingers through his hair. His mustache is slick with you, scratching just slightly as he treats you like you might not be in his bed tomorrow. 

But while he wants to savor you, you feel the growing impatience within your chest. You need him closer, your hands going repeatedly from his hair to his shoulders and then to his back because you are unsure of where to touch him when you want all of him. 

When he has his knees between your thighs again, he doesn’t crush you with his weight. Instead, he hovers above, eyes roaming over your face to check if you’re still letting him have you. In response, you settle on cupping his face. He automatically turns his face to press a longing kiss into the palm of your hand. 

You pull him to your mouth in a kiss that steals his breath away, his hand cupping the side of your neck. You kiss him like you should have done the moment he came in through the door and he meets your mouth like he needs to feel forgiveness in his very bones. Maybe a kiss like this would have avoided the pain that you inflicted upon each other. You cry in his arms. He wipes tears away with his thumbs and doesn’t rush you. 

Eventually, you are panting from the intensity of what feels like one of the deepest kisses of your life. Your lips are swollen and sensitive, and his cock is hard against your thigh to the point where you think he must be aching. The occasional kiss to your throat makes your whole body tingle with want, your cunt fluttering in interest. The pressing issue, however, is that you need to put all of these feelings somewhere. 

“Fuck me,” you whisper with your fingers in his hair, breathing hard against his mouth, “Please, baby. I need you inside of me.”

Javier swears quietly under his breath as if he has been waiting for those words, nodding repeatedly with his stare fixed on your lips before giving you another desperate kiss. 

He reluctantly pulls away, your hands slipping out of his dark locks, to sit back on his knees. You let your palms lay flat on the sheets and stare up at him, his face full of determination while he slides his hands around the back of your knees. 

At first, you think he wants to drag you down on the bed and closer to himself but then he lifts your legs and you gasp because you immediately know what he is doing with you. He pushes until your thighs are pressed against your chest, your cunt on full display and at his mercy. 

He doesn’t speak as he moves over you again, not stopping until his chest brushes the back of your thighs and your ankles are resting on his broad shoulders. He folds you even further in when he leans down to kiss your throat, the soft sound that escapes you vibrating underneath his lips.

You grip the sheets and hold on for dear life as he enters you slowly, giving you the full length of his cock inch by inch. He holds your gaze as he bottoms out and it makes you so aware of everything he does to you. There's no space between you now. Not physically. Not emotionally. He looks at you as if telling you that you and he belong together, like he is ready to rewrite the last seven months of your sex life. 

You can’t speak, can’t even think because you’re still trembling and sensitive. The stretch of his cock is almost too much inside of you but he is gentle with you, letting you adjust while kissing his way to your mouth again. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips. 

You nod as if to reciprocate and then whimper as another tear escapes, “I love you. I missed you.”

“I know, I missed you too,” he whispers and gently kisses away the salty tear. 

The ache of need catches up to you as you get used to feeling him inside of your cunt so fully, the thick head of his cock resting against the spot where you need him the most. An impatient flutter of your walls makes him give in and move inside of you. 

You moan feebly while he takes you slowly and full of precision. The angle of this position has you breathless in seconds, your back arching with each stroke against your g-spot. Your moans mix together with the sound of skin slapping against skin in the otherwise quiet room. You hold onto his biceps, feeling the muscles of his arms flex beneath your touch as he strains his body to give you everything he has. 

“I’ve got it now, mi amor (my love)” he lets you know through ragged breaths, resting his forehead against yours, “You don’t have to start it anymore. No need to ask.” 

“Don’t stop. Javi— oh, don’t stop,” you plead him with a steady stream of teardrops falling from your eyes. They roll down into your hair faster than he can kiss them away but it doesn’t matter, you think to yourself, because you want him to see what he does to you; that his words move you, that you needed to hear them because you’re exhausted and fuck, he loves you so much. 

“Shh, don’t cry, baby, you’re okay,” he coos with another soft kiss to follow. You turn your head afterward to press your face into the side of his head, brows furrowing as the first hints of your climax being within reach show. 

He barely pulls out anymore, just grinds down into your cunt and hits the right spot repeatedly. There’s no talking either. Instead, just the sound of your sweat-slicked bodies moving together, your breath hitching in your throat as your belly tightens even more, and his growls every time your cunt squeezes around him.

“You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re making me come,” he grits out, sweat gathering on his brow and concentration all over his face. 

“I’m close,” you gasp with your thighs starting to tremble from how intense it is going to be. You let your head bump into the mattress, your spine arching in a bow as it creeps up on you and your breathing begins to stutter. 

You come with a silent cry towards the ceiling because all air is knocked out of you. It takes a few moments before noise catches up to you but when it does, you absolutely sob underneath the weight of his body. The intensity makes you clamp down on his cock, your walls going into rhythmic squeezes that make Javier hiss and his pace falter from how you milk him. 

“I’m coming,” he near-whimpers before going off into a satisfied groan while his hips stutter, “Fuck, baby. You’re— I’m coming.”

He buries himself to the hilt before spilling inside of your wet, oversensitive heat. You gasp at the feeling of it, the weight of it settling inside of you. He trembles above you, enough for you to slide your hands up to his shoulders and cup his face. 

He holds himself up with one hand and holds one of yours with the other, breathing rapidly. His chest is broad and glistening with sweat, warm and nearly suffocating but he is yours. You want it like that, want to drown in the intimacy that you feel. 

Without a word, he straightens and pulls out his softening cock. It makes you tense up, looking down where you have been connected with worry on your face. You don’t want it to slip, to not work this time either, but he guides your legs together and then shifts slightly on the mattress. He lays them gently on one shoulder, making sure that no drop spills from you. 

“I’ve got you,” he coos, almost shushing you like a child. His arms cradle your legs, “Don’t worry.”

You can do nothing but whimper. He rubs your belly with his free hand and you place your palm on top of it, an unconscious gesture of hope between you. 

“This is the most important thing,” he says after weighing his words for a moment, “You and I.”

“Javi,” you protest but there’s no exasperation building up beneath the surface this time. He shakes his head to stop any words at the tip of your tongue. 

“I will give you anything you want. A house, a baby, anything you want,” he tells you, whispering it as if there are other people in the room besides the two of you and he wants privacy. It feels safer to hear him lower his voice, “But not if it costs me you. We are not meant to fight like that.”

Your bottom lip trembles because he is right. You’re not meant to fight like that at all, chests heaving with adrenaline and bloodlust from grief over the fact that something is getting the better of you. It feels as unnatural as snow in August and rivers running dry. 

“I want to give you a baby,” you say quietly and feel a tear slide down your cheek. Javier reaches to brush it away with his index finger, shushing you once more with the gentleness in him only reserved for you. 

“And you will,” he promises and cups your cheek afterward, his thumb stroking your face where another tear has fallen, “It’ll happen. This way or another.”

Your eyes flutter closed. You nod. 

“Do you know how much I love you?” He asks and lets his mouth graze the side of your ankle. 

“I love you too,” you say back without much thought that he is actually asking a question. 

“Yes, but do you know how much? Look at me,” he waits for a moment.

Your gaze locks onto him, your eyes big and teary.

“I don’t think you know how lucky I am to have you in my life after all the stupid shit I’ve done back in Colombia. I hurt people. I watched people die. No wonder I wasn’t all here when I came back. I thought I was just gonna float through the rest of my life being angry or drifting in some bar like a ghost. You were the first thing that felt like… like the world could be soft again. And now you think I could ever stop wanting you?” He shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re the only place I’ve ever felt like I could put my feet down and not run. When everything starts to weigh down on me, you breathe life back into me. Whatever happens next, I want it with you, okay?”

You cry with your heart feeling too big for your chest, words lost on you because how can he still love you when this takes such a toll on you that it brings out the worst in you? Probably just how you can love him just the same too.

You sniffle, “Yes, me too.”

He looks serious and soft, “Even if it’s not how we imagined. Even if we gotta go knock on Connie’s door and ask for the number of that adoption agency… or do IVF… or whatever the hell else it takes.”

You nod. When you speak, it is nothing but a squeak, “Yes.”

“But right now,” he caresses the skin of your calf and murmurs into another kiss to your ankle, “I just wanna stay here. In this bed. With my wife… and let the world wait a little while longer. Can we do that?”

“Can I get my legs down, so we can cuddle?” You shift a little, still slick between your thighs and sore in the best way, but there’s no rush to clean up or face anything other than the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

He smiles, “Of course. Lift your legs, I’ve got you.”

He does. He always does.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[drdemonprince]

I have almost no energy to move or to think. My eyes hurt. My head hurts. I’m constantly on the verge of puking. The room is spinning. Normally bouncing off the walls with the desire to exercise, try new things, and socialize, all I want to do is sit silently in the dark. I am incapacitated, in an inescapable way, by the demands of full-time work. I had forgotten for a while that I am so profoundly disabled, because I have been able to build a life around my natural rhythms and my inarguable sensitivities. But for just one week, I’ve been thrust back into approximating something of a “normal” working life, and I can’t handle it. Not even remotely. If I were to live by this schedule all of the time, if necessity forced me to work an actual full-time job with real, in-person, full-time hours, I would have zero energy for meal preparation, physical fitness, social outings, on-the-ground activism, or any of the random adventures that make life so worthwhile. In my schedule I’d scarcely find the time for doctor’s visits, tooth cleanings, trips to the DMV, birthday parties, conferences, runs to the post office, or any of the other small journeys that make it possible for supposedly “independent” adult life to run. My health, my relationships, my community, and my grounding in reality would dramatically collapse.

Working full-time is a sickness. And not just for especially sensitive people like me. The friends I know with full-time jobs are tired nearly all the time, and have had to give up on so many of their passions and fulfilling pursuits. Over the years some full-time workers I know have become a bit dull-eyed and distant, no passion in their voice, a ghost of their younger selves. They assume it is because they are growing “old,” but I’m older than many of them, and many people older than me are similarly able to bounce off the walls. We have energy if we get enough sleep, if we eat robustly and eagerly, and if life is filled with shared wanderings that we can look forward to. We need repetition, and comfort, and rest, but also ample space to dream, and the power to bring some of those dreams into reality. So many people under capitalism lack all of those things. Their jobs are a chronic illness they must cradle, manage, and make endless sacrifices for every single day. There is so much they can’t do. They don’t go on dates with their spouses because they’re falling asleep at 8pm. They’re behind on doctor’s appointments and haven’t visited their siblings for years. They’re too weak and weary to travel, to volunteer, to meet anybody new. All they have it in them to do at the end of the day is collapse in front of something familiar on the TV. And it is so normal that nobody even considers it a sickness.

The full essay is free to read or have narrated to you at drdevonprice.substack.com.

[prettieinpink]

LITTLE WAYS TO LIVE HEALTHIER IN 2025

INCREASE YOUR N.E.A.T. Neat stands for non exercise activity thermogenesis. So, basically any daily activities we do when not exercising or sleeping. It's important for you to have a high N.E.A.T because it can be the difference between having a sedentary lifestyle or being moderately active. 

Ways to increase NEAT is to do more heavier chores everyday (vacuuming, mopping, dusting), taking the longer routes when walking, stand for 10 minutes each hour, pace back and forth while calling someone, march while you’re brushing your teeth, etc. 

DRINK HERBAL TEAS. Herbal teas can help you in a variety of areas of life, and are a great substitute for other processed beverages. 

ADD SUNLIGHT IN YOUR MORNING. Exposing yourself to sunlight early in the day helps with resetting the circadian rhythm, which in return helps for waking up easier and going to sleep easier. 

EAT WITHOUT DISTRACTIONS. You’ll savour your food so much more and it’ll be easier to tell when you’re satisfied. 

CREATE A PLAYLIST FOR WHEN YOU WIND DOWN. Once you get into the habit of listening to this playlist, it’ll become like a trigger to your body that it’s time to sleep because listening to that playlist  should be followed by settling into bed. 

 REGULARLY GO TO YOUR GP. Especially if you’re feeling a bit out of it. It is always better to make those regular visits and catch something before it becomes out of hand. 

STOP WAKING UP SO EARLY. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but waking up at 5am is unnecessary if not required. While I do believe that waking up earlier does have benefits, that extra hour of sleep probably has more. 

IF YOU’RE STRUGGLING, TAKE IT SLOWER. In this day and age, we don’t have time to process a lot of things. Everything is so fast paced, that if we fall behind, we tend to feel less than. 

Especially if you’re someone who can’t keep pace with the crowd due to disabilities or mental health. Take things at your own pace, and do what you can will yourself to do. 

GET SPIRITUAL. Lots of studies show that people who commit themselves to their beliefs are a lot happier in life than those who don’t. This doesn’t mean that you have to commit to a religion yet, but I would explore your spirituality side and see what  resonates with you. 

WEAR YOUR SPF. Skin cancer is no joke, and our earth is only getting hotter. Protect yourself, including your body! 

SURROUND YOURSELF WITH GOOD PEOPLE. People who radiate love and are always looking for the goodness around them, that rubs off on you and in return you’ll develop similar traits. Being with them will stimulate growth in all aspects of your life. 

I'm not telling anyone to ‘fix’ anyone, but it means a lot to other people if you can be that person in their life. It's a very rewarding and fulfilling lifestyle.  

TAKE MAKEUP BREAKS REGULARLY. Give your skin a break from products, and ideally take a week off each month to spend it makeup free. You’re saving time and your skin. 

ADD IN FRUITS, HERBS OR LEMON IN YOUR WATER. This will help with extra hydration and improve digestion. 

PRIORITISE FIBRE. As much as protein is good for you, fibre has just as much importance but it's not as heavily prioritised. Ideally, half of your meal should be fibres. However, that can be a hard change for some people, so start with having it on the side. 

It's great if you can incorporate ‘hidden’ fibre into your meals as well!

CURATE YOUR SPACE TO SUIT YOU. Add in little notes of reminders or quotes, place around photos or awards of your achievements, remove anything that impacts you negatively. You want the area that you’re in 24/7 to support that growth, not stifle it. 

Keep your area clean and decluttered as well. Try to minimise the amount of stuff that you have. You only need one of each thing, two is one too many. Having too much clutter affects the clarity of your mind.

it is numbered oddly because of the way I pasted this from google docs to tumblr. apologies!

[chronicallycouchbound]

PSA: Please don’t ask participants to do grounding/mindful/somatic/etc practices at your events

Grounding exercises should not be an activity in large group settings, especially unsolicited and without warning, especially if you’re not aware of every single person in the space’s mental health conditions, physical health conditions, and personal relationship to their body.

Practices such as mindfulness, grounding, somatic exercises, breathing techniques, body scans, etc. are very helpful therapeutic tools to help manage stress. They can (and do!) help plenty of people– when taught safely and used effectively!

HOWEVER for people with conditions that cause psychosis and/or dissociative conditions such as depersonalization/derealization, these techniques are contraindicated and can make their symptoms significantly worse. They should only be used with guidance from their mental health team and adapted to their needs. For people with conditions like anxiety and PTSD, being aware of breathing can trigger a trauma response or anxiety attacks.

And for people with conditions that cause chronic pain or other uncomfortable bodily sensations, becoming re-centered with their bodies can cause more awareness of the pain they are in, which a level of (ideally functional) dissociation is actually helpful. For people in wheelchairs and powerchairs, touching the ground beneath their feet isn’t always an option. For people with cardiac and pulmonary conditions, deep breathing can be impossible or can trigger asthma attacks. For disabled people in general, doing body scans can be impossible due to paralysis or limb differences. They can bring awareness to things the person wasn’t aware were wrong to begin with (which is helpful in certain spaces, but not a great ice breaker at a retreat!)

And for trans people, binders and other garments can restrict breathing, and taking repeated deep breaths while binding can cause rib damage (which is why you shouldn't bind at night, while coughing from sickness, while exercising, etc). Becoming centered in a body that makes you dysphoric can be deeply distressing, again, a level of functional dissociation helps.

This also goes for plenty of other people in marginalized bodies, such as people of color, people who use substances, queer people, and more. Becoming grounded in your own marginalized body can be a heavy weight to carry, and needs appropriate and individualized care to be a beneficial experience.

As an alternative, I suggest doing a round of gratitudes instead, it allows for people to choose their level of vulnerability in spaces, while not being generally contraindicated for many people. Doing fun (and appropriate to the setting) icebreakers are great. Ask what brings someone to the space. Check-ins about basic needs such as if people need to use the restroom, eat, drink water, are rested, etc. can be more appropriate body check-ins for folks to do.

I don’t recommend doing these exercises even with a warning beforehand. If I'm in the room while someone is leading a breathing exercise, even if I try to ignore it, I (and most people) would automatically become aware of my breathing. The same goes for any other techniques. These techniques can cause real, life-threatening levels of harm for some people, and can even just be deeply uncomfortable or distressing for others. Dissociation is not inherently evil or bad or harmful. It is the way the body and mind naturally respond to adverse experiences (note: it can also cause distress and at higher levels, can be disordered) it is best to allow people to exist as they are in communal spaces. Let people show up as they are.

Most spaces are not equipped or appropriate to respond to emergencies, difficult feelings, and all the varied responses that can come from folks doing mindfulness in group settings.

I personally do some things before large gatherings and events to feel centered on the activity I’ll be doing, and afterward, I decompress. Encourage participants to lean on their natural supports and offer suggestions for it! Be creative in your caring!

This also doesn’t mean to discourage these practices! If you see someone doing deep breathing, check in with them, offer a space for them to decompress, care for them! Worksheets or posters on techniques like square breathing and 5 senses check-ins are great for a quiet room or spaces where participants can decide if they want/are able to engage with those tools. It should be a fully consensual opt-in, rather than being forced to opt-out. Having to leave a room when a group leader says “We’re going to start a mindful breathing meditation, please feel free to leave if you have psychosis, chronic pain, or are trans” is obviously othering and outs people.

Sincerely, someone who has psychotic symptoms, dissociation, chronic pain, is trans and whose body is marginalized in many ways and is really tired from trying to explain this at every event I go to