“Well, you’re not a virgin anymore,” he said.

It was hot outside. He had blue eyes. Charming. Tan muscles built on a farm.

This isn’t what I asked for. What if I get pregnant? What just happened? I’m shaking. I need to pull over. Wait, no…what if he’s following me? I’m only 17. This shouldn’t happen to me. I’m a good person. I’m a Christian. Am I a virgin? I can’t tell anyone. They’ll think it’s my fault. I set myself up. It’s my fault. They’ll say I’m a slut. How could this happen? OK, get it together. You’re almost home. No one can know this happened. Get it together. Fix your makeup. They won’t have any idea.

When I was 17 years old, I did not lose my virginity. Something I was so proud of was not taken away. I did not set myself up for this.

Summer 2011. July 4. Friends and family had invited me to a fireworks show at a local neighborhood.

“You have to meet him! You’ll love him!” I met a tan boy from south Georgia. Charming and attractive. We talked for a while at a barbecue as our families celebrated the Fourth of July. This was an all day event.

By dusk, he asked me to take a walk around the lake with him. “Ok,” I said with a grin.

He held my hand and I thought he was cute.

We got on the opposite side of the lake from where the crowds were. Under a tree, in the dark. He pushed me on the ground and got on top of me.

That’s about as far into the story as I can bear to write. It’s not OK. Ever.

A lot of perks come with understanding and being one with your family heritage. Those perks include a solid sense of self, a feeling of uniqueness in this huge sea of American pride, and even pressure. I was blessed with the opportunity to have lived with my family in Jamaica from ages four to seven after leaving my American birthplace, Miami.

In Jamaica, I remember learning Patois very quickly after being teased by classmates for my American accent. Everyone understood English, but I stood out for speaking it in a foreign way. I remember my great grandfather making kites completely by hand for my cousins and me every year for Festival. I remember on my first day at St. Ann’s Bay Primary School, my aunt knelt in front of me to say goodbye before she left to catch a plane to America where she would create a better life for us.

The last time I visited Jamaica was this past Christmas.

The time prior to that was in 2007 for my great grandfather’s funeral. This time, I explored my old stomping grounds a lot more than during the time of Grandpa’s funeral. For the first time, I got to see the very home where my late great grandmother resided on Garden Tennant Rd.

I was also able to visit my old home, where I grew up before my aunt left for America, which was my grandmother’s house. She built it before she left for America. Life in that house was great. I lived there with my aunt and my late great grandfather.

When I think about the ultimate carefree time in my life, I think about life in this house. Mentally, this is my happy place. From getting a codfish bone stuck in my throat one Sunday morning and eating as many boiled dumplings as I could to get it to pass (and failing), to throwing my teeth on the roof when they fell out (that’s our tradition, no toothfairy), I learned how to be Jamaican while living in this house. 

Then, I visited the house I lived in with my cousins when my aunt left for America.

It was amazing to see how small it was as a 21-year-old compared to how big I thought it was as a 6-year-old.

Looking at it from the street, it was amazing to realize it housed four whole families. We shared the bathroom with one family and the kitchen with another. My new school where my aunt kissed me goodbye, St. Ann’s Bay Primary, was right down the street within sight.

I remember having my foot outlined so my big cousin could go find me new shoes in the market with the tracing. I remember picking almost ripe mangoes off the tree just outside this frame to the right and eating them with salt. In this house, I learned that it really “takes a village.” The whole community looked out for each other’s children. Constantly being offered food and treats from neighbors, I was never ever hungry and I had plenty of friends.

One year later, the summer before second grade, my aunt was settled in America and my grandmother flew to Jamaica to fly with me to Atlanta.

In Atlanta, we started out in Longwood Apartments on North Druid Hills Rd. My aunt and I lived with one other woman, Marcia, who is still a big influence in my life today. We lived with her for my second grade year and then she moved out.

A proud moment in that apartment was when I was 8, I cooked my aunt breakfast in bed all on my own. I’m not sure what the whole meal was, but I definitely scrambled some eggs. This was also a carefree time of my life, but looking back on it, I recognize that my aunt did a lot to provide for me like her own child so that I could have a great childhood.

After that apartment life, we moved to our first house in Stone Mountain.

Because I moved before third grade ended, my homeroom teacher would pick me up from home in the mornings and take me with her to class so that I didn’t have to switch schools so close to the year ending. It was in this house that I got my first real room. In the apartments, my room was the sunroom so I didn’t have a door.

In this house, I had a bedroom door, my own bathroom that I had to keep clean, and my own TV that I couldn’t watch until my homework and chores were complete. In that house, I really started to develop my character traits of being responsible and respectful as I approached my teenage years.

Just in time for high school, we moved again to where we live now, near College Park in an even bigger house. In this house is where I experienced most of my growing pains as the coming-of-age phase of my life transpired.

I had the usual teenage angst: struggling to fit in with a new set of people at a new high school, trying to get boys to notice me without seeming like I’m trying too hard, suffering with depression, and learning how to meditate it away. Best of all, I remember running into my aunt’s room the morning I read I’d been accepted into my alma mater, The University of Georgia!

Looking at the progression of homes from my great grandmother’s, to my grandmother’s, and to finally my aunt’s (who is pretty much my mother having raised me since I was four) current home, it is so easy to be proud of the hard working women in my life.

It’s also very easy to feel immense pressure to own a home that’s even bigger and symbolizes my contribution to the progress we have made as a family, especially being part of the first American-born generation of my lineage. These homes are all monuments of who I am today.

They provide evidence of love and support as well as motivation. I want to live a prosperous life striving to take care of the people who took care of me and to leave my mark on the people that I support: my existing and future family, my friends, and those I meet and influence on my career path to becoming a User Experience Researcher. Remember the name: Shanice S. Stewart.

This is an epic. It’s not about dragons or cyborgs or space or zombies. This is an epic about how seeing humans through a camera lens helped me to focus less on defining myself, and more on acceptance and living in the moment.

I was born three months early–in March, in a snowstorm, in Georgia. At one pound, 10 ounces, I could literally fit in the palm of my mother’s hand, I had to be in the NICU for three months, and I have a scar on my right arm from where a nurse accidentally stuck a needle through it while trying to locate a vein. The hole in my fragile frame eventually healed, becoming a neat little scar. My story wasn’t as well known as Harry Potter’s, so I fielded questions about my scar for a while.

I went through physical therapy to help my coordination and to get my knees to turn outward instead of buckling in. I also worked on steadying my perpetually trembling hands, which now only shake when I’m nervous or exhausted. Through elementary school, this became my focus: “I was born three months early,” I’d say whenever someone asked me about my scar. And then I’d launch into my spiel, to explain my slow hand-writing, my scar, my shaking, my soft-spoken voice on our school’s morning news show. I had the explanation down, I’d rehashed it so many times.

That was who I was as a person.

In middle school, that didn’t matter. Much to my relief, the questions about my scar subsided. I still got the occasional question, but people had more pressing matters–crushes, popularity, locker combinations–which suited me just fine. I was getting acclimated to a new group of friends, running for Jr. Beta Club president, and desperately trying to see past Dolores Umbridge’s deplorable character so I could finish reading Order of the Phoenix. I was elected president, finished HP5, and took to hanging out in the library with my friends: we wrote, read voraciously, and prepared for many a band concert there.

Finally, I had found my squad: the misfits of our respective elementary schools, we united in our eschewing of “tween social normalcy” and our love for supernatural creatures and stories. Through middle school, this became my focus: I was smart and different and by gosh, I would own it. Everyone in elementary school who teased me for being an “Oreo” couldn’t bother me any longer. I had found my group, and we could handle anything.

Enter high school, where I joined marching band and took up lacrosse. My friend group was put to the test, which we survived mostly intact. As high school progressed, AP classes, band, lacrosse, and magazine staff took up a majority of my time. My friends and I still hung out, of course, but it was on a less frequent basis than Disney Channel had led me to believe in my younger years. I traveled to Washington, DC in my freshman and junior years for Close-Up and the National Scholastic Press Association (politics and journalism, respectively). The summer before my senior year, I participated in two more journalism conferences in Fairfax, VA and Atlanta, GA. By the start of my senior year, I knew that I wanted to study journalism in college. That was my focus: I was a writer, and I would continue to hone my craft.

After I’d decided on UGA as my school of choice and journalism as my first major, my first two years of college were spent reveling in the anonymity of huge dorms, packed lecture halls, deafening football games, and shared indecisiveness regarding majors. I made four-year plans with wildlife science, public relations, English, and every certificate possible in hopes of finding the perfect match for journalism and thus, crafting my perfect four years. When I was paralyzed by all the choices, I’d give up and resume my reading or turn to Netflix’s comforting pit of non-motivation.

I was perfectly happy with my Greek mythology and astronomy classes, and saw no pressing need to declare a second major that would rob me of becoming a well-rounded individual.

My real worries began once I was accepted into Grady. I’d always known that I wanted to pursue journalism, but Grady presented a plethora of great options. On a whim, I signed up for Intro to Photojournalism. It was awkward, initially, as I fumbled first with the camera and then with the idea of approaching people I’ve never met and taking their picture (internal turmoil raged). My introverted nature almost wouldn’t let me continue the emphasis; then I switched my focus. Rather than dwelling on how uncomfortable this made me, I chose to focus on telling stories. This meant letting the camera disappear in my hand (as our professor would say), and letting myself disappear into the background. This became my focus: disappearing. It also helps that I’m a short, non-threatening person at 5 foot, 2 inches. Makes it relatively easy to go unnoticed as a photographer.

In order to get the camera to disappear in your hands, you had to shoot—constantly. The camera had to be glued to your hand. Before long, I noticed my images improving tremendously. I was noticing light quality, seeing more shadow, finding leading lines. The first assignment I really felt this click was a portrait using ambient light. I chose to photograph one of the managers at Bizarro-Wuxtry comics shop, and through multiple photography sessions in the store and outside, I ended with my first photo shoot product I was proud of.

As the semesters flew by, I grew more comfortable with the camera. Once I’d focused on getting all my images, I’d approach the people, make them feel at ease (even though I was all butterflies inside) and launch into my spiel about who I was and why I was photographing them. Most people were amazingly generous in sharing their experiences, and those positive responses lowered the anxieties I felt when bringing the camera to my eye.

People wanted their stories told, and I was incredibly lucky to be able to share them.

By now, you’ve no doubt noticed that I’ve only focused on the big phases. I didn’t tell you how many hours were spent driving to photojournalism workshops and editing in the darkened PhotoCave. You don’t know that the PhotoCave was my second home or how my pride swelled when I received my first compliment from my professor. I left off that I’m a climber and that at one point I was at the climbing wall three times a week, every week, during the semester. I didn’t focus on the fact that books and video games are amazing escapes that I love to get lost in, and even though I’m horrible at First Person Shooters, the Halo franchise was my initial catalyst for getting an Xbox 360. You also don’t know that I have a playlist of songs we played in high school band, which kick-started my affinity for movie scores.

I tend to have tunnel vision. I will focus on one thing, which can be great when I’m researching a story, but not so fantastic when you’re attempting to be a versatile journalist. The desire to define ourselves is so human, a way of making ourselves feel wanted and included, but my approach until this point has been so narrow that I’ve segmented myself into despondency. Baker. Climber. Gamer. Intersectional feminist. Photographer. Writer. I’ve been on a quest to define myself since college began. I enjoy all of those things, but magnifying each label in an attempt to define myself has detrimental effects. I’m introverted and geeky by nature, but those are the only labels I’ll claim–everything else is an interest stemming from my tendency for personal reflection.

And that’s okay, because now my focus is less on labels and expectations and more on the experiences that bring me joy.

So where does this leave me? I’m not exactly sure. Up until this point, every moment had a focus; every focus had a goal. Now that I’m pitching freelance work and searching for a full-time journalism position, that focus is more necessary than ever. I still have to focus on photography and freelance writing, but it’s also necessary to focus on little things, rather than a boxed identity. I have to remember that having a preference for metal over rap or for observing situations over participating doesn’t invalidate my experience. There are days for jumping headfirst into new situations, and days for nostalgia; days for vehemently defending your opinion and for listening patiently to what others have to say.

You are not limited to a singular focus in life. I am not limited to a singular focus in life. My focus is no longer disappearing, but speaking up and making mistakes and being fully present in each moment.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I focus on the gentle bulges across my hips and thighs. I see the new found curve along my waist. I see me, not just the shadow of myself I saw a few years ago.

I’m a recovering anorexic. For me, anorexia is like alcoholism in the way that you are never fully ‘cured’. Relapses happen and it takes persistence and constant self-love to stay healthy.

I’m at the heaviest weight of my life and I’ve been told I have never looked healthier. To me, that is one of the best compliments I can receive. I had always been persistently underweight for my 5’9 frame since I was 15. Spiraling downwards into diet-restricting and over-exercising, I was a mess mentally and physically before I sought out help my sophomore year of college.

But I’m not here to explicitly tell about my battle with anorexia. I’m here to talk about recovery.

About the twinges of doubt and sadness that come with compliments saying that you look well.

About how old habits are hard to fend off when you’re old jeans fit too snugly.

About how when I stand in the mirror I see a woman. Not just a wisp of one.

I see a woman. A woman with a little extra padding to cushion her mind and her heart. A woman who tries on new clothes and makes an effort to never be discouraged by the size tag. A woman who speaks out about body positivity and lifts others up on her journey to wellness.

But the journey to wellness isn’t always easy.

Wellness isn’t just about the number on a scale or a healthy BMI, it’s about how you think and feel about yourself. It’s about how easily you can accept and be kind to yourself. Wellness is something we all struggle with.

I may be at a healthy weight, but when I see myself in the mirror I sometimes find myself cursing each new curve.

But when I take the time to stop and think about where I got those, I find myself smiling. Each curve came from living life. From eating cake with a close friend in England to grabbing a pint of cider in Germany. When I was at my worst, my world revolved around food and what I didn’t eat. Now food revolves around the new life I have built for myself and the new woman I am today.

A woman one who knows she should probably get back into shape, but slightly fears how it could control her life again. A woman who realizes that the best thing that ever happened to her was studying abroad. How it helped her break her routine and simply focus on living her life again. Meaningful experiences became more important than image.

It is with that thought that I wish to stay in the travel frame of mind. To focus on living my best life and, honestly, just try to stay happy.

My sophomore year, when I first started reaching out to receive help, I wrote a poem to share in my creative writing class. It was one of my fist times sharing such a personal part of myself. Soon, I found that being vocal about negative body image was key to helping you change the way you think.

The poem read as follows:

When I Look Into the Mirror

I notice the asymmetrical curve of my hips,

The slight left slant of my nose,

Off-centering my face.

I focus on every pore of my skin,

Scarred like the surface of the moon

From only nineteen short years of life.

I fold into myself,

Shying away from the newfound weight held around my waist;

An unwanted sign of recovery.

I feel the wetness as my eyes gloss,

Reaching for the white-capped pill bottle,

The one that ebbs these thoughts that haunt my mind.

I take a step back.

I see sunlight reflect the gleam in my eyes

Conveying warmth and summer’s sweet melody,

Crinkled up at the corners when I laugh.

I see my mother’s nose,

My father’s chicken legs,

Stretched for miles and built for speed.

I see long, slender fingers,

Of which my Dad relates to E.T.,

Perfect for reaching under the couch for refugee change.

I see a lopsided smile,

One that finds solace in a slice of chocolate silk pie

Or changes from raspberry to coral with a swipe of lipstick.

I am only but a body,

Focused by a lens,

Transformed through the brain,

Yet,

When I look into the mirror,

I see it all.

It has been just over a year since I wrote that poem.

Since I finally came to terms with my struggle, I couldn’t be prouder of how far I’ve come. And you know what? I’m delighted to share that. Whether or not it is seen as boasting is not my business. To me, there is no wrong in being proud of what you’ve worked hard to accomplish.

Earlier this week, I went in to the doctor. In the back of my mind, I was slightly terrified. It was the first time I was going to be weighed in a year; ever since I sought help back at university. Back then, I was getting weighed blind and felt entirely helpless to the fact that I wasn’t allowed to know my own body. It was a year ago that I walked out of that doctors office and decided that the number on a scale would no longer define me. And it was a year of bliss not knowing. But it was time.

I got on that scale and was weighed by a nurse who did not know what that moment meant to me. And that was exactly how I wanted it.

To be perfectly honest, it was fine. Maybe even better than I thought. My overactive imagination had conjured up some insane number in my head, so it was reassuring to see that wasn’t the case. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The journey to wellness is life-long. But it doesn’t have to be a battle. It’s important to bend with it like a palm in the breeze. If you stay too rigid, you might just snap. Life is ever-fluctuating. It curves left and right like a country road. Ebbs and flows like the oceans’ tides. It’s your job to learn to flow with it.

I don’t think I will ever buy a scale. I can finally say that I know myself and know that it can be all too easy for thoughts to become obsessive. But, to me, I now know that what really matters is how I feel. Healthy.

Mentally, physically, and spiritually. And honestly, I simply cannot wait to continue riding the curve on my journey to wellness.

(Written by Aimee Goffe)

9142

As of this moment that is how many people I have reached with my story Try Not To Blink. A number that completely exceeded all of my expectations. Hitting over 100 likes on Instagram is awesome but reaching over 6,000 readers… I am blown away.

This incredible experience would not have been possible without the Wish Dish. When Bryan and the WishDish team reached out and asked me to write a personal story that could be shared with the community I was honored but a little nervous.

I am, by all means, an average writer. I took English classes because I had to and, as a marketing major; most of the content I produce is confined to a 140-character limit. I had a great story to tell. I had just lived the best three months of my life traveling around Europe but I didn’t know how to put it into words worth reading.

The WishDish not only provided a platform to share my story but friendly guidance and feedback to help make my story the best it could be. And I am grateful for their efforts in helping me produce quality content that students and members of the community would not only want to read but benefit from reading.

“Try Not to Blink” is one of my favorite works and will forever be a reminder to myself of the experiences I had abroad. Writing this piece allowed me to take the time to reflect on my experience and share my advice with other twenty-somethings looking to explore the world. I am so excited for the other members of this community who are making a difference with their stories. The WishDish embodies the word community. Challenging individuals to share personal words or works of art, inspiring readers to create and innovate, and defining millennials by individuality.

I wouldn’t want my words to represent anything else.

More After the Dish

After the Dish: Ashleigh Shay

Shanice’s After the Dish

After the Dish: Robert Liberatore

(Written by Ashleigh Shay)

When I first wrote On The Sidelines I was nervous. Bryan contacted me more or less a day after I published my first post on my blog.

That was the first time I was posting personal writing on a public platform. Then he asked me to do the same on his website. And this time it was a story about me, not just things that were going on around me.

Once I sat down to write the words flowed out of me so fast I knew I must have been all over the place. Although after I read it over it made as much sense on the screen as it did in my head.

That was a gratifying and terrifying thought.

It meant I was competent and people we’re actually going to read a story about me. That made me vulnerable, something I don’t like being. But I mustered up all the courage that I could and I hit “submit.”

I linked the story to my blog and from then it was like. Looking back at some statistics, 17 people read the story on my blog. However I’m unsure how many people read it on The Wish Dish. Either way, it made me feel confident about my writing.

I hope that freshmen in college or even just those who want to work in the world of sports have benefitted from my post. I was a regular freshman whose goal was to get on the field of the game. Luck came my way and here I am two years later and I have had field access for every home game.

I’m a big believer that everything happens for a reason and you have to work for what you want. I was at the right place at the right time to get me started. But I have worked my butt off since then to make a statement.

My job is early mornings, long days and late hours. I love every since second of it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have made it past the second football game last season.

You know those 12 o’clock kick-offs? While the rest of you are getting up at 8 am I’m already at the football stadium. It’s not an easy life but it’s one that I’ve chosen. I hope what I wrote last spring has inspired others to do the same.

It doesn’t have to do with sports and it doesn’t have to be in college. It can be anything and anytime. The purpose of me sharing my story was to accomplish two things.

The first one was to put myself out there. To be come comfortable with others reading something very personal. It was like publishing part of myself.

The second thing was to show people that if you are determined, you want something, and work hard for it, that you will get it. I had no idea how I was going to obtain what I wanted in the beginning. But I gave up weekends and nights out in order to get it. I love what I do. I hope others will one day too.