Who Wants a Sex Writer for a Sister?
On identity, beauty and bravery 💌 ✍️
Dear Wonderful Readers,
This morning, I woke up grumpy and exhausted, scrolling depressively for thirty minutes, debating whether to even get up. My self-criticism has been flaring up again, making life almost unlivable.
“Come to this self-portrait event at Soho House!” my friend coaxed me via WhatsApp.
I frowned. Most of me wanted to stay at home, hiding. But after a short self-compassion practice to stop me destroying myself from self-hatred, I got up. I got a latte. I went for a walk. I decided to go to the self-portrait event. Because why the hell not?
There, in the light-green glasshouse of the covered restaurant, sat Mina Serrano. I was confused at first because there were no mirrors for us to draw from. But then she said (in Spanish),
“Now, we’re going to do something a little different. You’re going to draw me. And as you do, I want you to think about identity, beauty, and bravery.”
She proceeded to take off the thin, beige mesh top she was wearing as she told us her life story. How, in Andalucia, Spain, she grew up knowing she had to leave. How drawing was her first love, but she soon found herself creating sculptures. She described the conundrum of sexuality and solitude. How trans women are trivialized and fetishized and stereotyped into sex work. How she would make beautiful poses on her own at home, only to wonder to herself: why is no one here to witness this beauty?
“Crecí sabiendo que tenía que irme.”
“I grew up knowing that I would have to leave.”
Her story fascinated me, not just because of her authenticity but also because of the risks that she had taken to be who she was. At some point during her story, the circle of people around her started drawing, as did I.
“Which part of yourself do you see in me?” she asked us. “What does that tell you about who you are?”
I drew her sitting on the stool, topless, holding the microphone. The microphone was symbolic to me. Her, taking up space. Her, using her voice. Her, vulnerably being. It stirred something in me. When we had the Q&A session afterward, I shared,
“I write a blog about my sex life. I love my work, but sometimes, I feel guilty because my siblings have their own companies. I don’t mind expressing myself and being my own person. But what if I’m negatively impacting their careers? With your authenticity, your identity, your beauty, and your bravery, how do you think about your family?”
She raised the microphone to her light-red tinted lips. She paused for a good, long moment. Then she said,
“I don’t have the perfect answer for you. Family is not easy." She shifted on her stool. “There is at least half of my family who rejected me. When you know that your family is gathering together, and you’re not invited, that hurts a lot. But I promised myself that I would accept myself. And not subject myself to the guilt. Ultimately, it’s not about them accepting me or not. I do not depend on them. I accept myself, and I choose to live as I am. And that is what matters.”
Her honesty struck me, the vulnerability in her words. She was saying that, at some level, our identities should not depend on other people who we cannot control. My family hasn’t rejected me yet for the explicit things I have published on this blog. In fact, some of them even read it (Hello there! Love you!) Still, my inner critic says,
“Who wants a sex writer for a sister?”
As I added the mono-chromatic touches to my drawing, I felt the pain of my own wounds swelling inside of me. For some reason, I was hit hard this week by the weight of my family’s unspoken values and my parents’ invisible expectations. Perhaps it’s because the summer family gatherings are coming, and I remember them looking down on me last year compared to other people. My fear bubbled up like thick goo. A message that’s been drilled into me, silently through sonar, since my childhood:
Making money is the most important thing. Being financially successful in this world is the greatest and only source of validation from others that matters.
It’s funny sometimes how the things that are never spoken are what we know to be most true. Still, that’s not who I am. And I am not going to sacrifice this only life; I have to make money in ways that make me happy. But unless I do the work to heal myself, I am left feeling worthless.
I took a deep breath as I sat there in the calm, glinting green midday light that streamed through the glass roof above me. I thought about you, my wonderful readers. I thought about this blog. I looked at my drawing as the shame in me subsided. In the undertones of my words to Mina, I had essentially asked her: Is it okay to not make a lot of money as a writer? Is it okay to be happy and pursue a career for pure joy? Is it okay to be different?
“I think so,” Mina’s elegant position, topless upon the stool, seemed to say.
I looked back at my drawing. I liked the colors and the slight messiness of it. This Tuesday morning, I was not bored to death at a day job that was lining my bank account but draining my soul. Here I was, simply enjoying myself, drawing and creating something beautiful. Something that was by no means perfect but something that I could be proud of. I smiled to myself.
How are you living differently from your family or your community? How have you handled this? What shame have you overcome? I’d love to know. Please share in the comments.
Shamelessly yours,
Tash
💌 ✍️
I also left a well-paying job to pursue my true passion. It would be cool if that meant immediate success and financial stability - then maybe there would be less (self and outer) judgement. But it doesn't. And I've struggglledddd in all the ways you might when it comes to making a move like that. To still double down on yourself despite all the voices telling you not to might be more rewarding than the work itself, at least for me. This really resonated with me. Truly inspiring, Tash. And I hope to meet Mina one day!