Rahab, Woman of Jericho

I got this tattoo around this time last year. It's in honor of Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute (often referred to as the "Harlot of Jericho", even after the events that happened below), who helped Joshua and his men enter the Promised Land. It is said the her name loosely translates to "God has opened the womb".

Showing kindness and hospitality to the Hebrew spies, Rahab asked that the Lord show mercy to her family. To identify her and thus spare them from the massacre that would ensue when the walls of Jericho fall, the spies told her to hang a red cord outside her window.

More than sparing her life, the Lord also gave her the honor of being one of Jesus' direct ancestors.

Prostitutes often appear in the Bible. They are condemned, yes, but in the Gospel, the narrative changed for them. Prostitutes (and women, in general) were often the recipients of Jesus' grace. Many times, he used them to further propagate his message of love and acceptance. He chose them specifically because they were sinful; he found purpose in their sins.

I cannot tell you how much I love and identify with her story in its entirety: a woman is condemned, regains agency, finds grace, and gains salvation.

There are many like her. Women who provide for their families by offering their bodies (rightly or wrongly, that's for another discussion), women who protect their families despite hardship and fear, women whose faulty wombs are opened to bring forth generations of blessedness.

So today, on International Women's Day, I honor you, Rahab. I honor you with my womb that was opened but once (I just found out that I have a condition that would've made it close to impossible to carry a child to term; Lucia is a true miracle baby). I honor you with my desire to protect my family. I honor you with the red string I have around my wrist (going on a decade now). And I honor you with this image.

Rahab, Woman of Jericho.

I See You

I had my first nervous breakdown and saw my first shrink at age 8. I had monstrous panic attacks. It took 3 full grown adults to get me out of bed & into the shower just so that I could go to school. But the attacks got so bad, I ended up not going to school for several months. Eventually, I was able to transfer to a new school. It was a long & slow process before I could actually go to school without a yaya because the attacks would come without warning. The attacks lessened, but they continued until high school. They only stopped when I finally met my friends. (The truest friends I could ever have; they're still my friends now.)

College was when I was most "normal".

I was able to make a lot of friends in college. That means that a lot of the people I still know now met me when I was "normal". Most people didn't even know I had mental health issues.

Anyway, what I'm saying is, don't let anyone tell you how you should manifest your mental illness. Don't let them tell you that what you're going through is invalid because you don't neatly fit the categories set by BuzzFeed or Thought Catalog. Don't let them make you feel bad for doing what you could to live through your anxiety.

Or maybe, let them. Because sometimes you simply don't have it in you to fight them. But please, don't believe them.

You didn't "pretend", you were trying to survive. If they can't see that, know that *I* see that. I see you. You are important. You are valid. You are worthy. No matter how your story unfolded. No matter how your story is unfolding.

Good night. xo