Ramadan Chronicles: Embracing Imperfections

Because my platform is so diverse, I never want to feel preachy or overbearing. That Muslim girl who forces her religion on you. I’ve met Muslims who are constantly trying to force their beliefs on others and it becomes tiring and honestly, annoying. So, I’m very careful about what I share when talking about my spirituality.

Since we’re in the holy month, I’ve shared some stories about my relationship with Ramadan over the past years and how I tackle it now.

I had no idea that people, non-Muslims and Muslims, would be so interested in fasting and my experience with Ramadan. The conversations were heavy.  

I talked about how everyone is so happy when Ramadan comes around. You’ve got the Ramadan Mubarak memes and the smiling faces in pastel hijabs and the religious Facebook statuses with ayats from the Quran.

Ramadan is such a perfect time for perfect Muslims to fast and everything just seems so easy.

No one talks about how Ramadan can be not so easy for others who are converts who have been banished from their families for accepting Islam or people who don’t live near mosques or other Muslims who have to break fast alone every night. No one talks about Muslims who are having physical ailments and feel low because they are unable to participate in Ramadan fully or how a woman on her period has to constantly defend her reasons for not fasting to the Haram Police. No one talks about Muslims who have eating disorders, triggered by fasting or the ones suffering from mental illnesses. Like me.

Last year, when my divorce was still fresh and my mental health at an all-time low, I told my friend that I wasn’t participating in Ramadan. I hadn’t seen the point in it. All I saw were fake people trying to be holy for 30 days then become the same sucky people after it was over, after they were done playing super Muslim.    

She told me that it was my choice to participate or not. But, then she added, that my Ramadan wasn’t for other people. It wasn’t for the Muslims who judged me or my ex or to show everyone how good of a person I was because I abstained from food and water and curse words during the daylight hours. She told me that my Ramadan was for me.

I went home and thought about what she said. She was absolutely right, and at that moment, I figured out that all those prior years, I had always been fasting to appease others. I had wanted to seem like the perfect, law-abiding Muslim that I lost track of what Ramadan was really about: self-reflection through prayer, gratefulness to our creator, and centering oneself.

It was never about perfection but embracing one’s uniqueness in imperfection. 

We’re a week into Ramadan, and I’ve missed some days of fasting already. This morning, I was determined to wake up early enough to make suhoor (pre-dawn meal before fasting), read the Quran, and pray.

Prayers in Islam are integral. It’s a time where we mediate, keep in remembrance of our blessings, and ask.

Usually when I pray, I ask for general things for other people and I always leave myself out. As dumb as this may sound, I don’t believe that I deserve to ask for anything. So, I don’t.

But, Ramadan is the best time to ask and reflect.

I sat on my prayer rug that was once collecting dust and spoke out loud. I asked for the heaviness to be lifted. For a means to continue my art without struggling financially. I asked for a peace of mind. Forgiveness for any messed up stuff I’ve done to my body and to others.

After that, I gave thanks. For having working limbs, a mouth to speak, access to food, opportunities just laid in front of me. I’m not the richest or the smartest or the best, but I’ve done things most haven’t. Tears streamed down my eyes. Not sad ones but happy ones as I rejoiced. That the things that happened, good and bad, had been written for me way before I was born.

But, I always had a choice.

So, when I’m fasting and experiencing hunger pangs, when I’m feeling like I cannot go any further, I know that I can go further.

How’s your fast going?

Xoxo,

Leah V

5th Year in the Game: It’s My Blogger-versary

It’s my 5th year blogger-versary, y’all. *Tosses Confetti*

Damn, I’m old.  

This week back in 2013, I decided to start another blog (the two previous ones had failed). I had no clue what I was doing. No fancy camera (just a grainy ass android). No experience in styling or makeup.

Drake said he started at the bottom, girl, I started way beneath the bottom.  

I was married to a man who didn’t support what I was doing. He hadn’t understood my purpose, my vision. He wasn’t the cheering section that I thought and needed him to be. He did the bare minimum. I had to push myself and pick up the slack.

When I first hit the scene as a baby blogger, I was glared at by not only straight-sized bloggers, but the plus-size ones as well. I wasn’t good enough to be in their groups. I wasn’t good enough to be included in the photos with their fancy DSLR cameras. I was the newbie on their little turf and was underestimated. They hadn’t thought that I’d be the most successful blogger in Detroit, who’s not only been featured locally but nationally and internationally. If you are one of those people reading this, how does those apples taste? 

I hadn’t told my family because they didn’t understand why I couldn’t ‘use my degrees’ to get a real job. Work a job I hated for 30 years and not ever make a difference. I couldn’t do that. Not for them, I couldn’t.

I was made fun of. Told by Muslims that I should blog about religion instead of fashion, that what I was doing would embarrass my husband and that it wasn’t fitting of a Muslim woman to ‘model’ and wear makeup. That I shouldn’t bring attention to myself. I did that shit anyway.

I was picked over for white bloggers with way less of a following just because ya know, I wasn’t white.

For some hardheaded ass reason, I persisted. I paused, but I never, ever stopped.

The reason I started Beauty and the Muse was because I needed an outlet for my creativity, my pain, my voice. I wanted to be what I never got growing up. I wanted to see proper representation that the media fails to acknowledge. I wanted to be the change I wished to see. Instead of talking, I chose to do.

So, here we are. Five years later. It’s been a helluva ride. So much has happened good and bad. But, mostly good.  

I want to leave you with a bit of inspiration. If you want something, then go get it. Do not ask for permission. You will be your own biggest fan in your journey to creating the life that you want to live. Do not ask for permission for the reigns that control your life. It’s already there for the taking. So, what are you waiting for?

In celebration of my anniversary, I’m gifting you with a dope ass video with the song titled “Fuck They” by Sofi Tukker because who wouldn’t want to celebrate a carefree, Black, fat Muslim living in her truths.

Question, what year did you start following me and what made you follow? 

***Shout out to Daniela Lisi for thuggin it out with me to make this video very late at night.

xoxo,

Leah V

I’m Not Sorry. Actually I’m Unapologetic.

Know what it feels like to be silenced for your entire life? Feel as if you’re trapped inside of your own body? Never being able to live up to any of the standards that are set forth from society, religion, a parent, social media?

That was me.

It seemed as though because of my vast intersectionalities (being Black and female), right from the womb I was told to keep my mouth shut and that my feelings were invalid. I was told that I’d have to always play by the rules, come in second, sometimes third, and be content with that shit. Always smile although pain is right beneath the surface. No one wanted to hear one complain about how hard life was. No one wanted to hear about anxiety or depression or body dysmporphia. If you prayed harder, was a better person and Muslim, then you surely wouldn’t have those sorts of issues.

Fit: Fashion Nova Curve 

Seems like a lot of us are living in denial. And, that we have a ton of projection going on of insecurities. Seems like a lot of us play it too safe and become resentful when others break out of their shells.

Well, I’m here to tell you that no one gives a fuck about your feelings.

After decades of seeing thin white girls on movies stick their fingers down their throats after purging and so wanting to be that thin and that beautiful and acceptable and that white with a skinny tush, I ate and ate and ate then scrambled to the toilet to regurgitate all the ‘bad’ foods and to my dismay, my gag reflex was too strong, so I was forced to be more fat and absorb all the empty calories.  

I was dressed like a boy growing up because a Muslim girl is supposed to be modest, chaste, virgin, and unscathed by the harsh, harsh world. Men wouldn’t want to look at me sexually because I had on a huge tee that covered me like a fuckin bed sheet. Always had to worry about where a man’s eyes were. That’s the main concern. Are you too sexy? Are you asking for it? Did she deserve it?

Lip: Fenty Stunna Lip Paint 

Fat folks don’t deserve to slay. Fat folks need to cut their stomach in half, so they can be thinner with body issues and not fat with body issues. Because fat is bad. And thin is good. Fat is bad. Thin is good. Fat is bad. And, thin is…

Ya know there is one day when a person is fed up, and everything just stops.

And, you come to the realization that nothing is real. Nothing is set in stone. That the sun could just come a centimeter closer to earth and we’d all be fried to extinction. So, if that’s the case, then why are you living to make other people comfortable with you? Why are you ‘waiting’ to start your life?

Discomfort is temporary.

Discomfort is growth.

Growth is necessary.

Booties: Eloquii 

I make people uncomfortable with my mere presence. That fact tickles me. That my presence, my essence is that powerful.   

I won’t be apologizing for my mere being. For being fat. For being Black af. For being Muslim. I’ve said sorry enough by assimilating. By keeping quiet. By accepting abuse and ridiculous requests. By wasting time thinking about how dumb I sound or if I’m dimming someone’s flame because mine blazes so fierce or if this is all an illusion and I fall flat on my face instead of soaring. Maybe I’ll soar.    

Actually, I’m not sorry at all for being myself, I’m unapologetic, and it’s only gonna get better.

xoxo,

Leah V

Accepting My Body As It Is

My body has done some pretty amazing things lately. I mean, some things that I’d never thought it would do. It breathes for me when I sleep. It’s able to do an hour of cardio without stopping. It has allowed me to successfully complete a five-city college speaking tour. And, yeah, in between those good times, it’s been achy, moody, and fatigue, but it still pushes even when I’ve given up.

Do you ever take the time to appreciate your body?

There was a time for me when I hadn’t. I fully underestimated my body, my self. I fully allowed others to dictate how I viewed it, how I treated it. I policed its every move to the point of self-harm and self-hatred. I loathed everything about it. The way it spoke, the way it awkwardly moved and hid itself in the shadows of beautiful, thin people. How the light drained from it once I stepped on a scale and saw that the first number started with a 3 instead of a 1. The ‘you shouldn’t eat that’ and the ‘you shouldn’t wear that’ crumbled me to the point of extinction.

I couldn’t find one part of me that was acceptable, beautiful, worthy. What a cruel life to live. Walking around like an insecure shell of a human. That was me. For many years. An empty vessel filled with worthlessness.

How many of us are walking around like that right now? With our heads down, scanning the internet for #Thinspo and #BodyGoals. In search of the next quick fix DIE-t plan and flat tummy tea. Scrolling aimlessly through a Kardashian’s feed, pinpointing all the spots of skin with no stretch marks and wishing our thigh gaps could be as wide. Adding seventeen different filters to a selfie that we took out of a hundred selfies that all look the same. Swipe left. Swipe right. Swipe left. Swipe right. That’s my better angle. Hiding double chins and smoothing out cellulite from an app we paid 2.99 for. Comparing ourselves to the perky-breasted super-model on the cover flap of a popular magazine without knowledge that she has an entire team to make her look so ‘picture perfect’.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I, too, have fallen into the media trap where I’d fallen so deep that I couldn’t get up. One perfect page leads to the next perfect page and I’ve found myself comparing and contrasting my body to hers. Wishing I could have some of what she had. This perfect Insta-Model has got it all. And, I had nothing at all. Why had she been so lucky?

One day, I decided to not compare myself to others. Well, not completely, but much less. It’s humanly impossible to not compare. Less is better.

One day, I asked myself what if I loved and appreciated my body how it was in that exact moment? What if I worked on being healthy and strong and built my endurance, instead of weighing myself twice a day and starving to the point of migraines? What would it look like to accept my body as is?

I hadn’t known what it looked like because I’d never seen it before. But, I was willing to try.

I started with looking in the mirror instead of passing them by. Avoiding them. I started dancing in public. Instead of dancing on the sidelines, I moved to the middle where the action was. I became less aware of my jiggly parts. Thin bodies hadn’t jiggled. So, I was always conscious about my folds moving when I moved. That had to stop. I took selfies and I posted them. I tackled my insecurities head on and exploited them instead of hiding them. I told people to look at the parts that I tried so hard to hide. I claimed those parts, no matter how upsetting they were.

Why had they upset me so much in the first place? Because they hadn’t fit into the mold of traditional beauty? My jiggly parts, my spaced teeth, large forehead, wide-set toes, and hip pockets weren’t considered beautiful. They were very much so the opposite attributes of beauty that we seen growing up.

I hated myself because everyone told me to.

But, I had a choice. And, I chose to live life with my body as it was.

Many of times we go on these rants and raves about finding the answers to life’s questions. We go on these quests to figure out the root of our happiness. When the answer is always within us. It’s there the entire time. We just have to go through the process of internal self-discovery. And, that means making the choice to do something different. Making the choice to pull ourselves out of the loop. To view it from a different angle.

xoxo,

Leah V

Just Dropping In :)

Hello my loves.

I have been sooooo neglectful. Ugh. I have yet another flight in about two hours going to Rhode Island. And, I am excited to visit the landscape, see my mentor who is throwing me a party after my talk, and on top of that I have two photoshoots all in 48 hours. 

Ya girl has been grinding. In the last month, I have been to Texas, New York, Chicago, New Jersey, and will be traveling to two other states for panel discussions and keynotes. 

So, now you know why I've been so in and out. LOL. On top of that I have some projects coming up that I can't wait to share. But, I am always on Instagram. So, if you want to see me everyday then that's the place to find me.  

Shades: DIFF Eyewear + Jacket: Addition Elle + Dress: REBDOLLS 

Hopefully, when the traveling pauses, I will be back to blogging on time. But, in the meantime here are some dope photos to carry you through the week of a fat, Black, and unapologetic Muslim girl being herself and hoping that through her art, her words that you will be, too. 

With the photos, I hope that you start your week off by being gentle with yourself and with others. And, know that if no one tells you this, I will. You are beautiful. You are worthy. You are valuable. You are worth it all. 

xoxo,

Leah V 

Fat, Black, and Carefree: NYC Video Project

The first time I went to NYC was in 2013. I had just started blogging and planned to crash New York Fashion Week. My ex, at the time, worked for an airline. So the flight was free. I packed peanut butter crackers and waters on my carry-on bag. I had about 10$ to spend on food. The crackers and water was my breakfast. 

I slept in a hostel, on the top bunk, in a room filled with drifters. Each night stay was 19$. I clutched my belongings to my chest as I slept.

But, I was in New York though, and I was humbly building my brand. 

The next time I visited. I was still broke. But, this time, I had met someone who offered me lodging. After the fashion show, I went to her place only to find out that her home was infested with roaches. With no money, I found a clean spot on the couch upstairs and hoped for the best. 

Five years later, I was flown to New York. I had shoots set up. Meetings with brands. And video collaborations. I was being paid. No uncomfortable bunk beds or roaches or water and crackers. 

For some reason social media has made life look easy. They’ve caused people to see the accomplishments without the struggle. You can question where I’ve come from or how I’ve gotten to where I am, but you cannot deny that I’ve put the work in. 

At the end of the day, like my friend, Madinah says: You will NOT outwork me! 

Here’s a video, proof of a fat, Black, and very Muslim Girl from Detroit against all odds in New York making a fashion video on her terms. Just as unapologetic and carefree🤸🏾‍♀️

Share your struggle and tell me where you are now? Let’s chat. 

Video: @mister_eman 

Dress: @eloquii 

Location: New York

F is for Fat

Last week, I was asked to be on a panel discussion for Lululemon for International Women’s Day. It was entitled Worth 100, aiming to highlight the idea that all women should feel worthy and valued, no matter what. I was a bit skeptical about being on the panel, not because it scares the fuck out of me to publicly speak, but because it was hosted by Lululemon. None of their workout gear or t-shirts fit me. Their merchandise doesn’t include people like me. I am not their audience.

I am too fat.

I thought about it and ultimately accepted because if I hadn’t showed my fat face, then who would? Perhaps they’d replace me with a smaller, less Black, and less Muslim counterpart.

Bestie Blogger Friend Ushshi 

I was surprised that among myself were other plus-size women on the panel. There’s a first step for everything, right? Perhaps corporate at Lululemon will see our curvy bodies, hear our plus-size voices, and get the idea that fat women also workout and become a size-inclusive company.

The room was filled. All 100 seats. And, a standing room in the back. The moderator asked each one of us to say three words that described us. There were two people before me. I had a bit of time to possibly change my answer if need be. My initial words were fat, Black, and unapologetic. I looked at the audience. It was mostly filled with straight-size white women. I contemplated switching out ‘fat’ for ‘Muslim’. I knew the word ‘fat’ would cause a Caucasian unrest as it does for many other kinds of people.

I stood up. My stomach churning with IBS issues as I prayed that I wouldn’t shit myself (because that’s a legit fear). I said, “My name is Leah V. And, my three words are fat, Black, and unapologetic.”

Shirt Courtesy of Addition Elle

I heard scattered claps. Some faces remained stoic as their minds scrambled to figure out why in the world would this chick use such negative word to describe herself. I heard one ‘WOO HOO’, which I’m quite sure was my friend, as I smiled and took my seat.

I was going to blow their minds later on.

When people used to call me fat, I’d melt into a puddle. I’d crumble into a million particles and blew away with the wind. The word held so much weight—no pun intended—that it riddled me worthless, not valuable. I’d used to want to crawl into a hole and never emerge until I was perfect and thin. I hurt myself trying to be thin. I was almost thin only once in my life. And it wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was going to be.

Why? Because in my mind, I thought that thin people had more fun. I thought that they frolicked around in daisy fields and were debt-free and could pull any man they wanted. I thought that they were outgoing and smart and nice. That they didn’t have body image issues. That it was just fat people who hated themselves and their bodies.

And, was I ever wrong.

At my smallest weight, I believe I hated myself more during that time than at my heaviest weights. Mind blowing! Yes, I know.

Fast forward back to the panel. Stay with me. LOL.

It was my turn to speak. I told them a little story about why I reclaimed the word ‘fat’. Words only carry as much importance as we allow them to. And, I was tired of people having that much power over how I viewed my body. People—bad people—get off on disarming folks, making them think lowly of themselves. But, what if we could reclaim our power? Take that shit back?

By claiming fat-ness, I am taking back what is mine, rightfully. I am turning a negative into a positive. I am, hopefully, educating people about the word and about our bodies and how we view them.

Fat is a descriptor. Just like smart. Short. Tall. Busty. Brown. Pale.

Yes, I may be fat, but I am so much more. I am Black. Muslim. Obnoxious and impulsive. Loud. Loyal. Cute AF.

Fat isn’t a bad word. Its not forbidden or evil. It doesn’t mean worthlessness or ugliness. It means what it means. Extra rolls, curves, lumps and bumps, plump, and soft.

And, if someone does try to use it on you, or someone you know, negatively, then flip that shit around like I do. Tell em: I am fat, and so much more.

xoxo,

Leah V

The Deletion of the Perfect Instagram Hijabi

I was flown to Columbia University in New York last week by the Muslim Protag Student Organization to speak on a panel about how body-positivity and fashion related to authenticity in today’s times. Although very nervous—as I always get with speaking engagements—I felt right at home as the mainly student filled room interacted positively when I advocated about being an ally for Black Muslims, Muslims who’d been hushed by the media, fat people, disabled people, and dark people.

I told them to feel free to snap their fingers or to whip their turban or hijab back and forth if they heard something that I said which resonated with them.

And, girl, there was a lot of whippin and snappin going on.

Someone asked me about being an openly Muslim blogger, who also happened to be Black and fat, and how I remained authentic in that space.

For some reason, all the ‘Perfect Hijabi’ bloggers popped into my head.

Hijab: VELA Scarves

I responded, “Hmm, I’m not sure I want to say this here.”

The crowd gassed me up. Shouting, “Say it. Say it!”

“You know I’m really tired of the Hijabi bloggers being so damn perfect. Like, come on. They are all thin, usually white passing with the perfect wardrobe and the most perfect pastel Instagram aesthetic. They have the most perfect husband with the most luxurious and conditioned Muslim man beard. And they have like a ‘get into heaven’ free card because they are just the most perfect human beings.” I rolled my eyes and laced with sarcasm, I concluded, “I want to be like that one day.”

Eyes widened, jaws dropped, and laughs erupted. I heard claps and snaps. And, some even flew out of their seats.

No one had said it out loud until that moment. Said what we are all thinking in our petty little heads. Why do Muslimah influencers feel the need to push this oh-so-perfect agenda off on others?

And, I get that one could argue that being ‘too real’ can add to Islamophobia and that the world doesn’t need to see Muslims in a ‘bad light’. Ever since 9/11 occurred, Muslims have felt the need to put on this perfect persona so that others couldn’t stereotype them. Mistake them as aggressive or too Muslim or radical or oppressed. One of those Muslims that they saw on TV blowing up things and carrying curved swords and screaming ‘Death to all AMERICANS’.  

On top of the pressures of remaining perfect in the public eye, we have community-rooted issues of how a Muslim woman should be within her family as well as the community. And these circumstances vary, not all situations are like this, but I guarantee that you have either witnessed or been in one or more of these situations.  

You do not bring shame to your family under any circumstance. While your brother, Ahmad, is out living his best life, you are held to much higher standards. You look the part. Hijab is crucial. You don’t wear hijab, life is almost over and you have elders questioning your religion. Skinny jeans or leggings? Oh no. You are clearly on the path to destruction. Dating? While your brother, Muhammad A.K.A Mo, is bringing white chicks to the family functions. You on the other hand will fall straight into the pits of hell if you even ponder a hot guy before marriage.

Got a mental illness? Drop two rakats. You clearly aren’t praying enough. And, no, I’m not saying you shouldn’t pray when a calamity befalls you, but resources for anxiety and depression are available if you need them.

Other cliché topics that a lot of perfect hijabi bloggers don’t touch are sexual abuse, misogyny, racism, and body-shaming. Of course, because those kinds of topics don’t fit into their pastel social media aesthetic filled with fancy doughnuts and lavish trips to Dubai. Oh, yeah. I’m calling them out.

The reason why the perception of perfect, Instagram Muslimahs are so problematic is for several reasons.

You make your followers feel as if they aren’t good enough, that they aren’t Muslim enough. You create this bubble that just isn’t reality. What most influencers fail to understand is that there are other people on the opposite side of that screen. People place influencers on such high pedestals and will try to emulate whatever it is that they do. They don’t necessarily understand that these photos and blogs and projects are only curated snippets of an actual life.  

Newsflash: Muslim girls aren’t perfect. And, we don’t need to be. Perfection doesn’t exist. So, why are we punishing ourselves to attain it? Stop allowing your mom, husband, society to dictate how you should or shouldn’t be. Stop wearing masks to make others feel comfortable in your presence.

Life is about making mistakes and learning from them. It’s about exploration and maintaining an identity. It’s about connecting with your creator and striving each day to be better than you were the day before.

Instead of pushing perfection, which is really lowkey fakeness, try promoting individuality. Let your platform know that this is how you present yourself, but that it’s nothing wrong with stepping outside of the box and creating your own unique path.

XOXO,

Leah V

BodyPROJECT: Turbanista in the City

I'm super excited to share with you my newest body project collaboration in the city of Detroit.

I thoroughly enjoy the art of storytelling. Sometimes, we can tell a story without one word. But through images or movement. 

I often hear that people don't read anymore. That people don't care. That there's so much going on in the world that people have lost hope. 

I know what it feels like to be without hope. To not be able to see past the mental wall that's in front of you. To not see the good in people. To think that no one cares. 

None of it is true. Those are doubts. That is fear. We are our own walls...

I've become my own wall lately. 

But, I have to remind myself, others have to remind me of what I've become, what I am, and what I can be, and most of all, why did I start this movement in the first place. 

I started my platform to rebel. Against societal norms of weight and diet culture. To deconstruct the stereotypical ideologies of Black woman-ness. To shed the oppression of women in religious forms. 

This video is so bad-ass. So feminist. So full of fat, carefree, Muslim girl-ness. And, I am so proud to be able to create even when I'm broken at times. 

What does this video say to you? What emotions does it evoke? What's the story here? Let's chat. 

Video:  Nicole and Daniela Photography

Song: "Only" by Patrick Baker

Model: @Lvernon2000

Turban: @Hautehijab

Dress: @Societyplus

Jacket: @Eloquii

I Was Called a Whore Because of This Photo

All day, I’ve been blocking Muslims on Instagram. Men, women, and children. Most of them from the Middle-East.

Why? Because a modest instablog, Modestroute, that showcases Muslim women around the world decided to repost one of my photos.

In the photo, I am fully clothed. I have on all black. A faux leather jacket because I’m poor. A shirt and a pair of jeans. I also have on hijab and black lipstick. My fist is balled and in the air and my eyes are closed. I originally posted the photo back in the summer to bring awareness to racial and social injustice. It’s a dope photo. I got like fifteen mosquito bites from standing in the tall grass that day during the shoot.

Instead of people liking the photo or just scrolling past my Black face and my fat body, they went into attack mode. Swarming not only the photo on Modestroute’s page but on my personal page. “This is haram,” a Muslim man posted.

“Sorry, but how is this modest?” another user asked.

“She’s gorgeous, but she can cover up more,” said a Muslim girl who hadn’t worn hijab in her profile photo.

“Muslim??? Feminist??? Make up??? Wallahi end of times is NEAR!!!” one person exclaimed.

One user argued, “Her clothes are more modest than many other Muslim girls out there. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t represent Muslims,” a girl said. If I hadn’t represented a real Muslim woman then who was I at all?  

On my personal page, the jabs were worse. Users sought out photos and trolled in the comment sections. They said: I should cover my body for the sake of Allah (swt), what I wore wasn’t proper hijab, I was even called a whore and shaitan (devil), and that I couldn’t possibly be Muslim. The last comment hurt most of all. That my Islam was so deeply rooted by what I chose to wear…or not wear.

I blocked so many folks that I lost count.

I’ve written about this before, but I am so very tired of having to validate my Islam. I’m tired of the ‘are you Muslim’ question when clearly ‘Muslim Feminist’ is stated in my bio. I’m tired of Arab-speaking Muslims treating me as if I don’t know the rules of Islam because I’m Black, asking me if I celebrate Ramadan or if I know the Al-Fatiha by heart. Clapping like I’m some kind of circus monkey when I reply yes. Why isn’t just me saying that I’m Muslim enough? When did we move into an era where we have to prove our closeness with Allah (swt) or spirituality? And, why do some Muslims feel the need to be super-Muslim and correct every wrong and cross every T? I feel like we are in a time where everyone is an internet mufti accredited by Sheik Google.

Guess what? I know the rules of proper hijab as stated in the holy book, but I choose not to do it. I choose to wear tight jeans and leggings and turbans and lipstick and nail polish. That’s what I choose to do. And that is my ultimate choice how outwardly Muslim I’d like to look. That choice doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim. I’m sorry to burst your Islamic bubble. I don’t go around harassing Muslims who choose to wear abayas or niqab just because I don’t wear it. Nor do I judge them solely based on what they wear or how they wear it. Newsflash: there are bad Muslims who wear modest clothing. There are bad Muslims who have full beards. There are bad Muslims all around the world. Just like there are bad people all around the world.

When we get down to the root of Islam, there is a way to guide a Muslim to the straight path or correct a wrong. Bashing someone on the internet is far, far away from it. You are not helping me dress more modestly. You are not helping me strengthen my spirituality or faith. You are harming yourself, because who knows, you may end up dealing with a similar situation.

We are so worried about appearances of Muslim women and girls that we forget what Islam is all about. The outer appearance is only a small portion of our belief system. Islam encompasses all levels of spirituality from low to high, and we all struggle with different trials. I may struggle with dress and another may struggle with speech and another with greed.  

Should we all just start calling each other haram? Should we all begin trolling one another? Maybe we should check our intentions and understand that there is much more to a Muslim than his/her way of dress.

XOXO,

Leah V 

Looking Back On 2017

I can’t believe that I made it. For a long time, I hadn’t thought that I could.

Many of you who have followed my blog or my Instagram feed or even know me in real life understand that 2017 was filled with high highs and the lowest of lows. Having to navigate the world as a freshly divorced Muslim woman who was left with zero. Zilch. After ten years. Separating myself from toxic family members. Being dragged into bullshit by supposed friends, trolled by Muslims, and fatshamed by strange men who knew nothing of me when my dance video went semi-viral.

It has been an emotional rollercoaster to say the least.

As I sit on my bed with two pillows propped behind my back and under two old blankets, I am reminded of 2017 and all its adventures and struggles.

In January, I was severely depressed. Being only a few months post-divorce, no job or insurance, I had no prospects. It was winter, the sun was barely shining, and I fought to hang on. I was still blogging and trying to restart my YouTube page and look for a low-paying job with two masters. I tried to keep myself busy and took a shot at applying for an artist fellowship. It took me a month to complete the packet. But, I did and submitted it.

Maybe I’d get it and maybe I wouldn’t.

Things were quiet. I had to sit with myself. Figure out who I was and what I was made of.

During the silence, I’d cry when I thought about what was done to me. What I’d been through. I started to get spiritual because it was the only thing that was going to save me. My life was spiraling out of control.

I told myself that if I was to come into any money, I was going to book a trip somewhere in the world.

Shades: Alley & Eye

I’d hurt my knee in 2014 at work and the job treated me so badly, claiming because I was fat was the reason why I got hurt when clearly a patient attacked me on camera and I ended up falling over a chair.

My lawyer called me and after three years, they finally wanted to settle. Although they screwed me mostly and my lawyer took almost half, I had money to last five months. I decide to book my trip and live off the rest and try to pursue my creative career.

I was so scared to book the trip to London and Paris. I’d never been overseas by myself before. I called all my friends who traveled, just freaking out. They were just like book the damn tickets and stop trying to control everything. I booked the tickets and almost threw up. Every day, I regretted booking the flights, but there was no going back.

That trip was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done in my life. I didn’t know what to expect and took everything moment by moment. Hell, I didn’t even have a working phone. I relied on strangers and my own intuition to get me through. I modeled (without an agent) for large companies, got my wallet stolen in Brixton, got lost a thousand times, I went on a date, I ate sushi, and semi-hitchhiked with a Russian. I made connections and I challenged myself like never before.

I came back refreshed and ready to take on the remainder of the year. During that time, I wrote another book. I’d written three books before this one, but they were all Sci-Fi. This was the first book about my life. I started with a story about being a poor fat kid growing up as the only Black Muslim in the neighborhood. Then the other stories began to spill out of me. The real story about my divorce, Mom’s mental illness, and my body image issues.

Musings of a Fat, Black Muslim was written in three months. I didn’t seek representation for it because I was running out of money and needed to look for a job. So, I put my project away. Many months were wasted filling out apps and sending my resume to hundreds of companies and not one responded.

I was being tested and failing miserably.

Skirt: Simply Be

A few gigs rolled my way and I was able to work with Go Red for Women on a social media campaign about body positivity and health, flown to New York to do a video about Muslim women for Conde Nast, and then hosted the Allied Media Conference’s opening ceremony at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

June rolled around and although I was gaining momentum, I still hadn’t found a stable job.

I started to have very bad anxiety attacks. Like the ones that come out of nowhere. Like the kind where you think you’re going to die because your heart is beating so fast and it feels like a heart attack. And, usually they’d come every once in a while, but they started coming like several times a day. I tried all the techniques and they weren’t letting up. I became severely depressed.

I was quitting everything. The blogging. The modeling. The writing. I shouldn’t have gotten a divorce; I should’ve stayed with his emotionally abusive ass because I hadn’t deserved anything better. I wasn’t shit. My work wasn’t shit. I was a fraud. But, most of all, I was alone.

Withdrawing from close friends, they tried to call, and I ignored them. I was a dark cloud and didn’t want to be bothered. No one could help me, I thought. Finally, my friend called again. I answered. She invited me to the mosque for dinner, it was free, and it was Ramadan. I was broke, so I went.

I sat down at the table as they chatted, happily. The plate in front of me went cold. Their attention went to me. They asked if I was okay. I wasn’t. They tried to help, and I started crying. My one friend ushered me to the bathroom. I told her about the depression and anxiety attacks. She allowed me to cry on her shoulder. I asked her what was I supposed to do? What had God wanted me to do? I didn’t have anything left to give.

“You are not lazy. You put in the work. I see you putting in the work. You’ve gotta let go and give it to him. You’re not in control. Let it go,” she said.

Her words swirled around my head that night. The next morning, I woke up with the heaviness that had plagued me for the last few months gone.

A few days later, the Kresge Foundation emailed me and told me that I had won the Gilda Award, which came with a $5,000 grant, beating out 750 applicants.

I didn’t plan on crying on stage in front of a room full of white people when I accepted the award. I planned on gracefully showing how I appreciative I was. The tears I shed were ones of gratefulness. That for once, I’d been deemed as a prolific writer when not too long ago, I wouldn’t even dare to call myself a writer let alone a creative.   

After the Gilda award, I bought a ticket to LA (where I hope to reside one day) and booked a few modeling gigs and met up with the Movers and Shakers. I went to the beach and laid there in a polka-dot two-piece and an Amber Rose cut. Listening to the waves as I soaked up the rays. I started crying again because my broke-ass had been blessed to make it to LA on a coach ticket and find a couch to sleep on.

As the summer winded down, I got a chance to work with Adidas Originals on their EQT launch, I was invited to do several video projects with the city of Detroit, I dropped a body-positive dance video that was viewed by over 200,000 folks and was featured nationally and internationally on CBS, CBS, Cosmopolitan, Buzzfeed, Bustle, and Teen Vogue (just to name a few). I was on local news! I was flown out to the University of Ottawa to talk about feminism and being Black and being fat. I was just featured in Elle Magazine. Yes, the hard copy.

And, the biggest accomplishment was that I was able to shop my memoir around. I sent my book proposal out to 100 agents in the matter of days. My fingers hurt from sending out all those emails. About twelve agents responded. Most of them offered me representation on the spot. On my 30th birthday, I was officially represented by a literary agency in New York. I one-day hope to see my fat ass face on the shelves of your local book store.

I never knew any of this was possible. And, I surely didn’t think my life would take this route, but I am so hopeful about the coming year.

Although, I’m still broke and figuring out how to make a living as an artist, a true artist that is transparent and raw and real, I know that my followers, my friends, and select family members will hold me down. I will hold me down.

My grandmother passed away last week, and we just laid her to rest. She was an avid reader, was photogenic, and loved makeup and fashion, like me. She was a pillar and the backbone of our family. Although, she had her quirks, like every other human, I’m here because of her. She even named me when I was born.

I have no choice but to go forward now. To push twice as hard as I have this year. To do the best I can to continue to show beauty where the media tries to hide it. To advocate for the little voices, the underrepresented, the folks that get shitted on daily. To push unconditional love and acceptance and equality of the sexes. Body positivity. Eradication of Islamaphobia and fatphobia.

To be the fattest, Blackest, Muslim with the loudest voice and the most contoured face you’d ever seen in your entire life.

2018 is gonna be litty.

xoxo,

Leah V

Muslim Girl Dance #BodyProject

In the spring, I had this wild idea to make a solo dance video, including the elements of spoken word, model walking, and a bit of voguing. As usual, the creative budget was zero dollars. LOL. But, I believed that a fat girl dancing. A Muslim girl dancing in the streets of Detroit would make for a powerful statement, a conversation on what an American Muslim looks like? What a modern-day fat girl looks like? An overly educated black girl? I knew that if I decided to do it, that I might get backlash from the opposing side, too. 

"Why is that Muslim girl dancing?!? She shouldn't be doing that. It's not Islamic!"

"She's so fat, why is she embarrassing herself?" 

I put all that aside (cuz I'm grown) and danced my heart out, on and off, for about an hour in almost 90 degree weather to get these shots with my awesome and supportive team. 

For me, dancing is about expression. It's about self-awareness. It's about letting go. 

This video is an unveiling. Shedding the old skins of my past and just living in my truths. Living in the NOW.  

It's scary. Raw. Cinematic. Bad-ass. Feminist af. 

Yeah, I'm fat, Black, and very Muslim. 

Do I make you uncomfortable? 

Dancer: @Lvernon2000 
Videography: @ReelCleverFilms 
MUA: @Makeup_by_Madinah 
Music: Comer Dorris
Location: Detroit, MI

Social Media: Stop Allowing it to Define Your Self-Worth

Social Media: Stop Allowing it to Define Your Self-Worth

I’m slacking on my blog posts. *bites nails* My intimate essays that I share with you at least once a week. I’ve been trying to break into making more videos (ya know, since people barely read anymore) and that’s time-consuming. Unfortunately, I don’t have a team (I’m a one-lady show) and my time is being stretched super thin. Obligations here and there and everywhere. You get the idea.

But, today, I want to talk a bit about the influence of social media.

Last night, I was in a discussion group of local artists. A researcher asked us tons of stuff about living in Detroit and the ‘creative’ lifestyle. One of the questions that popped up was about millennials, social media, and interaction. How does it affect one’s psyche?

I thought about how people treat me before they see my Instagram account. The difference is astonishing…

Photos courtesy of Richelle Marie Photography

Before I go into my answer, I want to give you a little history. I started out as a style blogger in 2013 with the hopes that people would read my other works. I’ve always been a writer, but no one paid any attention to ‘Leah the Writer’. In order to bring people in, I started adding visuals to the blog posts. At that moment, I became a plus-size, Muslim model. I fell into it, but it was never my intent. I just wanted people to read my shit. I started getting attention for my photos and not really my writing. Which frustrated me, but it worked out in the end because now people actually read and appreciate my stuff.  

Over the years, my followers tripled, and now I have—on Instagram alone—over 14k followers.

Now, there are bloggers with waaaaaaay more followers than me. I’m middle-grade compared to them. Which is fine, but when I meet people in real-life and they stumble upon my account, it’s the first thing that latch onto. The numbers.  

“Errrrmagawd,” one guy said scanning my feed. “You’re like insta-famous.”

“How’d you get so many followers?” A girl asked. “I can’t even break a thousand.”

And, I always get someone who asks, “Did you like buy your followers?”

I neeeeever tell people or flaunt the fact that I have a fan base or a semi-medium following. Because you can see the difference in how they look at me. It’s more like I’m a reality star to them and not a human being. I’ve become some sort of object, a trophy to flaunt about. Oh yeah, I know her. Smh.

Check out her blog: FashionLayn

Not gonna lie. Was it important at a certain point? Hell yeah. Because unfortunately, in the current climate, numbers seem to define a lot of our self-worth. And, that’s where the problem lies.

“I kinda hate the heavy importance people put on social media appearances and numbers. I’ve often seen people blatantly lie about how great their husband is to them, how amazing their job is, and how much fun their having at a party they hadn’t wanted to go to and hated everyone in attendance just to save face for colleagues or friends and sometimes, even strangers on the internet. Why is everyone so obsessed with appearing to be someone they’re not? It’s okay to have a shitty day. We all have shitty days. But, what I really need is for people to stop defining their entire existence on how many people like their selfie!”

Social media is like Catfishing on steroids. You can be whoever you want to be. Lay 17 different filters on you face, blur that double chin, and cinch in that waist… Giiiiirrrrrrl, you’ve become a 2-second Kardashian but without the Kardashian money. But, is that all life is about though? Being a carbon-copy of another person to feel some sort of false validation?  

Stop allowing likes, comments, stats, and selfie angles to define your worth. Stop flipping back and forth from the same thirty photos to see which one makes you look taller. Stop pretending that perfection can ever be attained. It can’t be; no matter if you get a trillion likes. Outside of social media, you have real-life friends that see your double chin and watch you swallow an entire burger without even chewing.

xoxo,

Leah V.  

I Used To Get Bullied For Dressing Different

I’ve had a few interviews for different feminist and style blogs recently, and the question that I’m most asked is what it was like for me growing up, before Leah V. was Leah V.  

I grew up in the 90’s and early 2000’s, where nothing on my body was considered beautiful or desired. To add to that, I was Muslim and Black. And very much so fat. Triple whammy? So confidence was at an all-time low for the most part.

In my family, my mother was a pretty snazzy dresser and so was my grandmother. Even though they were large women, they still pulled out their sequins blazers, costume jewelry, and furs. My grandmother was into makeup as well. Bright red lips and blue eyeshadow was a must for any special occasion.

That’s when I fell in love, playing in her expensive lippies and shadows. I secretly painted my face, knowing my mother wouldn’t approve, and would make me wipe it off immediately.   

Makeup wasn’t in like that for young girls when I was growing up. No overly-contoured Kim K. looks.      The most we did was a heavy coating of cheap lip gloss from the beauty supply store and some mascara. Anything else was considered ‘clown face’.

I was a weird, thoughtful, and creative child. I watched a lot of movies, read a lot of books, and immersed myself into rock/pop music. Through these outlets, I began to internalize all the characters that I admired. They were sassy. They were strong. They didn’t take no shit! They were modern and stylish and outrageous. They were different just like me. And I imagined being anything I wanted.

And then it clicked… I was going to wear glitter on my eyelids, smear black lipstick on my lips, and place tiaras on top of my hijab.

Why? Because I was expressing myself and it made me happy.

Others didn’t feel the same way.

“Take that dark lipstick off your face,” Mom told me.

“Why black polish? Why not red?” Another asked.

“Why wear makeup, you already have such pretty skin,” someone commented.

“You look like a clown,” a family member said.

*Hella sighs*

I was obsessed with the Spice Girls, so I bought several pairs of those chunky flip flops. I was into Gwen Stefani from No Doubt and started wearing black nail polish and fingerless lace gloves. Then I went through the goth phase. Everything was pitch black.

I got made fun of for dressing crazy, wearing makeup, being outspoken, being fat, having big feet, pointy teeth, wearing colorful hijabs, covering my body… Blah, blah.    

The funny thing about it, I never allowed other people’s criticisms to stop me from dressing the way I wanted or affected how I carried myself. Because it was my body and I loved the expression that makeup and clothes could prompt. I wasn’t the same as the other girls, and that was fine with me.

It’s ironic, because now, I’m the trendsetter and style blogger. People ask my fat, Black Muslim self where do I get my clothes from. They ask me for fashion advice.

Although, it’s a sad thought to think what would’ve happened if I listened to those friends who made fun of my appearance and ensembles.

I wouldn’t be Leah V. I’d be some cardboard cutout. Exactly the same as the rest. Just falling in that straight and narrow line of lameness…

Beyonce said it best: “Tell him boy, bye!”  

Keep being your crazy, odd dressing, thin or plump self. Don’t let others dictate how you should or shouldn’t dress. Or that you need or don’t need makeup. Tell them it’s YOUR BODY and you can do with it as you please!

xoxo

Leah V.