Day 1: 30 Days in NYC

Photos Courtesy of The Travel Critic

Last month, I decided to buy a ticket to New York. To live for 30 whole days. To feel what it feels to be a New Yorker. To see if I can “make it” here.

Why? Well, several reasons. Detroit is a dead-end for me. I keep trying to figure out why I’m still there, actually. Also, people never believe that I am from Detroit. It’s like I’m so freakin unicorn. They always guess New York or LA. Anywhere but Detroit. Every time I come to New York on business and see all of my friends, they always end the conversation with “Bitch, would you move here already!” I usually chuckle and say, “It’s not the right time.”

When is the time ever right, though? With the whole “time” thing, I also just don’t have the income. But, when do I ever have the income? LOL.

I am also slightly fibbing. Not like a whole ass lie, but a fib.

Although, I really don’t have the income to support myself in the Big Apple, I am scared as fuck mostly. Moving to NYC is a whole ass change from Detroit. All of my friends are in Detroit. Like my real-ass-down-for-whatever-type sister friends are there. I also hate the subway system. People just not washing their hands and touching on everything. Ugh! They also put their garbage on the sidewalk! Double ugh.

I might’ve also been in some mental distress during that time of said purchase of the ticket. But before I bought it, I asked myself. Are you really happy here? I also added: Are you truly thriving in Michigan?

My finger hoovered over that final submit button as I made sure to pick that date of February 12th (cuz I wasn’t trying to be in Detroit surrounded by all the lovey-dovey couples on V-Day). I’d rather be alone in New York than in the seemingly relationship capital of the world, Michigan.

Which brings to me why I dropped in (y’all know my blogging is sporadic af). Well, there’s several reasons. All which lead to fear. I’ll explain because I’ve been talking a lot about that lately.

Because in my 31-year-old mind, I feel like I’m anxious about everything. I’m constantly jumping up at the most minor surprises. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve literally screamed when my roommate appears out of nowhere.

For the last month, I’ve been preparing for New York. With each passing day, more anxiety surfaces. There’s not enough time to get it all done. I’m under deadlines galore. People are texting and emailing and asking for shit, that I may or may not have. On the flipside, bills are like everywhere. On top of my hijab, whispering in my ear, and putting me in headlocks.

What if you fail? I asked myself the night before my flight. I had been packing for two days straight and in a slump because New York is so expensive and for me to be here for a month will cost me too much and I still have to pay for rent and car note back at home. Double the bills!

The morning came and I felt like shit. Like complete and utter shit.

“I’m not going,” I said to myself. “Nope. Imma stay right here. Cuz it’s easier.”

I text my friend. She was like nope. I burst out crying. It was too much to uproot my entire life. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t compete with the New York crowd. They are the top of the litter. Who was I? Just a Midwest gal trying to level up.

What had I expected to get done in 30 days? I knew I wanted to meet folks and try to get a few gigs, but other than that I hadn’t had a plan.

No plan at the age of 31 sounds messed up. By this age, I’d thought that I’d have the answers. Or at least most of them. Right now, my gut is telling me to be in New York. That there is something here that I need to discover, uncover. Yet, I have no idea what that is.

I sound crazy. Maybe I am crazy.

I’ve always wanted to be in New York, but I always wanted the glamourized version. The Caucasian movie version. With the income I have I gotta take the thug version, leap, and see what happens.

My insecurities have been heightened. Am I unique enough to break through that ceiling? Is my story worthy of being told here? Will I have the stamina, the perseverance to continue to pitch myself even when I’m told to fuck off?

Right now, I am second guessing my strength because I am in a foreign place. Right now, I am struggling to find—remember my whys. The why now? The who cares?

I don’t give myself enough credit either. I have forgotten how much shit I’ve done, accomplished from little ole Detroit, the almost middle of nowhere. How many people in New York hadn’t even gotten the same opportunities as I had, and I don’t even live here? That says something. That means that I’m valuable enough that folks have sought me out and would spend a budget to have me flown in. I still can’t believe people fly me out to give talks and model. That’s nuts!

I don’t give myself enough credit for continuing to tell my truths, my story even after the way I’ve grown up, how my marriage went, how I fucked myself over by caring what others thought of me. Even after all the shit that has been said and done to me, I am still here. I remain. Just as hardheaded as ever. Although, I have my afraid moments, I do it anyway. Although, I have no idea where I am going, I go anyway. And, that is admirable in my eyes. It means something.

I guess what I am telling you is that at some point you will be scared to do things, you will absolutely not want to do it, but if you want to metaphorically fly at some point, you’ll have to step out of your comfort zone and take the leap. No one is going to make you do it. No one is going to show you the way. You have to pave your own way. You have to be uncomfortable in order to grow. And, I don’t know about you but growth ain’t an option. It’s a necessity. I’m trying to grow beyond my wildest imagination.

So, here’s to Day 1 in New York.

xoxo,

Leah V     

Doing The Impossible

It’s been a while since we’ve got deep. I mean real deep. I’ve been in this reflective phase for the last few weeks because several important days have passed. And, it got to me to thinking about how everything that has happened which has led me to be right here, right now. I think we all have those questions floating around our heads. Especially as we age. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Is this the right path to take?!?

I remember constantly asking people: can you tell me what I need to do? The good ones, the best ones, and most knowledgeable ones would tell me that they indeed cannot tell me to go right or left. That I’d have to use my skills and talents to figure that shit out. I’d sulk in my own misery. Wondering if they were indeed so great and knowledgeable, if so, then why couldn’t they just give me a straight answer and tell me WHAT I NEEDED TO DO TO GET MY LIFE TOGETHER!

Now, now, I know the answer to the question I so desperately was seeking from others. I had those answers all along. And, so do you. You just haven’t discovered it yet.

The two days in question that have me thinking so deeply was my 31st birthday and the 2nd year divorce anniversary. Which are only two weeks apart.

Custom Outfit: Lena Harbali (Detroit)

Because, I didn’t have any money left over and still waiting for checks to clear from my awesome yet tiring European travels, I rented a cheap hot tub and pondered what life was as a newly 31-year-old fat, Black, and Muslim woman living in the states.

It was deep. Because last year, only twelve months prior to that day, I was very down. My face in an overly spicy bowl of chili. I was more broke than I am now but also with no prospects. Everything I did seemed to fail. I threatened to quit modeling. Quit blogging. Quit it all. Just like my marriage went down. That’s how the rest of my life would follow.

The ‘You’ll never be anything without me” was finally coming into fruition.  

I was afraid. But, I accepted my faith. I was going to be another soul-less professor locked in, teaching eight courses, and making student’s lives a living hell because I was unhappy. I was prepared to live life as an overly educated person working a dead-end job that hadn’t offered benefits. I mean, I still don’t have benefits but that’s another story.

What I noticed that in my own ignorance I was living comfortably in my misery and self-doubt. The world had pumped so much negativity into me that I couldn’t even see beyond it, see what others had seen in me. I was stuck in between a rock and another rock. It’s hard to be uncomfortable. Experience rejection. It’s hard to be vulnerable and to put yourself out there for everyone to dissect and gawk at.

Whoever said success, personal or financial or spiritually was easy? This shit is hard. It’s hard to look at yourself and be like: yeah, the world is fucked up, but you are your own worst critic. You are the one that’s stopping yourself from progress and greatness.

A lot of us are. And, so was I. That hurts. I know it hurt me.

Because doesn’t society already do that? Why would we want to dim our own light?  

Fit: Lena Harbali

September 1, 2018. The 2nd year anniversary of our 10-year relationship. On that day, I had a podcast interview.

The interviewer asked me when was the moment that I just didn’t give a fuck anymore about people’s opinions where I’ve truly been able to become my best and true unapologetic self.

Honestly, I had many moments throughout my life where I was just like nope. I’m tired of being stereotyped and placed into these boxes. But, I thought about the end of my marriage. That was the epiphany, that ‘light bulb over the head’ moment.

“I’m afraid to leave you because you might be somebody one day,” he said. The ex. I will never, ever forget that. Ever.

That is something that I hold onto and use to push when I can’t push anymore. When I get too comfortable when in my head I know I can be greater. To prove to myself that on the other side of fear is greatness and that there is nothing behind that wall, that door, that barrier that I can’t take on.

By looking at me, you’d never know my story. You’d never imagine the things I’ve seen or the abuse I went through that still stick with me today. How much of the abuse was from myself at times.

Just in this year alone, I’ve made leaps. I’ve jumped across mountains, mentally and metaphorically. I’ve done the impossible. Without the people that I thought would, should’ve been there. I’ve broke down several times because of Imposter Syndrome and recovered. I’ve allowed myself to sit in those feelings of lowness but understand that it’s temporary.

Xoxo,

Leah V

Transparency After Having The Hypothetical Tape Ripped From My Mouth

I always get asked, “Leah V, how are so comfortable with being transparent with your life?”

Growing up, I went from being very outspoken to quiet and withdrawn to being kinda sorta outspoken to shutting up and only saying the ‘right’ things to where I am now. And, even then, I still don’t say everything that’s on my mind. I’m getting more and more comfortable with each passing day.  

The reason that I’ve been through these waves of shutting up vs. not shutting up was because people always told me to be quiet.

My father, ahem, my sperm donor, because real fathers raise their children, used to always call me a ‘broken record”. Yes, he was an adult and I was a kid, but he was a liar and I knew that early on. So, in order to keep him in check, make him have accountabilty, I’d remind him of the things he promised to do. I’d give him follow up calls like a damn office assistant at the age of 8.

“You ain’t nothin but a broken record,” he said to me over the phone one day. “You always repeatin yoself.”

I was young. I didn’t have a response. But, my feelings had been hurt.

So, I stopped talking.

I noticed that when I expressed my feelings or dislike of something, people would get angry, offended, and say, “You talk too much.”  

So, I stopped expressing myself and kept it all inside.

No one wanted to hear what I had to say. Nothing I had to say was of importance. And, honestly, no one cared.

Model: @Fashionlayn

I ran away to books. That way I could communicate more effectively. I could live vicariously. No, they weren’t real people, but real people sucked.

Men hated me the most. Especially Muslim men. They still do actually. HA! Before I knew what feminism was and the women’s rights movements, I was an advocate and hadn’t even known. When, I’d see something foul or oppressive towards girls or women, I’d speak out. I’d be called names like “hoe” or would hear phrases like “She doing too much” and the best, “she needs to shut up because she don’t know what she’s talking about”. And, because I was married and didn’t want to rock the boat or embarrass him, I pick and chose my battles.

Again, I was quiet.

If you think about it, for hundreds of years, people have always wanted women to shut their mouths. To be quiet. To stop complaining. To disregard their truths and traumas. To get over it. The truth is a hard pill to swallow. And, it’s easier to control someone who is willing to bury the truth. Lock it in a nice fancy box.

Other than women, do you know who the world usually loves to have shut up? Women of color. It is ingrained in us to not speak up. Out of fear that we won’t be believed anyway, because we are less than. Out of fear that there will be retaliation if we dare to open our mouths. We are called liars. We are dismissed. Even by our own.

When other people’s truths are celebrated, called brave, our voices and stories go unheard. Our truths remain silenced and bottled.

There comes a certain point where a person gets fed up. Fed up of being called a ‘broken record”. Fed up of being told that you don’t know what you are talking about. Fed up of not being believed and afraid of repercussion.    

After twenty-nine years of being silenced, something marvelous happened. I got divorced and the hypothetical tape was ripped from my mouth. It hurt like hell, don’t get me wrong, but the sting was only temporary. On the other side of fear is greatness. And, my fear was being told to shut up.

I made a decision: not anymore. Not one more day will pass that I fear to speak my mind. I might not have all the answers, none of us do, but I know what I am talking about. I am not crazy, like some of them like to call women who speak their minds. We are not crazy. We’ve just transcended the oppressive societal norms that seek to silence girls.

Let’s keep the conversation going: has someone ever tried to silence you? How’d you get over your fear and start living in your truths?

Xoxo,

Leah V

Ep 3: Learning From Failure With RV Mendoza

Honey Bunches of Oats, 

The long awaited episode three is here, and we have my Leo twin, queer Filipino pop star by night and software programmer by day and of course, Emotional Intelligence Diva, RV Mendoza! I usually don't like other Leos because they are extra af. But, the first day I met RV, it was love at first sight. He's such a sweetheart, a bad ass performer, and amazing songwriter. 

In this episode, we talk about learning from personal failures and how they can lead to success, imposter syndrome, and deflecting negative voices. 

Listen to the gems being dropped in this episode, and don't forget to give RV some love by following him on Instagram: RVXMENDOZA and listen to some of his jams on his SoundCloud and twerk to his music. HA. And, if you wnat to support him, head over to his Patreon.  

After you've listened, join in on the conversation: what failures have you been through and what have you learned from it? 

xoxo,

Leah V

What Not To Wear

We are always told what not to wear.

Bikinis. Short Sleeves. Stripes. Florals. Bright colors are certainly out of the question for a lot of us.

There are tons of articles and listicles of what women over 40 shouldn’t wear or what someone with a big stomach should avoid. We are a society of trying to hide, conceal, and alter what we don’t like. We are becoming less and less human and more plastic by the second with the influx of doggie filters and smoothing apps to make us Instagram acceptable.

We are afraid to try anything new out of fear of what others will think of our bodies. We fear the backlash of someone noticing that we aren’t wearing a body-shaper or that good ole’ girdle. The stretch marks on our arms or the sag of our boobs. Our real bodies are unacceptable.

We’re so worried about fitting in that we toss away all of the uniqueness that makes us so much more interesting. This may be cliché, but if we all looked like a Barbie wouldn’t the world be such a boring place?

I have a lot of conversations with my platform about body image. And, the stories that I hear are heartbreaking and shocking. Self-hate for many of us stems from childhood abuse by parents, bullying at school, and the media.

Can you imagine what would happen if we just loved ourselves without stipulations? Like if you loved yourself prior to losing ten pounds? Or if you loved yourself before the nose job? Before the makeup?

That’s why it’s so important to have conversations. Like, honest conversations about our bodies. No matter how weird or embarrassing. We learn so much more about ourselves when we share our stories, our struggles, and triumphant moments.

It’s kinda funny that as a plus-size model and body-positive activist, I still have my days. I still have that little voice in the back of my head that says, hmmm you shouldn’t wear that. You can’t wear that. YOU DON’T HAVE THE BODY FOR IT.

Fashion Nova Curve sent me this mustard jumper type deal and I was like oh that super cute n whateva. I kinda thought the material would be unforgiving, but I was feeling confident. I can do this!

When it arrived, I tried it on with excitement. I immediately noticed that it literally showed every dip and dimple of my thighs. My thighs and legs have always been problematic and it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with them. They always seem to garner attention that I don’t care for, making me feel like some kind of object. And, they are riddled with fat and cellulite. 

I looked in the mirror. This would look much better with a pair of Spanx, I thought. They’d smooth out the cellulite. Smooth out my stomach and fupa. It’d make everything look good.

I love my body and learning to love it more each day, but I have my days where I get sucked into the ideal of imitating unrealistic beauty standards. Then I start ridiculing myself and blaming what I ate yesterday on my ‘today’ fatness. If only I ate less and exercised more then I wouldn’t have to wear Spanx. If only I could lose a few pounds I’d be able to wear this or that with confidence. The age-old question: why not be confident right now, in the body I already got? 

When does only losing a few pounds ever satisfy us? We then get caught up in the idea that thin automatically means happy and spiral into diet culture. And as ya’ll know, it’s hard to recoup and bounce back from eating disorders and the negative effects of unhealthy dieting.

I almost didn’t post a lot of these photos because my cellulite is screaming hello! Because we don’t ever see cellulite on models or on magazines. Cellulite isn’t normal. But, every human being has stretch marks and cellulite to some extent. But, you’d never know because everyone smooths and edits now. 

I’ve gotten so many compliments on this jumper without the Spanx. With the cellulite full view. And I felt good in it. And, because I feel good, that’s the only thing that matters.

My cellulite or stretch marks don’t define me. And neither should it for you. 

There’s no such thing as what not to wear. Don’t ever listen to those anti-body love articles that box you into only wearing things that tuck and flatter. Just put it on and see how you feel. Let your body and mind guide you to what you wear.

Did you ever grow up wanting to change a part of your body? Have you come to terms with that part or are you still struggling? Let’s chat. 

Xoxo,

Leah V

The Last Straw: Kate, Now Anthony

I’ve been deathly ill for the last week and fighting to stay afloat. Sickness waits for no one. Especially a single artist whose staff is made up of one sole person. Me.

A few days ago, when my cold was a baby cold, I was at lunch with a friend when she gasped at her phone. My eyes widened as she explained to me that Kate Spade had committed suicide. The first word that slipped out of my mouth was ‘damn’. The next thought that came to mind was why? I mean she had the entire world at her feet. She was white and successful and rich and white and successful. Seemed like the perfect life to me, to most of us. I mean I had spent a large portion of my life trying to be a successful white woman. Until I figured out that that was totally wrong in itself.

Mental illness, suicide is something that has touched us—directly or indirectly—in some form. Yet, many of us have no idea. No clue how to contain the idea that someone just wanted ‘it’ to stop. So, they made it happen.

Growing up, we were taught that suicide was against our beliefs. And, it is in many religions and cultures. But, that’s such a small way to tackle the issue at hand. I think now that I’ve been through some things and seen some things, I look at it in a different way. I look at mental health in a different way.

Over the last few days more pieces of information were discovered about Kate Spade’s last moments, yet we still aren’t any closer to having an answer. Why’d she do it? What was the last straw? Could it have been prevented?  

Now that the topic is trending, I’m seeing comments like suicide is the coward’s way out, suicide is selfish, and suicide is not the way.

We have to be careful about making blanket statements, because we have not a clue what goes on in people’s lives. Life ain’t easy sometimes.

This morning, I woke up to more horrendous news: “Anthony Bourdain Dies at 61, Apparent Suicide”.

I screamed no in a hoarse voice as if he were a friend I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

His death hit me hard because I am such a diehard Bourdain fan. I first discovered him on the Travel Channel back in 2012 when I was working for a job I loathed. Every day, they’d make me sit with a patient that was abusive and needed much more care than I could give. For the majority of the shift, I’d be cooped up in the patient’s room, both of us shut off from the rest of the floor. I’d turn on Bourdain’s show, No Reservations, and drift off into an imaginary place. Vicariously living through his no nonsense travels, I aspired to be as bold and brave and as open and carefree as he was. He was a white man, but a down white man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty or to learn about another culture different from his.

I had mad respect for this TV personality that I’d never get to meet but could appreciate.

Again, Bourdain is rich and white and successful. But, we have no clue what internal battles people are struggling with that go way beyond success, beyond money, beyond the cars and the good looks.

These tragedies got me to thinking about my own. The ones I lived through.

I remember having a really bad mental break. I was so on edge for weeks, so manic that I started smoking cigarettes. I don’t even smoke cigarettes and I hate the smell. But, I needed something to calm my nerves. I wasn’t eating either even though I loved food. I just hadn’t had an appetite anymore.  

Whatever you can think of that’s valuable in life, I had lost it. The days leading up to it were bad. I was the lowest of the low mentally. The place I was, there was no light, no hope. Just nothingness and emptiness. I reached out. No one grabbed my hand. Maybe they hadn’t known how to deal with depression or maybe they just hadn’t found me a priority. Either way, I was left alone. I don’t ever remember being suicidal, but I do remember questioning why was I on earth? Asking myself what was the purpose of my existence, if I was just taking up space. No one cared. I was nothing. I meant nothing.

Had I sat in that misery for a day more, an hour more, perhaps I’d be in the same predicament.   

Mental illness doesn’t just touch certain people. It does not discriminate. It doesn’t care if you have money or religion or children. Sometimes its circumstantial and sometimes it’s a hormonal imbalance and other times, it’s just because the person sees no value in living.

For the ones who are still living, it is not our place to judge, tell them that they were weak or selfish. It’s our jobs to disassociate the taboos and stigmas attached to mental health and allow people to speak and live in their truths no matter what that might be. It’s our jobs to reach out to our strong friends and our weak friends and ask if there is anything you can do. Maybe they just need someone to listen, a hug, to know that someone cares.

Stop quieting people for talking about their mental health. Stop making them feel bad for reaching out. Stop telling them that if they were more spiritual or was a better human being then maybe they wouldn’t have such problems. Stop adding to the problem by pointing fingers.

Although, I am an influencer and share quite a bit about my life, I still cringe when I have to talk about my anxiety or depression or my personality disorder openly. I cringe because I don’t want to be scolded for sharing a manic episode. I don’t want people judging me or telling me that my issues aren’t valid or that ‘other people have it worse’. I know other people have it worse, but when I feel bad, I feel bad despite the rest of the world.  

But, every time I do share, I get an influx of messages from girls and women that are appreciative that someone, especially someone who belongs to so many intersections is opening the dialogue to normalizing mental health discussions.   

So, I keep talking about it, no matter how cringy. Because it’s apart of our lives, my life.

Let’s keep this discussion going: why do we feel the need to hide our mental instabilities? Why is this topic still taboo in many of our communities?

Xoxo,

Leah V

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

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

Muslim Women Are Trending, but Some of Us Are Still Invisible

Original Post from REWIRE NEWS

Photos courtesy of Nicole & Daniela Photography

We are not only Arab or Middle Eastern. We are not only hijabi. We are not only "straight-sized." Or submissive. We are African-American. Woke. Divorced. Fat. And more.

Muslims have become a hot commodity since 9/11—for better and worse. Our rise to “fame” started off rocky when a few bad men committed heinous acts of terrorism in the name of Islam. And some good ol’ Americans tore hijabs from women’s heads, beat and spat on Muslims, vandalized mosques, and left pig heads on porches—all in the name of trying to protect the United States from so-called “foreign invaders.”

Muslim coalitions, bloggers, interfaith organizations, and even celebrities such as Ashton Kutcher have banded together to change stereotypical narratives of Muslims: the bearded man with a curved sword, and veiled women who are either strapped with bombs or subordinated by their male relatives.

Turban/Hijab: HauteHijab

Their efforts have paid off in some ways and not in others (clearly, as in the Muslim ban and continued targeting of Muslims and our institutions). And Muslims, and specifically Muslim women, are trending; according to a March 2017 HuffPo article, the keyword search for “Muslim” on Getty Images increased by 107 percent from the year before. “Muslim women” was not far behind at 83 percent.

But what—or who—do people see in their minds when they think of Muslim women? There are notable hijab-wearing authors such as Tahereh Mafi, activists like Linda Sarsour, on-air personality Noor Tagouri, and bloggers including Dina Torkia.

These women have literally become the faces of Muslim women in the United States, the United Kingdom, and social media. And that’s a problem.

They are all what I call “straight-sized”—not plus-sized—Muslim women who appear European or Middle Eastern. And celebrating them—and them only—paints a narrow picture of the majority of Muslim-American women, just as media, the beauty industry, and countless other platforms exclude women of color.

Islam has deep roots in Black history as it swept through North and West Africa centuries ago. According to the Pew Research Center, only 14 percent of U.S. Muslims are from the Middle East. Forty-two percent were born in this country. Twenty percent of U.S. Muslims are Black, with large communities in many major cities such as Atlanta, Detroit, Los Angeles, New York, and Philadelphia. 

Jacket: Eloquii

One day, I decided to Google “Muslim women.” Since Islam is such a diverse religion, I just knew the search would reflect that. On the first page, out of about 100 photos, there are only three African-American hijabis and one African hijabi among dozens of Middle Eastern or Arab women. I had a similar experience searching for articles on Muslim women, finding the blatant erasure of Muslims of color, too. Photos and quotes were from predominantly white or light-skinned Middle Eastern women. Even when HuffPo noted the growing online interest in Muslim women in one article, another featured seven women talking about faith, modesty, and fashion—and all of them were straight-sized women and most were fair-skinned.

The media and many Muslims love to focus on certain kinds of Muslims. Acceptable Muslimahs, I like to call them. For the media, it’s often the “oppressed Muslim.” She’s the Middle Eastern girl who is forced into an arranged marriage, isn’t allowed to drive, and covers in all-black with gloves. They also adore us the “good” and wholesome hijabi blogger. She’s usually a size small, wears pastels, and has about a million followers online. Her photos are perfect, and her husband makes fashionable cameos on her feed. The activist Muslim is usually draped in an abaya or loose-fitting clothes and always with hijab. She can be found making salat or praying on the grass at a rally for Trump’s latest Muslim ban. And, let’s not forget, she’s a fair-skinned woman with roots in the Middle East.

Prejudice and racism are a problem within Muslim communities. No one likes to talk about that because they don’t want to add to the rising Islamophobia since 9/11 and the Trump era. But it’s a sad truth.

Although it is totally against Islam to judge someone based on the color of their skin, it happens more than you think. I’ve experienced racism from Muslims. One time, I went into a hijab store in Dearborn, Michigan, and the owner completely ignored me; when a woman of Middle Eastern descent came in the store, he immediately greeted and assisted her. I’ve also gone to pray at predominantly Middle Eastern mosques and been stared at as if I didn’t belong. There are also countless stories of Muslims not allowing their children to marry a Black or African-descent Muslim solely based on their heritage.

Dress: Society +

As a Black Muslim woman, I have to fight for accurate representations of Muslim Americans. And I have to fight within my own religious community to hear the stories of Muslims who are African-American, Latina, or African.

The specific bias against African-American Muslims is evident. Since we are treated like second-class citizens in America by racists and “All Lives Matter” folk, others feel as if they can do the same. There’s a superiority complex that a Middle Eastern Muslim is better, more authentic, and that we are “copies.” In my experience, too many Muslims play into the stereotypes of African-Americans: that we are lazy, less educated, promiscuous, and aggressive.  

Zeba Khan said it well: “Many Middle Eastern and South Asian Muslims view Arab culture as a proxy for Islamic authenticity, thereby denying the legitimate spiritual expressions of others. Against the racial context in the United States, it’s not difficult then to see how this intrafaith racism and implicit bias against Black Muslims persists. After all, as historian Vijay Prashad explains, ‘Since Blackness is reviled in the United States, why would an immigrant, of whatever skin color, want to associate with those who are racially oppressed?’”

We live in such a Eurocentric society that already tells young girls that they aren’t worthy unless they have light or white skin. Our fatphobic society tells us that we aren’t beautiful if we aren’t a certain weight. That if we decide to wear hijab, we are oppressed. We—Muslims and non-Muslims alike—need truthful representation of Muslim women, especially now as others define or denigrate us.

We are not only Arab or Middle Eastern. We are not only hijabi. We are not only straight-sized. Or submissive. We are African-American. White. Asian. African. Latina. Some of us are feminists. Tattoo artists. Queer. Woke. Divorced. Fat. Sexual assault survivors. Mentally ill. And we all have a story to tell.

The Power of Transparency

I wasn’t always so transparent. Growing up I was very quiet. Always in deep thought or some imaginary land. I never said what I was thinking. When I had, my peers thought I was weird.

Then I went through a phase where I spoke a lot more. I was told that I ‘talked too much’ and that I ‘sounded like a broken recorder’. From an early age, I found out that adults needed to be reminded and that most of them lacked accountability. And, if I wanted to get things done, I had to be assertive and vocal about my needs.

In my teen years, the person I was inside hadn’t matched the outside. So, I hid within myself. I dove into writing fictional stories, that way I could live vicariously through characters, leaving the real world behind.

Years passed, and I still clung to fictional stories even as an adult. No one would accept me—the real me—if I ever spoke my truths. I’d get eaten alive by the Islamic communities and the online ones, too. For sure, I thought that no one wanted to hear anything other than what famous blogger I met in New York or what I wore that day or what lipstick I was wearing. They couldn’t possibly want to hear the ugly truths about my life. Why would they want my stories to taint the beautiful aesthetics of social media?

Location: Assemble Sound (Detroit)

For years, I posted what I thought people wanted to see. They liked my fashion. Not me as a real-life person. A human being who struggled with her husband or mental illness or eating disorders. A person who struggled with a Muslim identity, a Black identity in a Eurocentric-crazed society.

One time, I posted something about body insecurities. I didn’t go into full detail or anything. I just gave Instagram a snippet into an ongoing problem in my life. Women began commenting about their own body issues, just openly sharing their stories and praising me for being honest. My inbox was flooded with more stories about the hardships of being a fat woman and how my photos gave them hope.

Even then, that wasn’t enough to get me to completely come out of my shell. I was still very much so a ‘style blogger’ who kinda-sorta talked about body stuff.

I get asked a lot how am I so comfortably transparent about my life, on the internet and in person. Especially with the rise of hardcore trolling and judgmental-ness of peers. And the fact that I am in a fat, Black Muslim body that is constantly policed more so than my counterparts. I can’t tell you how I started to become more transparent on the ‘Gram’, but I know for a fact it was in small doses at first. I didn’t just jump out there like HEY! THIS IS ME!

No. No. No. Rome wasn’t built in a day, y’all. Nor is self-discovery and acceptance.

Dress: Fashion to Figure

But, on some real shit, the tipping point for me was the divorce. I most definitely 100% used the marriage as an excuse to ‘not say certain things’ that could embarrass him or the façade of perfection that he tried so hard to attain.

I felt like half a person when I wrote or shared things. Always keeping him in the back of my head. Is this appropriate? Would he be mad? Is this Islamically pleasing for me to say or post?

Transparency was a no-no. And it hurt me greatly. To be an artist is to be comfortable and transparent with your work. I was too busy trying to please others and forgot about pleasing myself. I played it safe and suffered for it.

To be transparent about my life, raw with you, the reader, the watcher is therapeutic for me as a writer. To be able to openly live in my truth is so much more rewarding than hiding my oddness. To be able to connect with a person half way across the world from a story, a photo is amazing.

Of course, I got a lot of backlash from my decision to go word-rogue and I have trolls on the daily who harass me. But, the people who I’ve touched and who have touched me through my journey is far greater than any negative thing someone says about me or my spirituality or my body.  

I challenge you to live in your truth and be a little more transparent each day. You never know who will be touched by your truths.  

xoxo,

Leah V  

Reclaiming Time and Taking Up Space

This week has been very interesting. Well, this entire year has been interesting to say the least. I’ve learned much about setting boundaries, cutting off dead-weight friends and family who are clueless to that fact, not accountable for their actions, and high-key jealous. I’ve learned about drive, about pushing one’s self to the outer limits, where few people go. Fear of success and fear of loneliness. I’ve especially learned the two biggest lessons of them all: reclaiming my time and taking up space.

Last year, I remember asking myself, how can I top last year? How can I make my photoshoots better? My wardrobe fiercer? My voice louder? How can I be more authentic, raw, helpful? Although, I thought I was woke, I was only semi-woke because I hadn’t thought outside the box. Many of us think that we’re thinking so big, but are we really? Whatever you think could happen, could go so much farther, bigger. And, I hadn’t known this until I got to work with Adidas Originals and was flown to Canada by the University of Ottawa. All expenses paid.

Jacket Courtesy of Addition Elle

I want to talk about reclaiming time (thanks Auntie Maxine!). Now, we all know that you can’t actually reclaim time. When time is up, it’s gone, and you can never, ever get it back. With this fact, why the fuck do people waste so much of it? And, why do folks allow others to waste theirs? We have women who stay with men who verbally abuse them, treat them like shit on a stick, and they stay. Wasting good, vital years on a human who doesn’t even value their time. We have people who allow their family to belittle them, offer surface conversation, hurt feelings, and steal more of their time. Same thing with a dead-end job, how much time are they claiming from you?

Unfortunately, we can’t maximize every moment of every second of the day, and we will have to, at some point, engage in time wasted, but it’s up to you as to how much of your time you waste.

“I’ve wasted almost a decade,” I complained to my sister when I got divorced. “Do you know what I could’ve done with all that time?”

She replied, “You didn’t waste any time. You learned a lesson.”

“What did I learn?” I whined.

“Well, you learned what you don’t want in life.”

And, she was right. I did learn a great deal about what I wanted, what I needed, and what I hadn’t wanted ever again.

Do you ever meet up with someone or go to an event, and wondered why you even wasted your time going? Stop doing that. Reclaim your time. Stop doing things that you feel are going to make other people happy. Stop indulging in activities that you don’t want to do. Stop being friends with that girl that you really don’t mesh with anymore or that dude you feel inclined to be with just because. You are not doing yourself a favor. You are merely passing time, wasting time that could be spent on developing you.

I, honestly, feel bad for people like that. People who only have connections just to say they do or only going because ABC, but have no real interest in it. They aren’t really living life. Life is living them.

I used to be that person. Outwardly, I’d have a hard smile plastered on my face, but inside I was bored, dead, unenthusiastic. Why was I trying to be someone that I wasn’t? Why was I wasting time on relationships that clearly weren’t going to develop into anything but surface shit?

After being hurt by individuals who I tried to please for many, many years, I made a pact with myself. I was going to reclaim my time and only speak to people I was interested in, who I vibed with and do things that I liked to do. No more pretending to fit into this group or be cool with that group. Fuck that! In addition to my ‘fuck that’ moment, I was going to allow myself to take up space. Which meant that I was going to shine at my brightest watt without a care as to who was blinded by it.

For most of my circle, they accepted the Leah V who was changing, being more comfortable in her skin. For others, they started to hold resentment and dropped off like flies, which is fine, because that frees up space for better people to occupy. And, it has.

Sometimes, I get weirded out by all the folks that support me. It takes time getting used to. I’m a traumatized Black girl from Detroit with a trash family and a messy divorce that gets me mad from time to time, so when someone reaches out and is like ‘I got you’, it never ceases to amaze me.    

Give yourself the time and ability to reclaim your time and take up space.

xoxo,

Leah V

Mistaking a Woman's Trauma as Bitterness

It’s been nineteen years since I witnessed the first physical altercation between a man and a woman. Mom and my brother’s dad. Fifteen years since I saw my brother choke one of Mom’s temporary husbands because of yet another domestic dispute. Five years since I, myself, was incarcerated for domestic violence because that boy I used to be married to called me a ‘slut’ for wearing pants. Two and a half years since I was betrayed by him and a bitch at his job who stated he was a ‘good man’. Fourteen months since my messy divorce ended. And, four months since I saw him parading around the local mosque like an idiot, putting on a show for my family.   

I counted in the dark last night before I drifted off to sleep.

“Men are trash,” I said to my two closest friends.

The phrase that I’ve been living by for the last year. I mean, I knew they were trash before, but I just couldn’t openly say it since I was married and all.

Coat Courtesy of Addition Elle

“I don’t think you should make ‘all men’ statements,” she said. “That’s just not the case since you haven’t met ‘all’ men.”

I rolled my eyes. I mean, I do hate ‘all’ statements because it’s just not possibly true. Buuuuuut, humans make assumptions and have valid reasons of feeling how they feel from past experiences. And, you can’t invalidate someone’s experience, even if it’s farfetched. All you can do, really, is redirect.

You know when you’re doing or saying something it doesn’t seem that bad? I don’t trash men as bad on the internet as I do in person. Like, if I’m chilling with my friends, I will go into my ‘trash men mode’. Why? Because it’s relevant and they do it sooooo much. Trump grabbing em by the pussy, girls overseas being forced to marry old men, female genital mutilation, sex-trafficking in my home state of Michigan. Every time I see a #MeToo post or hear a story about yet another executive pulling his little dick out and waving it at a young actress or witness a hyper masculine douchebag trolling a sexual assault victim on Facebook, it really traumatizes me.

As a woman, I am traumatized by men. To be truthful, I’ve been traumatized by them since I was a little girl. Men scare me. Even now. They could hit me in the face or rape me or pretend they love me then drop me for another girl, or guy. Shit, I don’t know.

Shoes Courtesy of Evan's UK

I witnessed my first domestic violence fight at the tender age of six. It’s one of my earliest memories actually. I remember just standing there, watching as Mom tossed a computer at him and my brother’s father hitting her. Neither of them cared that I was there. Maybe I had become a fixture in their fucked-up world. What kills me now just thinking about it was that I never screamed or ran away or hid. I just stood there as if two adults throwing blows was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Mom had mental issues. Which didn’t help in her male selection process. We saw most of the dysfunction, if not all of it. In our home, men were disposable. If she didn’t like how they were, then she’d get rid of them and add another to the list. Mom was married about seven times before I’d turned seventeen, and I’m being modest by not including boyfriends or fiancées.

Mom taught her girls, in a nutshell, that men only wanted your body, they only wanted babies, and to use you, so to never, ever depend on them. Never tell them your finances, keep a secret savings because they weren’t to be trusted. Mom never trusted men. And, neither do I.

I’ve become her when I really never wanted to. Deep. I know.   

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

I got married young because I loved him, I thought I could change him, and I was Muslim and hadn’t wanted to sin anymore. I wanted to be a good Muslim girl in the eyes of God.

He brought the worst out of me. He also brought the best, too. Unfortunately, he brought more of the worst than the best.

At first, I didn’t trust him. Slowly, I started to. Then I let go and trusted him wholeheartedly. It took a while, but I’d done it. Growing up the way I had, I never thought it was possible. Then he betrayed that trust, and I reverted back to my old ways. Just like that.

And like an idiot, to curb my pain, I entered the dating scene right after the divorce. Bumble. Tinder. Plenty of Fish. You name it. Trying to flex the muscle that hadn’t been flexed in over a decade. Bad idea! What I needed was time. Time to heal.

I got messages from randoms asking me to ‘sit on their faces’, propositioning me for threesomes, and polyamorous relationships. I’ve had white men objectify me, commenting on the thickness of my lips and thighs. How they’ve never been with a Black chick. I’ve had men fetishize my hijab. Body-shame me. Tell me how intimidating I am because I have two masters and that I might be ‘too smart’ for them.

“I’m a feminist,” I told one dude, while on a date.

“So, you must hate men, then.”

“I do now…” I replied, in my head.

For additional winter coats check out Simply Be

Another guy told me that I hated men. I think he high-key wanted to call me bitter. And, that’s fine. If the shoe fits, right? Maybe it is me. Maybe I attract shit dudes because I’m a shit person.

“Maybe you should switch teams,” one friend suggested.

I cringed. “I’m not touching boobs.”

My other friend, who happened to be gay said, “Actually, same-sex relationships have many of the same problems as hetero relationships do.”

“Fuck,” I said. “Then it’s back to being asexual.”

And, who knows, maybe one day I will trust a dude again. Maybe all men aren’t trash. I’ve just come across some trashy ones.

xoxo,

Leah V

On the Verge of Quitting

Well, this is quite embarrassing. But, what’s ego nowadays? For the last few months, I’ve known this day was coming. The day where I ran out of grant money and maxed out of a few credit cards just to stay afloat.

I’m a 30-year-old woman with multiple degrees and face plastered on the internet having to beg for money.

I laid in bed, in the dark, trying to crunch the numbers. What can you possibly do to make a quick buck to cover next month’s bills? I could sell my plasma as I had done years before when I was at the bottom of the barrel. Yeah, I almost passed out a few times and the huge needles left scars on my arms but at least you had gas money. I thought about sex work. I could make an incognito Tumblr page. No one would know if I sold a few ‘butt’ pics to some scum dude living in a basement. Although, I’m not technologically smart enough to cover my tracks and not be exposed as ‘Leah V, Muslim Blogger Sells Nudes’. I could start taking on clients that I’ve recently denied and sell my readers and supporters shit like Flat Tummy Tea, bundles of Brazilian weave, waist trainers, teeth whitening kits, and miracle creams.

Just for the money.

Basically, I’d have to change up my entire brand just to make money. How stupid of me to think that I could possibly be an organic content creator, keep it real, and not go commercial, and still pay my phone bill.

I don’t want to sell you guys (gals) stuff that I wouldn’t buy. I don’t want to sell you pipe dreams. I want to keep my blog organic and helpful and my social media a safe place for us to congregate and speak our truths, but honestly, I can’t maintain this.

I’m crying as I write this because I shouldn’t be asking for money. I should maybe have a paid off home, a nice husband who doesn’t cheat, and a family that supports me. I should maybe have a job with insurance and a 401k and a savings account. I should have two sane parents that tell me that everything is going to be okay and that they got my back.

I don’t have any of those luxuries. I’m on my own in every way possible. And, I don’t have a choice but to figure out a way. Hustle.

“Leah V has been on all these websites and magazines, I don’t believe she doesn’t have money.”

Let’s dispel that myth. Just because you are Insta-Famous doesn’t mean that you are capitalizing off of it. How many people have gone viral and are still living in their mom’s basement? Social media attention does not equate cash flow.

I have NEVER made a penny off my blog. Why? I don’t believe in forcing ads on people. I don’t believe in forcing people to buy clothes they don’t want. I don’t believe that art always has to be turned into some capitalist system. I want my blog to be a place where people go for inspiration because they want to.

I don’t make money modeling. I don’t have the luxury of living in LA or NY where modeling gigs pay. I live in Detroit. They don’t pay models here. You get the photos and that’s it.

I give out free advice and consultation. All the knowledge I have and built and created is worth something. I must not know my worth because I give out free advice all the time. I give of myself free all the time. I help people build their brands, for free. I help people gain self-confidence, for free. And, I’m not saying this to make you feel bad or to make you feel like I was doing all of this for some ulterior motive, but I’m on the brink of quitting.

I cannot sustain myself by doing free or volunteer work any longer. I cannot host events for free. I cannot be on panels for free. I cannot blog for free or consult with you for free.

As my bills pile up, as the collectors call my phone, I am angered that I am giving so much and receiving so little. Do I not value myself enough to charge? Why do I have to hit rock bottom before I start to value myself and my work?

I’m an artist first and a business person last. I have a need to create and share my art, my work with you, the world. And, although I want to quit and say F it all, I will always find a way to create.

So, will you help me continue to create?

Instead of sex work or selling bodily organs, I came up with a campaign that I’m launching right now.

I’m selling ‘10’ spots of 1 on 1 sessions. We’ll call it “Chats with Leah V”.

In this 30-minute session, you can pick my brain, ask me questions about branding, building social media platforms, how to break into modeling, networking, content creation, fashion, style, body-image, mentorship, or you can just talk to me for half an hour about whatever you want. It’s your time.

I’m charging $99 per session.

All the proceeds will go to paying off my credit card bills, creating new content, rent, tissue, food, and toothpaste and gas in my car, etc…   

So, email me Leahjvernon@gmail.com or Paypal the $99 fee to lock in your session because I’m only doing ten to start.  

I just made a Patreon account, where readers like yourself can also donate $1 to $200 monthly. Some awesome goodies are attached to those donations.

And, if you just want to help a sister out, you can either Venmo (@LeahV) or PayPal (Leahjvernon@gmail.com) me a donation, so I can keep going, stay afloat and stop crying because I can’t pay my bills.

Support the arts and the artists that make it possible.

Paypal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon

I'm LIVE! Art Detroit Ep 2

In the summer, i had the opportunity to shoot with host, Sheila Grant from the City of Detroit's new segment called 'Art Detroit'. 

I was really nervous, but it turned out really, really good. This 9-min video will also air on Detroit Comcast Cable Network on channel 21 (if you live in the city and want the exact times just comment below). 

I encourage you to watch and comment on the video. Let the City of Detroit know that they took a step in the right direction by highlighting a Muslim artist in the city! 

Let me know what you think *Squeals*

xoxo,

Leah V

The Pitfalls of Being on Social Media and Other Inadequacies

It’s so hard to maintain individuality, a sense of uniqueness in a world that's created for individuals to follow trends.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm not enough. But, why should I? With all the body-positive campaigns and fat women on runways and the first hijab supermodel gracing Fenty beauty, I should be more than happy. Right? I should be basking in the advancements being made by women who kinda-sorta look like me. Something I didn't have growing up. Yes, we've made strides. Things and people's perceptions are changing. But, somehow, the internet still makes me feel...inadequate.

Like I'm not doing enough. Not posting enough. Not the size I should be or at the level of success I should be. Not as perfect as that blogger who was asked to NYFW or cool enough for a company to sponsor her trip to CurvyCon. I sometimes ask myself: what am I doing wrong? Should I just say fuck it and conform? Should I snatch my hijab off, buy a pair of short-shorts and just live?  

I feel ridiculous for even writing things like this, but right now, the internet is my enemy. 

Tulle Skirt: Society Plus 

I'm in one of those erratic moments where I want to delete my accounts and go back to the times where the internet wasn't important. Where we didn't have to vie for attention or calculate engagement levels on posts or swipe through 17 similar selfies to find that one perfect photo. Or make videos in hopes that it'll go viral, in hopes that some important person will take notice and pull us out of our shitty lives of bill collectors and snotty nosed kids or soul-sucking jobs and spouses that ignore us. 

Everyone wants to go viral. Everyone. They want that momentary glory of being known.

If only for a moment. 

What many of us fail to understand is that the internet is ever-changing with a quick turnover rate. One moment you're in and the next, you’re not. The internet is unforgiving. Relentless. Will take a photo of a child with a disability and exploit it. Take a fat man dancing and tell him to kill himself. Take a murder of a black girl and make it 'funny'. 

Is it possible to bring the human element back to the internet? Or am I just chasing my own tail? Is this monster too big for me to slay? 

As a social media influencer, as a writer, and as a model, I feel inadequate. 

I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of fat ass shots and lace fronts and nipples. I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of heavy filters and blurred backgrounds. I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of Carbi B lyrics, provocative poses, and injected lips. Big, fake tits at suggested angles outperform my degrees. Waist trainers outperform my words. Flat Tummy Tea outperforms my hijab. 

We live in an era where fake wins. Where white skin wins. Where thin bodies win. Where the most money wins. The most views. The most likes.

How many people do you know who live totally different lives on the internet vs. reality? A staggering amount. People are really creating different versions of themselves and what do we do? We believe it and celebrate it. Boost it to the highest pedestal which makes it hard for the real ones. Makes it hard for the true artists to emerge when we have to constantly fight just to be our true selves. 

The internet and I have a love-hate relationship. I love the fact that we can use it how we want. There's really no rules or structure. For the most part, it's a free for all. It also gives unconventional voices the opportunity to grow their brands and personal lives when they wouldn't otherwise have had a chance against mainstream media. On the flip side, it's become this machine: one where you feed it falseness and it spits out likes and re-shares. Where "IG" cliques are formed and if you're not in the in-crowd then just go fuck yourself because you’re not cool enough. Commercial enough to be tagged, acknowledged. Companies don't want to work with so and so because she doesn't have enough followers or only wants to work with so and so because she's gone viral. What about the story? The quality? The message? 

I'm not feeling that well. In my self-destruction and boredom, I began scrolling through social media. Everyone is so happy. Everyone's lives are going great. Everyone has a man. Has a career. Vacationing in foreign lands. Beat faces and good lighting. Able to buy Riri’s new products before they sold out. 

And, I'm sitting at home in front of the fan. No bra on. Trying to figure out my next step. With the reoccurring question: to social media or not?

xoxo.

Leah V

No Longer Bound By The Scale. How Much I Really Weigh.

I’m 283 pounds.

There. I said it!

In my entire life, I’ve never, ever, ever told my actual weight. Like ever.

I hadn’t even felt comfortable telling people the size clothes I wore. They’d hassle me about it, wanting to buy me jeans or swap shirts, and I’d become enraged that they kept pestering me about my weight and size that I just shut down. “I’m not telling you, ok?” I’d scream.

Funny how life works. How we just up and change, if we want to and if we work really, really hard at it. Never in a million years would I have done this because growing up (and, still today) women and men are so obsessed with calories, portion sizes, and of course, the dreaded bathroom scale.

At my largest, I pushed 340lbs. At those heavier times, since my weight was up and down, but mostly up, I was still modeling and living life. Ayeeeee! But, I avoided scales. Like the plague. I’d go to my thinner friend’s bathroom, shut the door, and when I’d turn around to see a scale, I’d literally jump back into the wall like an alarmed cat. Once I calmed myself, I’d tiptoe around the flat creature and plop down on the toilet. While I peed, I kept my eye on it.

Makeup by Madinah Muhammad (Detroit)

If I hadn’t known what my weight was then I’d be fiiiiiiine.

The lowest weight that I’d ever been as an adult was 143lbs. That was like almost ten years ago, but I can vividly recall everything that it took from me to become a ‘normal’ weight. To become acceptable to society. To get praised by the girls and hit on by the boys. Would you believe that at my lowest weight I still had a ‘fat girl’ mentality? That at my smallest, I felt that I was the hugest human being ever to walk the planet? The fact that I had weighed myself twice a day, had migraines from improper eating to no eating at all, and suffered from body dysmorphia just wasn’t enough to raise a red flag. As long as you looked good on the outside, who cares about the inside. Right?

I chose to be fat and happy, but even that came with its downsides. Unfortunately, as a grown woman, you have to get yearly checkups. That’s when I’d receive my daily dose of reality.

“Hop on the scale,” the nurse said.

I stepped on. The numbers started going up, up, up.

I closed my eyes. I hadn’t wanted to know.

“337,” the nurse announced with what seemed like an intercom for all the staff and patients to hear.

Damn, I had packed on hundreds of thousands of pounds, I thought as she led me to the exam room.

Outfit Courtesy of Torrid. I'm especially digging the Game of Thrones tee! 

The doctor knocked then came in.

Time for the weight-loss talk.

“You see, you’re at risk for diabetes and high-cholesterol and joint problems.” He brought out a chart and pointed. “See, you’re 5”4 and you are in the morbidly obese realm right now. You should be around 140lbs.”

I sat there and thought about what he said. I was already around 140lbs and I almost killed myself mentally and physically trying to stay at that weight. I wasn’t going back there.

Years passed and I’d lose 50 here, gain 100 there, lose 40 and then gain back 70. I wasn’t very nice to my body. I’m surprised it still takes care of me today.

Although, I weigh myself now, I don’t make it a habit. My worth isn’t attached to the numbers that calculate then pop up. I’m not a chart and I won’t be confined to a category of what’s healthy and not. I don’t complain about my weight. I do not obsess over it and I don’t expect others to. My weight. My body is my business. I decide whether it goes up and up, or down and down.

I’m not focusing on the scale anymore. I’m focusing on being a healthier and stronger me—mentally and physically.

***

I hurt my knee at work back in 2013. I could barely walk. Then I got surgery. Oh, man, I was in a ton of pain and wasn’t able to be physical for almost two years. After physical therapy was done, I decided to start swimming. My therapist thought it’d be a good idea to get active because I had anxiety and depression over the accident, my marriage, and just my life in general. Winter hit and I didn’t want to catch a cold, so I enrolled at a small gym. I couldn’t even do ten minutes on the elliptical machine. It was a sad day. After, I had done 30 minutes of exercise, my muscles and bones hurt super bad. I was sore for a week, but I went back. I noticed that I had more energy, I was less angry, and more productive.

The following year, I was going through a divorce. That’s when I started going to the gym twice a day to keep from hurting him and myself. To sweat out all the frustration and embarrassment I felt. The gym and lifting weights became a habit, a healthy habit. I’ve been going five to six days a week for over a year and a half now. And, although, I’m still morbidly obese (as the chart states), I am stronger than I’ve ever been. I can lift 80lbs, I can hold my own body weight up, and I can do an hour of cardio without breaks. I’m flexible, I have energy, and the doctor just gave me a clean bill of health (minus the IBS, ugh!).

I have lost weight, but I will not glamourize it. We have enough before and after photos to make us feel bad about how we don’t look. What I wanted to share are the accomplishments I’ve made once I gave up trying to fit into an acceptable weight category. Once, the power of the scale held not an ounce of power any longer.

If you're no longer held back by what's on the scale, I challenge you to share how much you weigh! It'll be like one of those cool 'burning ceremonies' where we collectively release the (figuritive) weight we put on ourselves. 

xoxo,

Leah V

Why Can't We Be #BodyGoals?

My birthday is in t-minus 2 days. 48 hours. Leo season. I’m freaking out. I have no plans. I’m more tired than ever before. I think I may have witnessed a bag forming under my eye. Not sure.

I’m eating healthier than ever before. I go to the gym. I even have one of those old lady pill separators for the hundreds of vitamins and doctor prescribed supplements that I take daily. The one that says Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday…

The big 3-0.

I never thought about 30 before. 30 years on earth. I’m surprised I made it this far, though. I even had the pleasure of witnessing the invention of fidget spinners and an orange Cheshire cat become number 45.

Ahh, what a time to be alive.

So, I posted a photo on Instagram (per usual) and someone hashtagged ‘body goals’. I repeat. #BodyGoals under my picture. I chuckled internally. My little shoulders bobbing up and down as I sat in front of an old ASUS laptop (I hate it, but it’s easier to type on than the MAC).

My body was a goal? Interesting, I pondered.

The next day, I posted another pic. A different person (totes unrelated to the first person) also used #BodyGoals. I must’ve been wrapped up in some CIA conspiracy because as I drank my tea and ate a bowl of oatmeal, my boobs literally rested on my knees. Who’d want a body like that? Like mine? Preposterous. From the positive comments, I found myself going down the list of why, how my body wasn’t goals.

My teeth had irregular spaces as to where I could fit the tip of my tongue through. I had a huge forehead. I mean, huge. The hairline was as far back as Lebron’s. I never liked the shape of my face. My little brother used to tell me that my profile resembled the shape of a fat moon crescent and that I had a pug nose. Barely had a neck. I wanted one of those statuesque ballerina necks. The ones that just went on for days and they still had more neck to spare even after that. My waistline was okay, but it was riddled with brownish stretch marks that meandered to the top of my butt. Let’s not forget the two fat donut rolls on each side. My thighs. Lordt. They constantly got stuck in chairs with arms. I could never just safely ‘squeeze past’ anyone, either. There’s not a smooth surface on my thigh. Both are like large columns filled with cottage cheese. My toes, Monkey Toes, they used to call em. They are very long and spread far apart, but I can pick up a penny from a wood floor like nobody’s business…  

Makeup: Madinah Muhammad

How was any of that #BodyGoals? Especially in today’s time. Our beauty standards consist of high cheekbones lined with fancy highlighter, remove-my-ribs-to-get-the-perfect waist, and pump my lips with asphalt and concrete so that I can resemble Daffy Duck and become a high-ranking Instagram makeup artist.

I thought those were goals.

Who’d in their right mind would want to look like me?

Yes. I wear the makeup. The pretty clothes. And, I know my angles, for the most part. I work with amazing photographers who know how to use lighting and create moods. But, I’m still fat. I’m a fat model. A fat person.

I scrolled through my Instagram and was like, oh, okay I can see why they placed my body on a pedestal. I was tricking them! If only they saw me naked, then they wouldn’t ever, ever say that.

Why had I been so bent on discrediting myself? My body? Was I doing it to be more ‘real’ to my followers or was I partaking in momentary self-hatred of my own body?

I express myself through photos. And words, of course. I wanted to do a shoot where it was less about angles to make myself appear one way, but to let the parts that I’m sometimes self-conscious about peek through. Like my under-belly flap (Iegit not wearing a Spanx) and my back (which didn’t look as bad as I imagined) and my funny toes (not gonna lie, I cringed). Because when I face something that I’m afraid to show or share or makes me self-conscious, it’s best to dive in completely and show the insecurity to the world. Then go from there.

“I don’t take photos sitting down,” I said to my thinner friend. “I literally turn into a bowling ball. I have about 3 inches of torso and hundreds of pounds that surround it. It’s not flattering.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. 

We are our own worst enemy. I am my own worst critic. I am the downfall of myself. On the flipside, I can also be my own best ally. I made a conscious decision to focus on the negatives when clearly that’s not how other people viewed me.

The question I asked myself: As a fat girl, why can’t I be #BodyGoals?

I can be #BodyGoals.

As a matter of fact, I am #BodyGoals just like those whole two people said. 

Leah V is #BodyGoals in all her saggy boob and cellulite glory.

xoxo,

Leah V

Battling Inner Demons

I wrote this on May 23rd on my Instagram account: He told me when we decided to get divorced that I couldn't take care of myself. That I'd see how hard it was without him. At first, I thought I could do it by myself. But recently, I've started to believe it. Believe him.

I don't make any money blogging, despite what my feed showcases. Oh, how betraying the internet can be. Fake it till you make it, right? I'm a struggling artist. Have been for a while now. Waiting for my big break like the rest of them. Trying to maintain an indie blog talking about real shit like social justice and feminism isn't what businesses want. They want the fake Instagram bloggers. Which is fine. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it.

What really irked me today was that I have about one month's worth of savings left and have been searching for jobs for the last two months. I have two masters, but I'm still unemployed. On the verge of partial homelessness, I sat in the car and thought about life real hard. How the fuck am I divorced, jobless, and highly educated at 30 🤔 Tears filled me eyes and I thought back to my ex: You can't take care of yourself without me... You know how life just beats your ass and your left stunned? That's me right now. Wondering what's next. How my story ends. Begins. I wish someone had the answers for me. Just tell me what to do. Ya know? Do y'all feel me though?

Henna Designs by Noor

At this point, I was fed up with life. I was cooked and overdone. I wanted people to stop looking at me like some kind of special person and see me for who I really was. An overly educated black girl with no parents, divorced, and no job. A fat girl with mental illness. Someone who floated around with no direction. Yup, that was me. Is me. Still me right now.  

I was sitting in the car on that sunny day, looking at my depleting bank account. Checking my emails to see if any of the 100-plus low-grade jobs that I was clearly overqualified for had sent me a message back. Nothin’. I’d had one interview a few weeks ago, but that was unsure. She was still ‘fleshing out the details of the position’. Unfortunately, my bills or rent hadn’t cared about the details. They needed to be paid. My uninsured body hadn’t cared about the details. It needed annual checkups now. My hopes and dreams hadn’t cared the fuck about the details. They needed nourishment and funding now!

As I always do, I lost my marbles. The strain of not having a family to support, help with anything weighed on me like a slab of marble. The embarrassment of having to apply for food stamps, walking into the unemployment office for ‘job assistance’, and making an appointment with a volunteer healthcare agency weighed heavily on my chest, my ribs as to where I couldn’t breathe. 

Then I remembered what my ex told me as we were getting a divorce: you can’t take care of yourself without me. You’ll see how hard it is out there.

Was he right? Had I been to overly-confident about my abilities to maintain a job and pay my own bills? I mean, to the naked eye, it seems as though I have it all. Seems as though I have the ability to take over the world. My face is beat and my outfits are amazing. I have a following. People love me. I’m the fat, black girl who’s supposed to change the fashion game. It doesn’t appear that I’m on the brink of not being able to pay my rent, or put gas in my car or food in my stomach.

The internet isn’t real. It has real moments, but it isn’t real.

I’m struggling to stay afloat. That’s the truth. I have one month’s worth of savings left. That’s the truth. I have no plan of how I’m going to do any of this. Truth. Two credit cards. Almost maxed out. TRUTH.

I’m ashamed to admit that. To say it out of my mouth. I have two fuckin’ master’s degrees and some work experience, yet I’m treated in the work world like I only have a 9th grade education. 

Same day while drinking a slushee, I burst out crying in the front of my friend’s house. In the car. Alone. I hate when people see me cry. I know. I’m weird.

As a black woman, we pride ourselves in maintaining this strong persona. We can’t let them see us weak. We can’t ask for help. Don’t let them see you down.

As a writer, I pride myself in being transparent. It’s how I built the foundation that I do have. I like sharing intimate moments with people. Especially people who get it. People who want real and appreciate that life isn’t snapshots of Instagram posts, but broken-down cars, and fucbois, and weight-gain, and bad ass kids.

Ain’t nobody perfect. Whether their profile says it or not. I don’t care how many filters they place on their selfies.

After, I posted my cry for help, people started to reach out in droves. I crocodile cried again. Y’all know that ugly ass frog-face cry? Yep, that was me.

My inbox blew up with people wanting me to know to not listen to my ex or my inner demon. People that were Muslim talked about patience. People who weren’t Muslim talked about hope and faith. A few individuals even asked for my PayPal info. I told them to hold off a few weeks (cuz ya never know, maybe a job or two would call me back). A few didn’t care and sent money anyway. *Inserts Frog-Face Tears*

I was so overwhelmed by the love. The hundreds of comments and likes. Strangers from different states offering to speak with the HR at their jobs and that they’d even put me up in a room if need be. It’s more than I’ve even gotten from my own blood relatives that see me struggle every day. Women shared similar ‘struggle-bus’ stories of when they got divorced, had their dignity stripped, and was now starting over. From scratch.

My heart swelled. And if you know me, I’m not an emotional person. Well, I try not to show it. But these strangers, these followers rejuvenated me at a time that I needed upliftment, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. They say that I was the one who gave them life on a daily basis. I believe it’s the other way around.

It’s Ramadan. It’s the first day. I’m writing this with a hunger migraine. I’m cranky. And my day has been filled with filling out job apps and researching crowdfunding sites so that I can continue to write, be an artist, I guess.

One thing I learned today was to be humble, be grateful for the things you have, and never lose hope. Who knows what tomorrow will bring for me? Maybe I won’t be broke for long. It’s up to me to have hope and keep grinding and be better in this life and for the sake of the hereafter.

Xoxo,

Leah V.   

Boys Will Be Boys

I don’t like to be the bearer of burden. And, I’ll probably receive hella hate for writing this, but I’m about to be a young-looking 30 and as I age, I’m figuring out that I have very little fucks to give.

I’m 100% sure that this happens in every religion and culture, since the beginning of time, but because I’m Muslim, I’m going to focus on Muslim men.

Islam is a fair and peaceful religion, way of life. It lays out women’s rights; the ability to own businesses, seek divorce, and attain quality education. It clearly speaks against oppression. To even be a Muslim and oppress is an oxymoron, but time and time again we see these acts in our communities and abroad. It isn’t the religion, people! It’s the individuals obsessed with greed. It’s culture. And, it’s just plain not caring about what the religion says and using it as a form of control. From what I’ve seen mostly of the control and policing of our girls and women. Yeah, kinda like how Europeans used Christianity on African slaves or cults use ‘belief’ to control their followers.

With that said, let’s talk about the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality that I’ve seen in several Islamic communities.

One of my friends had a brother who wasn’t forced to cook dinner for the family like his sisters were. He did have dishwashing duties, but would often neglect them to hang with his friends. His sister and I were chillin’ one day and her mother called her. My friend told me that she had to go. When I asked why, she said because her mom wanted her to wash dishes.  

Another unequal rule that was enforced was girls staying out past Mahgrib. Every Muslim boy could be found playing basketball, walking to the store, or just hanging at a friend’s house while the girls were forbidden to leave the confinements of their home. When asked why, the responses ranged from it was ‘too dangerous’ for the girls or plainly, because he was a boy, he could run the streets, and you can’t so just deal with it until you get married.

I’ve had friends that brothers were allowed to receive phone calls from girls, have porn under their mattresses, and even date. If a Muslim girl even looked at a boy, it was over for her. She’d be banished to the prison that was her home. For eternity.   

Infidelity, adultery is a biggie. Muslims love to skate over that one. Especially if you have a penis. You get a ‘get out of jail’ card immediately. You get 99 excuses plus one. Basically, you didn’t even do it, even if they got you on tape. I’ve heard these responses in regards to Muslim men cheating. “Well, maybe he cheated because she wasn’t satisfying him.” “He only cheated once. What’s the big deal?” “He can have up to four wives anyway?” “You want to divorce him just because he cheated?”  

If a Muslim woman cheated, the Day of Judgement would have truly arrived. The woman would literally be pulled out of her home, beaten in the streets, tongue whipped on Facebook, scolded by all and every family member, even cousins she’s never met before, ‘whore’ stamped on her forehead, then divorced and tossed into a deep, dark pit with a hungry lion inside.

And, don’t get me started on old, crusty Muslim men or Muslim fucbois requesting virgins…

I was in college when I started partying. I ripped my hijab off and put on a little black dress. Inside the club, my friends and I noticed a few Muslim guys we knew from the local mosque with drinks in their hands. I wanted to duck and dodge, but my friends told me that they’d already seen us. I rolled my eyes and followed.

They gave us salaams.

“Why are you guys here?” one of them asked.  

I put my hand on my hip. “The same reason you guys are.”

He scoffed. “No hijab?”

“Not tonight.” I grinned.

“Y’all better not be drinking.”

I pointed to his glass. “Like you?”

Of course, he went back and told the whole community about our indecencies. So, we were deemed ‘those kind of girls’. They warned the good and holy Muslimahs not to speak or hang around us. But, the Muslim guys totally soared past the important portion of the discussion: we were all Muslim and none of us should have been in the club with drinks in hand and hijabs left in the backseat of cars. But no one, not one person pointed that out that fact as they hyped the story of us being bad Muslims.

Can we please stop this? Stop enabling these boys. You’re creating arrogant, Muslim fucbois who feel entitled to bigotry and sexism. Stop telling them that it’s okay to treat their women as if they are their mothers, that it’s okay to drink liquor but not eat pork, that it’s okay to marry a virgin when you smashed half the team. Stop making Islam look, appear to be one-sided. Stop using Islam to validate your foolishness. That is not ISLAM!  

As a Muslim girl, I feel like you have to be everything to everyone at all moments of time. How tiring is that? What kind of life is that to live? You have to be pure to Muslim men, nonthreatening to white people, become Mufti Menk at the mosque. We all can’t be Mufti Menk.   

I know that I’m not the only one whose experienced these ‘boys will be boys’ moments in the Muslim community.

I want to hear your stories. Put them in the comments below if you’re tired of the bull!

xoxo,

Leah V.