Diana Whitney

Beyond my burden of shame

Beyond my burden of shame

At the Women’s March on Washington, I was expecting outrage, catharsis, and the solidarity of strong women. What I wasn’t expecting were the men.

My pre-teen daughters didn't want to go to Washington, D.C., and I didn't push it, not wanting to force them into any activity against their will, be it cross-country skiing, hugging, or political protest.

To be honest, I was relieved to have space for my own experience, to travel solo to the nation's capital to the Women's March on Jan. 21 with my two high-school best friends, Stacey and Sarah, the same gals who'd coined our senior-year slogan: My Body Is a Shrine. We hand-painted the “My B.I.A.S.” acronym in puffy letters on XL white T-shirts that we wore at sleepovers.

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Talking Trump with my daughters

I have to tell my two preteens: our country doesn’t care about women and girls — or not enough to keep a sexist bigot from the most powerful position in the world

Like so many dazed parents the morning after the election, I tried to explain to my daughters what had happened while they slept. How our country had elected a racist, misogynist bully for a president. How there would not be a woman in the White House, as we'd naïvely...

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A matter of survival

‘I don’t talk much about depression and rarely write about it, but it exists as a shadow presence in my life, a current below the bright surface’

Stunned at the news of Robin Williams' suicide, I drove to teach yoga last week through leafy late-summer mist, half numb with sadness, amazed at my own survival. In 2002 and 2003, I, too, was suicidal, caught in a downward spiral of severe depression, anxiety, and chronic pain that...

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