SheLoves Magazine

TGIF: That Time I (Kind of) Wanted a Boob Job

On Bruce Willis, curling irons and the mishaps of dating on Skype.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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A month ago I got an email from a SheLoves reader. I asked her permission to share it with you today.

(Deep breath):
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Hello Tina,

I just read your latest post on SheLoves — the one about you without makeup. I’m lost for words … but thanks for really talking about our fears. I don’t wear lots of makeup, just a little gloss and lipstick most of the time.

Now this is personal. I’m Ugandan. I have a big nose.

I’ve had an experience recently that beat down on me a little bit. I’d been Skyping this guy for a while. I was able to see his face, but he could never see mine. I decided to get a webcam one day, to see if his “feelings” for me would remain.

I can’t judge him, because I don’t know what happened. But that day changed our relationship.

It beat down hard on me. I thought, “Yeah, I’m not as beautiful as he thought I really was.”

This incident affected me for some time. I’ve had to face the insecurity in me: that I am not beautiful enough for any guy.

I still struggle with this. I no longer want to take or upload pictures on Facebook. I try to take pictures in a certain posture so that my nose doesn’t look that big.

I know my heart will heal in this regard.

Thanks for sharing.

God bless,
D.

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D’s email broke my heart. I feel like a lot of girls identify with her struggle. Myself included.

Reminds me of the time … I burnt my boob.

It was 2006. And I was running late for a fancy dinner with some friends. I jumped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and read three frantic texts from a friend telling me to get my butt out the door in ten minutes. Riggght. I still had to: brush my teeth, lotion my legs, put on makeup, style my (wet) hair and pick out an outfit. Sweet baby Jesus! On a good day this takes me 25 minutes! And I had to make it happen in ten?

In the interest of saving time, I started curling my hair, wearing only my bra and underwear. I wrapped sections of freshly shampooed hair around the hot, gold metal barrel. I counted to five, and then released the curl.

When I was halfway done, I checked the time. Ahhhh: two more minutes! I was determined to not be that girl who’s “Always Late”. So I started to take larger chunks of hair and wrapped them around the curling iron.

All of a sudden, I lost grip of the handle and watched the curling iron tumble onto my .. .[gasp] … unprotected boob.

This was one of those slow-motion moments, where you scream “Nooooo…” and try to save the cup of coffee before it spills onto the keyboard of your $3,000 Macbook. Except, the coffee was a screaming hot curling iron, and the keyboard was my partially exposed bosom.

White hot metal kissed my delicate caramel skin.

Then I heard the dreaded sound. Like melting butter in a hot frying pan, I heard my left boob sizzle.

Sizzle.

Like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2, I staggered as the mind-numbing pain washed over me. Like Bruce, I powered through. Half-dazed, I quickly curled the rest of my hair, threw on the first thing in my closet and made for the door.

Later at the restaurant, I told my girlfriends about the “hilarious” curling iron incident. Everyone laughed and said, “Gurrrrl, you so crazy!”

At first it was funny, but as the night progressed it got hard to ignore the throbbing pain. So I excused myself and retreated to the safety of a bathroom stall. I locked the door and pulled down my shirt to take a peek.

Mocha Frappucino. It was Saving Private Ryan in there! Ugh, so much blood! I folded up some toilet paper, gently placed it into my bra (bad move), and went back to the table.

By the time I got home, the toilet paper had glued itself onto the wound. When I finally managed to get it all off, I was raw (and so was my boob).

I cried myself to sleep that night.

I hoped that the wound would look better in the morning. It didn’t. It was inflamed, it was bleeding and it was oozing yellow pus. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, but it hurt like Hades.

I needed something for the pain. But the thought of exposing my burnt boob to a doctor was more traumatizing than suffering through it.

I knew how that conversation would play out.

He’d say, “So, how did this happen?”

I’d say, “Well, I was trying to curl my hair and, um … I accidentally bludgeoned my boob”.

So … No, thank you. I’ll pass. Instead, I chose to suffer in silence.

“I’m hideous”

I was M.I.A. for a couple days. A worried gf showed up at my door at 11pm and rang the bell like a maniac. I finally answered, wrapped in a towel, sobbing uncontrollably. I showed her the mangled boob.

And with that, we were on our way to the E.R.

After sitting in the waiting room for two hours, we finally got to see a doctor. He was male (of course) and I braced myself as the fear of being examined by him washed over me. After what felt like deafening silence, he finally spoke.

“You have third degree burns. I don’t know how you managed without painkillers.”

My friend and I looked at each other in silence while he wrote up a prescription.

As he started to wrap up, he told me that there would be some scarring because the skin was really delicate. “Come back to me in two weeks if you want to talk about reconstructive surgery.”

The moment he left the room, I looked at my friend and said “I wonder how much that surgery is gonna cost me.”

“Are you frickin’ serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped. “Look at me: I’m a freak!”

I started to cry. My friend touched my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said “Our scars make us beautiful, Teen.”

“Maybe, if I rescued someone from a burning building?” I shot back. “How does burning myself with a curling iron make me beautiful? I’m hideous”.

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At this point, you’re probably wondering, “Why are you telling me this graphic story? What does D.’s nose have to do with your disfigured boob?”

What we have in common is shame.

- we’ve both believed that we are “hideous”
- we’ve both experienced fear of ridicule or rejection (real or imagined)
- we’ve both had moments where our vulnerability made us retreat/recoil
- we’ve both considered the reality of being unlovable

Shame makes us feel exposed. It makes us feel like outsiders. It makes us feel repulsive and dirty. It’s devastating; it’s consuming. And it is lonely. It makes us feel irrelevant. It makes us feel weak, powerless, small, disposable. It makes us feel trapped.

In her book, “I Thought It Was Just Me”, Brene Brown defines shame this way:

Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging.

This is exactly how I felt after burning my boob and how D. felt after her video Skype session.

But I’m able to be objective about D.’s story.

Even though I’ve never seen D. face to face, I know that she is lovely. There’s something about her willingness to be vulnerable that radiates courage. And that is beautiful.
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And so, sweet D., I’m standing on my tippy toes, one hand on my burnt boob, yelling all the way from Vancouver. You are not flawed! You are beautiful. You are worthy of love.

Even though you “still haven’t found” what you’re “looking for,” I want you to know that you are you are accepted; you belong. You hear that, D.???!!! “YOU ARE NOT ALONE!”

[cue Michael Jackson’s "You are not alone.” Awesome song, creepy music video.]

“Beauty is taking what you have and running with it. It is your one tooth that is slightly crooked, or the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh. It’s the shape of your finger nails, the dimple on the inside of your wrist, the shape of your earlobes, the curve of your eye lashes, the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your forearms. It is the little things and the big things. It is everything and it is nothing.”

– Collin Slattery, “In Praise and Appreciation of Women”
(The Good Men Project)

And because I choose to believe this about you, I choose to believe this about me too.

My burnt boob, your lovably “big” nose, my friend’s blue toenail; splotchy birthmarks, peach fuzz bellies, cankles, unibrows, saggy boobs, etc. We all have our stuff. Ultimately it’s not the particulars about our body that captures love. Neither is finding the right surgeon (guilty as charged), or the perfect camera angle (guilty again).

I want the man I marry to love: my pear-shaped body, my errant chin hair, my (sometimes) greasy hair, my shaved and unshaved legs, my flabby arms, my thunder thighs, and my lovely love-handles. Heck, even my burnt boob!

Shame only works if we think we’re alone in it. If we think there’s someone else, a group of women, a city full of women, a country full of women, a world full of women, struggling with the same issue, the concept of shame becomes bankrupt. 

– Brene Brown, “I Thought It Was Just Me” (fwiw, it wasn’t)

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So, dear ones,

If you were to step out and be vulnerable (courageous) today:

- What parts of your body are you insecure about?
- How does shame show up in your life?

Love you more than Hot Fudge Pudding Cake,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

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My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

International Women’s Day: On Freedom, Distraction and Standing with the Suffering

“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.” - Arundhati Roy 

By Idelette McVicker | Twitter: @idelette

When I think of International Women’s Day, I am 26 again and a tourist, traveling on my own in New York City and waiting on the pier to go see Lady Liberty.

She beckoned me with her stance, carrying that Freedom torch, watching over a city and welcoming in strangers, immigrants. I was such an eager girl, aching to stretch her arms wide wide wide and find her place in the world.

Liberty stood, unmoving.

Seeking the Face of Justice: Lessons from Two Former Child Soldiers

By Stephanie Motz Skinner | Twitter: @stephmotz

When we see how much injustice there is in the world, sometimes we forget that a simple act of reaching out and caring can make all the difference.

I can’t say I fully understand justice. Living in Uganda, however, as I hear firsthand the stories of people who have experienced great injustice–people who are now healing–I’m often reminded of what achieving justice looks like. I also learn that in seeking justice I don’t need to become overwhelmed.

God reminds me there’s nothing silent or static about justice. Wherever I search for the word “justice” in the Bible, I come across action. Justice is life-giving, loud and active. He also provides me with many examples on how to seek justice: speak out, reach out and give.

Seeking Justice

I learn that to seek is the desire or attempt to achieve something. I may have the desire, but if I don’t take the leap from desire to action, I’ll never “achieve” justice. Justice isn’t just the feeling in my heart. It’s the ways in which I will choose to respond to that feeling.

I’m reminded that seeking justice is a choice I continually have to make, because seeking justice, though it’s not impossible, isn’t easy. It can be uncomfortable.

It’s not easy

-Personally, I’m not very good at speaking out. I’m shy.
-Being generous is hard when I feel like I don’t have the finances.
-Reaching out requires meeting people and investing my time.

I have to be honest, sometimes I can get lazy, overwhelmed and scared. I can fail to take the leap from desire to action because it means I have to get out of my comfort zone. Therefore, I have to continue to choose to keep my heart and eyes open so I don’t fail to see injustice and take the opportunities to respond.

Lessons from Filder and Susan

Filder and Susan belong to a generation of children who were abducted by the LRA in northern Uganda and forced to live under the captivity of rebel soldiers. Many of them were forced to witness and commit unimaginable atrocities. They were robbed of their childhood and innocence. Boys were forced to become child soldiers and girls were often given away as trophy wives to rebel commanders.

Like many other abducted children, when Filder and Susan returned from captivity, their community rejected them completely. Now they are part of an initiative run by Watoto that trains and disciples this stolen generation and helps them reintegrate into their communities. They have been given the opportunity to regain control of their lives because somebody acted.

We sat at their new home on Suubi Hill, and when I asked them what was the most important thing I as an individual could do to seek justice, their answers were surprisingly simple. They said that if I care, I will stop and listen to those who are hurting around me. To Susan and Filder, former child soldiers, realizing justice begins with an interaction.

“Just talking with someone who has been through something very painful can help him or her,” Susan said. “Don’t pass and go, find out how they are doing. Talk to them, take your time to sit with them.”

Filder added: “Encourage and be faithful to one another, help them, build them up.”

I know justice is not one-dimensional. Choosing to stop, care and listen might not solve all of the world’s problems. But if it reminds one person of her worth–if one person rises up from her circumstances and starts to believe in herself again–then that simple action might just be the beginning of someone’s experience of real justice. It’s easy to think that our simple, individual acts of goodness, kindness, or love are insignificant when we see how much injustice there is in the world, but it’s exactly those simple, individual acts that, when added together, can begin to make real positive difference.

I notice that difference when I see Filder and Susan. These girls have experienced war, loss and rejection, but when you meet them, you see love, joy and a real sense of appreciation shining through them. They are healing, smiling and dreaming. They want to shine that light and share that face of justice with other women in their community. And that’s the other thing I’ve learnt about this face of justice: it doesn’t stop at that one person. It sets off a ripple.

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What are YOUR thoughts?

• What speaks to you in this post?
• When and where do you see the face of justice?
• How would you like to grow in this area?

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About Stephanie:
Stephanie is a humanitarian and portrait photographer for fakeleft.com where she shares stories of hope and dignity. She blogs at fakeleft.com/blog and tweets at @stephmotz

Seeds of Dreaming and Doing

On Ugandan gardens + Honduran dreams. 

By Stephanie Motz Skinner | Twitter: @stephmotz

December always seems to be a month of reflection for me. It’s a time infused with a steady air of change; of new beginnings. It’s always a time I appreciate the family I am surrounded with, and pine for the others who are far away and scattered, like the leaves of autumn, whose colours I can almost remember from my time in Montreal some years back. And, as the year turns, my thoughts inevitably shift inwards as I analyse my life over the last 12 months. It’s hard now, to imagine those bleak Canadian winterscapes, and as I draw them out from my memory there is almost a brief nostalgia, a distant and twisted kind of longing for that lifeless air that freezes you from the inside as you step outside and draw into your lungs that icy chill.

Uganda is instead a warm and living garden that never suffers frostbite. And my life, too, is like a garden. When I reflect on the journey that my life has taken, I can see a modest, but blossoming landscape. It seems that different areas of my life grow at their own pace. I notice I need to weed out some stubbornness and pride that seem to overgrow and stifle the development of my character. I see how my marriage is flourishing and the relationship with my family is strong like the Mvule tree, the guardian of Uganda’s forests. Some dreams seem stifled by a fear that cuts them back. And out in the distance I see a flowering field of love that is in bloom.

There’s always work to be done in a garden and mine is not yet lush or fully mature. There’s still a lot of pruning, clearing and shaping to do. And as the end of the year approaches, I can’t help but notice the empty spaces, the ones that belong to certain dreams I haven’t yet planted. Even though this year felt like a season of growth, I still hold in my hand many seeds that have been collected throughout my life and, for a moment, it seems as if I didn’t do enough to move forward in planting them.

These seeds of purpose come in all different shapes and sizes. Some of them are dreams I believe God has placed in my heart for me to plant, nurture and grow. Others are areas of my life I want to improve on, things I’m passionate about and personal goals I want to accomplish. As I sketch out the year, it can feel a bit overwhelming to realize how many of them remain unplanted. I begin to wonder about my excuses for not planting them – if I had any. Or I begin to ask myself if perhaps I allowed my fears to stop me. What were my reasons? Why wasn’t this the year? Self-doubt has a way of creeping in and planting its own poisonous seeds. What if my seeds never germinate, or if my plant produces toxic fruit? And then sometimes I just get too busy.

Honduras

One of my seeds–something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time–is to start a program for Honduran youth who are at social risk. I often dream of creating an organization that empowers teenagers who don’t have parents looking after them, or who make their daily living by begging on the streets. Often they are enticed into destructive lives, resorting to drugs and joining violent gangs in a desperate attempt to find a place to belong. I believe that the future of my country is in the hands of the youth and we need to offer them an alternative–a choice. I feel a sense of responsibility as a Honduran towards these teenagers and I want to be one of the people who helps them realize their potential.

This year I learned a few things about gardening by observing and helping my husband with his vegetable garden. I learned that before planting, we needed to first collect the seeds and then research the plant we wanted to grow. We had to learn what the best conditions for the seed were, when was the best time of year to plant it, and whether it grows in sun or shade.

We then had to plan the layout of our seedbed, create it and till the ground. It took us a while before we were ready to plant. We had to first prepare the ground where the seeds would grow and plough the soil where they would take root.
In the same way, I realize even though I haven’t yet planted many of the seeds in my hand, I have been preparing the soil for them.

Living  in Uganda, working alongside NGOs who are empowering people, has confirmed my desire to do something in my own country. I’m observing, absorbing and learning about the complexity of running any form of organization. I’ve also learned the value of humble beginnings and placing our faith in God.

Surrounding myself with others who share a passion for justice and listening to the stories of people who have overcome many adversities in their lives, has stretched my heart and broadened my mind.

This year my heart has been stirred by causes I’m passionate about, and awakened to the pain and injustice others face in this world. I’ve been challenged, strengthened, inspired and encouraged by my family and friends.

This community of sisters who are doers and dreamers has inflamed my passion for justice and strengthened my desire to not just applaud those who are at the frontline in the fight against injustice, but to join them.

Preparing the soil for my seeds meant doing a lot of thinking, praying, researching, planning, reading, writing, and even cheering others in their journeys. It might seem like a small step, but it’s an important step. In gardening it sets the stage for planting. It loosens the top layer of soil to facilitate the planting of the seed.

As I prepare myself for that next step, it reinforces my commitment to these dreams I hold close to my heart. It builds my capacity to fulfill them and develops the character I need to nurture them and help them grow. It strengthens my belief that they should be planted. And it increases the suspense and my excitement for these dreams, because I believe when the time comes to plant them, my heart will be prepared.

I wonder:

• When you reflect on the last year, what comes to mind?
• How do you feel about the seeds in your hand?

Dear SheLoves sisters I wish each and every one of you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Here’s to hoping the next year is full of ploughing, sowing, growing and harvesting for all of us.

With love,

Stephanie.

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About Stephanie:
Stephanie is a humanitarian and portrait photographer for fakeleft.com where she shares stories of hope and dignity. She blogs at fakeleft.com/blog and tweets at @stephmotz

TGIF: ‘Cause I Gotta Have Faith-a-Faith-a-Faith …

On small faith, mind-bending miracles, weepy bear hugs and an epic summer.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“How much have you raised so far?*” he said resting his coffee cup on my cubicle wall and peering down on me.

[*Context: On June 24th 2011, I announced a Big Hairy Audacious Goal (BHAG): 50 women in Vancouver + Half-Marathon = Raising $50,000 for Our Sisters in Uganda. Read more.]

Glasses, sweater vest, baby blue shirt tucked into beige pants … What’s-his-name-What’s-his-name-What’s-his-name, I thought frantically. Bryan … Kevin … Jared? My desperate attempt at recollecting his name was interrupted by the loud slurp of coffee. What’s-his-name swallowed and said, “You know, your half-marathon goal of raising $50,000?”

Ugh.

Luckily, I’d learned a thing or two from years of watching the question round of the Miss Universe pageant. So I repeated his question back to him as slowly as humanly possible, stalling for time. “How … far … away … am … I … from … the … half-marathon … goal?” deliberately leaving out the little detail of $50,000.

“Yeah, how far along are you in relation to the $50,000 goal,” he responded.

What’s-his-name was relentless.

I took a deep breath and with my best (fake) calm voice I said, “You know, it’s really exciting! A lot of girls have signed up for the run. Most of them are not runners, so they want to train a little bit before they ask friends and family for money. At the moment we are at $840.”

His eyes widened, “But it’s the second week of August already! You have to make over $49,000 in a month and a half!”

I smiled, “I know! It will somehow come together. I have faith.”

Here’s the thing, I lied.
I didn’t have faith.
Well, I had faith.
I had small faith.

What is small faith you ask?

Small faith is …

- When you’re a “rah-rah” cheerleader on the outside, but secretly want to curl up in a fetal position and cry.
- When you quote Martin Luther King on your Facebook status and then take three nervous OCD showers to calm down.
- When you dream about raising $50,000 for your sisters in Uganda, but start convincing yourself that finishing the race without injuries would be a victory. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Guilty as charged.
I had small faith.

Real life doesn’t end with “happily ever after.” So, I typically dream safe dreams. “I hope there is parking close to the entrance of the mall.” Or: “I hope this new shampoo helps with my dandruff.” You know? That sorta thing. Dreams that don’t have the potential to embarrass me. Safe and realistic dreams that required small faith.

Unfortunately in the case of the half-marathon, I had opened my big fat mouth and put my BHAG out there, and now the whole world was going to know that I was a big fat failure/lunatic/loser.

Confession: When we made a You Tube video for creating awareness about the half-marathon, I asked my friend Dave who was editing the piece to remove the section where I talk about the $50,000 goal. Gulp. I know. We were days away from the run and nowhere near our goal, so I had started preparing my heart for a smaller dream.

____________________________________________________________

“Not failure, but low aim, is a crime.” - James Russell Lowell

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Earlier this week I was thumbing through Charles Swindoll’s book “Can One Person Make a Difference?” In the last chapter entitled “This is no time for wimps,” Swindoll talks about how God always gave big instructions.

He told Noah to “Build an ark.”
He told Joseph, “Return good for evil. Forgive your brothers”.
He told Moses, “Lead my people out of Egypt.”
He told David, “Kill the giant.”
He told Peter, “Feed my sheep.”

Woah.

God never aims low.

So yes, $50,000 was an obscenely high number, but it was what I felt God wanted us to work towards.

You know the guy who peered over my cubicle? Yeah, he checked in every two weeks. He asked the same question, “So how away are you from your $50,000 goal?” After every conversation, I felt my heart sink and I set my sights lower. I said things like, “If we just make about $___, it would be okay. It would be decent. At least, we created awareness, right?”

I have to admit, I harboured some not-so-nice-thoughts …

 Money Money Money 

Over the next couple of weeks, this is what our fundraising progress looked like:

August 23^rd – $4,460

God, $10,000 would be a respectable number.

September 6^th – $6,248

God, seriously, if we could just get to $10,000, I won’t ask for anything else this year.  

September 21^st – $11,516

Haha. Okay God. You’re amazing. Maybe, $15,000?

September 22^nd – $14,816

Eek!!! God, would it be crazy to aim for $20,000? P.S. $25,000 would be epic/mega/amazing/miraculous.

September 25^th – Race Day!

You are my rock, God. With you by my side, I can do anything.

**____After the Half-Marathon____**

October 5^th – $27,817

GOD?!! WOW! WOW! WOW! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!!

November 17^th – $43,607

… * tears * … I’m a fool for ever doubting you, Father. I’m sorry I had small faith. 

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A Letter to my Girls …

Dear half-marathon girls + Josh,

WE DID IT!!! We finished strong. We wrote a beautiful story together. We witnessed a miracle. We helped. Even though there is so much more work to be done, we did something. We didn’t just sigh and turn the other way, we put our words into action!

Thank you for leaping with me. I couldn’t have done it without each and everyone of you. Thank you for the mystic bond of sisterhood. I will always cherish the laughter, tears, prayers and hugs we shared on this journey. I will never forget that familiarization run with Dan: running in the dark, sharing Gatorade, peeing in bushes, squealing in laughter and disarming crazy car alarms. What a night. Thank you for reminding me what we were fighting for when I was overwhelmed. Thank you for grace in moments of (administrative) chaos. Thank you for your tender, juicy, beautiful, thumping-aching-bursting hearts. Thank you for carrying me when I had small faith.

My sweet and strong sisters, this is only the beginning …

I love you all.

Rib-crushing, weepy bear hugs,
Teen
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  If you haven’t donated to our cause yet and would still like to give, we are accepting donations until November 30th.
- Donate: HERE
– How it all got started? Read the story: HERE
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Here are  5 things that made me smile this week:

 Poetry Jam + Marcel “The Shell with Shoes On” + Murmurations + Seasame Street + Kina Granis = TGIF

1. Joshua Bennett’s spoken word tribute to his sister triggers a sharp pain in my chest. Powerful + Beautiful + Tender.

2. I found this little gem while randomly surfing on Vimeo. Meet Marcel “The shell with shoes on.” Jenny Slate is the brilliant (untreated and unenhanced) voice behind the protagonist Marcel. Jenny Slate, you are adorbs.

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

3. So, you know my long standing fear of birds? This video is so beautiful-breathtaking-awe-inspiring, I may have to reconsider my position on birds. Two girls in a canoe stumble upon one of nature’s greatest phenomenons; a murmuration of starlings. I’ve watched the video at least 10 times and I still get chills. Prepare to be enchanted. (P.S. If I had to pick my favourite out of this week’s list of 5 things, this would be it.)

Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

4. My friend Brandi-Lee (or B.Diddy‎ as I like to call her) was watching Sesame Street with her son, Finn, when she heard this catchy tune. “She’s gonna change the world, she’s gonna make the world a better place!” Yeah she is! I don’t know why but I love the massive pearl earrings on the puppet. I keep imagining someone looking at the puppet and saying, “There is something missing here. Ah yes, pearl earrings!” Haha. Yes, I’m easily amused.

5. I’ve been following Youtube star Kina Granis  for years now. She was on The Ellen show this week after the release of her new music video “In your arms”. 22 months, 1,357 hours, 30 people, 2 ladders, 1 still camera and 288,000 jelly beans. Dedication or insanity? You decide.

Watch the making of the video:

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So, dear friends…

1. Have you ever experienced a miracle in spite of having small faith? I would love to hear about it!

2. What keeps you from dreaming big? Failure, past disappointments, responsibilities, etc.?

Love you more than Chocolate Chip Toffee Bars, (<- Recipe)

xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

The Thing that Makes Me Angry Now

“If something makes you angry–an injustice, in particular–that is as good as an engraved invitation to do something about it.”–Sarah Bessey

By Stephanie Motz Skinner | Twitter: @stephmotz

“I don’t believe that we will make progress on HIV/AIDS without addressing maternal mortality. We will not make the progress we want on malaria without addressing maternal mortality. We will not make progress on getting more children to school without reducing maternal mortality. When a mother survives, a lot survives with her.” – Sarah Brown

There’s a chapter in Half the Sky, the best-selling book by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn that tells the tragic story of Prudence, a young woman from Cameroon.

When Prudence went into labor in her village, a traditional birth attendant assisted her, but after three difficult days she still had not given birth. In a desperate attempt to force the child out, the woman sat on Prudence’s stomach and began to jump up and down. Prudence’s uterus ruptured.

Only then was Prudence taken to the hospital where the doctor asked the family for $100 to perform a cesarean. Her family only had $20, so Prudence remained untreated for another three days, her dead baby decaying inside her.

Kristof tells of how he personally paid the remainder of the money needed for the operation but the doctor decided it could wait another day. By the time Prudence was rolled into the operating theatre, it was too late. Her abdomen was severely infected and she fell into a coma. Three days later she died.

“That’s what happens, somewhere in the world, once every minute,” the story concludes.

Close to home

Not long after that I read about a Ugandan schoolteacher who died along with her unborn child, while her husband desperately tried to find the money to pay for the operation she needed. He frantically rushed around town trying to sell the title deeds to his land while his wife lay bleeding and without any help in one of the country’s main hospitals. Instead of celebrating one of life’s greatest gifts, he mourned an incomprehensible and senseless loss.

I’ve never had a child and so my ideas about giving birth have been shaped by what other women have told me about their experiences. And yet, even with my hyperactive imagination, the kinds of things that happened to Prudence were not what I envisioned around childbirth.

Yes, the thought of giving birth makes me shudder and I think it’s one of the bravest things a woman will ever do, but even through the misty gaze of my fears, I still see childbirth as something profoundly beautiful–a celebration.

Maybe I have been blinded by the safety of my privilege. I imagine that when I bring my children into the world I’ll find myself in a safe environment attended to by a midwife or a nurse who will help me with competence and care. And I believe no woman should expect any less.

But recently I have been learning that, for many women, giving birth is deadly. Their experience is defined by the hefty price that childbirth claims when they don’t have access to adequate care.

According to the United Nations Population Fund (UNPFA) 350,000 women die every year from complications during childbirth. That’s almost the same number of people who live in cities like New Orleans, Florence or Surrey.

But what upsets me the most is that 90 percent of these deaths are preventable. Simple yet critical interventions can help reduce maternal mortality rates.

In developing countries, maternal mortality has been attributed to a series of delays. Women can be slow to seek medical care when they are not aware of the dangers of childbirth. Care is often difficult to access. When they finally arrive at hospitals or clinics, they often find medical attendants who are overworked, unmotivated or simply do not have the resources to do their jobs.

Credit: Tadej Znidarcic for The New York Times. Click on the image to view the whole slideshow: In Uganda, a Failure to Deliver..

In Uganda, as must be the case in much of the developing world, many health care centers don’t even have the most basic supplies, like gloves or surgical knives.

According to the news agency IRIN, Uganda’s largest state-owned hospital has only five health care workers in the maternity ward that attend to 60 births each day. The situation is much worse in rural areas where there are no health facilities.

As Kirstof and WuDunn emphasize in Half the Sky, neglect for maternal health is a human rights issue and in many countries a gender-based one. They note that there’s a strong correlation between countries where women are marginalized and those with high maternal mortality rates.

We are told that women are important for development. Many organizations are urging the world to keep girls in school. We often hear that women tend to invest more in their families. And yet, of all the Millennium Development Goals, efforts to reduce maternal mortality and achieve universal access to reproductive health have made the least progress.

The good news is that there are many people who are already providing solutions. Organizations like International Midwife Assistance (IMA) have recognized that one of the ways to reduce maternal mortality rates is to train more midwives.

IMA works in Soroti, a rural area in eastern Uganda, where they provide free transportation to pregnant women when they need to go to their local clinic. They also run a mobile outreach clinic for remote areas of the community where they teach mothers about childbirth and family planning as well as offer them prenatal care. And they train local practitioners to empower them to provide quality prenatal and birth services.

This solution alone will not reduce maternal mortality rates. Governments in developing countries need to commit to funding maternal heath projects. Access needs to be improved through infrastructure and transportation. And women need to know about the complications of childbirth so they don’t delay seeking care.

I know there’s so much more for me to learn, but I was inspired by Sarah, a.k.a. Emerging Mummy, last week when she wrote, “If something makes you angry–an injustice, in particular–that is as good as an engraved invitation to do something about it.”  So I decided I couldn’t hush this reality. Perhaps we all need to hear more about it. Ultimately reducing maternal mortality rates is about keeping mothers alive.

And I can’t imagine what my world would have been like without my mother.

My dear SheLoves sisters, will you join me in spreading the word? 

I wonder:

• Have you read Half the Sky? What were your thoughts after reading it, especially the story of Prudence?
• What makes you angry?

About Stephanie:
Stephanie is a humanitarian and portrait photographer for fakeleft.com where she shares stories of hope and dignity. She blogs at fakeleft.com/blog and tweets at @stephmotz

TGIF: The Summer My Dad and I Became “Dreamers-Who-Do”

On building decks, toy trucks in cereal and a touch of crazy.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“You want to do what?!” I asked, my voice betraying my lack of confidence.

“I want to build a deck!” he answered, grinning like a school boy who discovered a toy truck in his cereal.

I had walked into the kitchen after work to find my mom and dad sitting at the computer looking at pictures of decks. “Should we build one level or two?” my Dad asked, his smile widening.

“Le-vels … ?” I asked haltingly. “One … I guess.”

Here’s what I knew about building a deck:
-       The raw materials are expensive.
-       You need to create something 3D out of pieces of wood and nails.
-       Assembling an IKEA bookshelf doesn’t count as “construction experience”.

When we first moved to Canada, my immigrant family of five encircled our very first lawnmower completely mystified, trying to turn the darn thing on. I’m sure our neighbours looked into our backyard and thought, “Oh, those crazy brown people! What on earth are they doing now?”

Sure, my dad can hook up a home theater system like a pro. No problem. But it was hard to imagine him building a functional physical addition to our house.

“Maybe he should start by building something small first? Like a table?” I thought. I felt like I needed to protect him from impending disappointment.

“How are you going to do this?” I inquired, my eyebrows furrowing in ways that would make Jim Carrey proud.

“Google!” he beamed.

I realized this was a man on a mission and I had a choice to make. I could either list out every possible thing that could go wrong or I could bite my tongue and wait to see how the story ends.

In my moment of restraint, it suddenly dawned on me that I, too, was in the midst of “building a deck.” I was training to run my first ever half-marathon to raise money for our sisters in Uganda.

Oh …

This deck was my dad’s half-marathon.

I wonder what my parents thought when their exercise-averse firstborn publicly verbalized her dream to run 21km by the end of the summer. Given my track record, they had a litany of sound reasons to conclude that this dream would quickly derail and head full-steam into the land of bitter disappointment.

But, like me, they too exercised restraint.

And maybe, what I called restraint … they called “faith.”

“Faith is a passionate intuition.”  -William Wordsworth

Dreamers who do

“The world needs dreamers and the world needs doers. But above all, the world needs dreamers who do.”  -Sarah Ban Breathnach

Over the course of the summer I watched my dad spend hours combing through Craigslist looking for deals on building material. He found an old lady in the process of renovating her house. She offered to give all the wood on her deck to anyone willing to demolish it for her. I watched my mom and dad pull into the driveway after hours of back-breaking work. They unloaded the rescued wood from the back of our mini-van, each piece a labour of love.

My dad has the work ethic of a farmer. Weak knees be damned. He was relentless.

Parallel to my dad’s efforts, I was training for the half-marathon. I was going for long runs, fundraising, raising awareness for our cause and rallying the hearts of the girls.

I watched him in our backyard, measuring tape in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. Over the course of the summer, he built the base of the deck, put together a white fence, fashioned a table out of scraps, added several coats of paint and varnish. He even built a covered patio so that our family could sit outside to have a meal, sip on chai or just talk. This from the man who has no experience in carpentry. I was amazed by his resolve.

Aesthetically, there are definitely some blips. For example, the colour of the wood doesn’t match the trim of our house and the fence is leaning a little to the left but … it’s finished!

He did it! And I think it’s magnificent.

The deck? Done and done.

The half-marathon? Done and Done.

[Watch this space for our VERY big half-marathon announcement next week.]

A touch of crazy …

I’ve said this on TGIF before:

Lukewarm, mellow and laid-back can’t change the world. Fierce, relentless and a touch of crazy,  just might.

As I type this, I can’t help but get misty-eyed.

This summer my dad and I:
- Dared to dream — lofty, unrealistic, ridiculous dreams.
- Finished what we started.

Here’s to summers of being dreamers-who-do!
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Here are five things that made me smile this week:

Lanyard + Royal Wedding + Dewarists + Stick Men + Ben Howard = TGIF!

1. The Lanyard: It has recently occurred to me that I need to carve out time for poetry and spoken word. It fills a void I can’t quite give expression to. At first, you may be confused by Billy Collins’ account of making a lanyard for his mother at camp. How is this “glee-inducing” you may think. Suddenly at the 1:25 mark you will hear a laugh escape your lips, then again softly at 1:45, and then louder at 1:55. I find his monotone delivery oddly hilarious! And then when you are least expecting it, at 2:18, he states a simple, sentimental, universal truth that will have you do a head-tilt awww.

2. Now, I realize this next statement is going to get me in a lot of trouble but … I wasn’t a huge fan of the neutral colour palette of “the” Royal Wedding. My personal pick for “Royal Wedding of the Year 2011″ goes to the King and Queen of Bhutan.

One word: Colour. Vibrant, glorious, revitalizing colour! That ladies and gentleman, is a crown. It’s the bling-lovechild of Michelangelo and Frida. For more pictures, check out Queen Pema on Facebook! I know, I know. I’m a junkie.

Mixing of patterns, textures and colour palettes. Ah. Love.

I’d much rather be, hanging out with cute babies vs. being escorted by men with Marge Simpson headgear post-ceremony.

Aww … too cute!

3. The Dewarists is a new original TV series that’s part music documentary and part travelogue that features musicians collaborating to create original music while traveling over beautiful locations across India. Hello? Of course, I had to share this! My sister posted this video on Facebook last week, a collaboration between Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter Imogen Heap and composers Vishal and Shekhar for a track inspired by the Tagore poem, “Where The Mind Is Without Fear.” This episode was filmed at the luxurious, 475-year-old Samode Palace on the outskirts of Jaipur in Rajasthan, India. Download song here.

4. I won’t say much here. Except, click on: THIS. Go on. Play. Be creative. Think crazy thoughts and then execute. Bravely. Boldly. There are no wrong answers pictures.

5. Twenty-three-year-old British singer-songwriter Ben Howard hit the spot this cold rainy fall November work week. Acoustic Guitar + Catchy hook + Gruff familiar voice + Beautiful Video = Win. The lyrics start at 1:20.

“We stood steady as the stars in the woods
So happy-hearted and the warmth rang true inside these bones
As the old pine fell we sang
Just to bless the morning.”

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So, dear friends…

1. When was the last time you dared to dream a lofty, unrealistic, ridiculous dream?

2. What is standing between you and your dream?

Love you more than Coconut Soup With Red Kuri Squash and Shrimp and Apple Cardamom Cake, (<- Recipe)

xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

Image from: Behance
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SheLoves Half-Marathon for Living Hope
- How it all got started? Read the story: HERE
- Donate: HERE
- Facebook Event Page: HERE
______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

Because of a Little Love: The Story of Beatrice and Agnes

Beatrice needed more than facial reconstructive surgery. She needed Agnes to remind her she is loved.

By Stephanie Motz Skinner | Twitter: @stephmotz

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©Fakeleft. Quote by Mother Teresa.

I am thinking about loneliness this week. Mother Teresa, a woman who witnessed extreme poverty and disease, believed that being unloved, rejected and lonely is a form of poverty.

She said: “We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love.”

A Little Love

When James and I heard of the opportunity to film a girl who had just undergone reconstructive surgery we jumped at the opportunity. It was the last footage we needed to complete the production of a short video for Living Hope that we’ve been working on and we were eager to begin piecing the final story together.

So we set off early one morning with a Living Hope team leader. She informed us that the girl we were filming would be returning to her home in Gulu soon. We were excited for her because we figured she was probably anxious to return to her family.

Meet Beatrice

To protect her identity, I’ll call her Beatrice. Beatrice is about fifteen years old. She had undergone two surgical procedures in a week and was recovering at a Watoto village near Kampala. A cheerful and loving Living Hope graduate named Agnes was caring for her. She had been trained to nurse reconstructive surgery patients after their operation and had spent a week nursing Beatrice. When we met them you could tell they had become increasingly attached to each other. Agnes would hug Beatrice and fix the scarf around her neck. She would wipe Beatrice’s chin when spittle would trickle from her healing lips.

The stitches around her lips made it difficult for Beatrice to speak, so Agnes shared with us the details of Beatrice’ story. Beatrice had not experienced war injuries but she had been born with a cleft lip and palate and this had profoundly damaged her quality of life.

Reassurance

As Agnes spoke, Beatrice stared blankly at the ground. She seemed shy and even a little scared. Agnes pulled her close. She caressed her head and whispered a few words to her in Acholi, their local language. Beatrice smiled and appeared reassured.

After listening to her story, we explained the purpose of the video we were working on. We pulled out the reflectors, set up the tripod, opened some windows and began directing.

As we filmed, the Living Hope team leader and Agnes spoke to Beatrice making her feel at ease. But after a few minutes of shooting, she suddenly began to cry. We immediately stopped. We thought maybe we had approached her insensitively and briefing her had not been enough. Maybe she needed a little encouragement. I immediately asked the team leader to translate for me, but after a few minutes the team leader interrupted me to tell me that we weren’t the reason she was crying.

Phew, I thought at first. But then she explained that Beatrice was crying, because while we were shooting, she was told she would soon be returning home and this was harrowing news to her.

Going Home

Beatrice’s community associated her birth deformity with witchcraft. So when she was born, her mother gave her the Acholi name for “the cursed one.” Her mother abandoned her when she was young and her grandmother who is raising her, mistreats her. Even though she goes to school and has a home to sleep in, Beatrice didn’t grow up experiencing kindness and care.

And yet she seemed like such an innocent child. She had a shy smile and a sweet and gentle demeanor. For the last week Agnes had treated Beatrice like a daughter. She didn’t just nurse her wounds, she nurtured her heart.

Later that day Beatrice was transported to a recuperation center in Gulu and I thought I’d never see her again. But a week later James and I traveled to Gulu and while we were there, we visited the Living Hope recuperation center where women recover from their reconstructive surgeries or are prepared for their upcoming procedures.

Flourishing

As we pulled into the driveway and parked our car, we spotted Beatrice. When she recognized us, she sprinted towards us. And as soon as I was out of the car, she gave me a huge hug, her healing lips quivering as she tried to contain her smile. It was as if her experience with Agnes had unlocked something inside her and this was allowing her to flourish. I like to believe that the care and love she experienced will give her the hope she needs to persevere through difficult times. I can’t be certain what is going to happen to Beatrice, but my brief encounter with her has reminded me that sometimes the simplest, most uncomplicated acts of love and service–the type that Agnes demonstrated towards Beatrice by simply being there for her and treating her with dignity–can bring healing to people in ways that can surprise us.

I know a person can’t subsist solely on love, but love feeds hearts and helps people flourish. Love and acceptance can help a person conquer her fears and reach her potential.

We all experience pain, but there are so many people in this world who are hurting alone. There are people out there who are seldom noticed and are isolated from their community. As I was thinking about Beatrice and many others like her, this documentary, A Way Out, came to mind:

A Way Out – documentary (2010) from Noora Shalaby on Vimeo.

I am reminded of the impact Love has on a person and how we should never take an encouraging word, a squeeze of the hand or an embrace for granted.
____________________________________________________________

So, beautiful SheLoves friends, what are your thoughts?

• What speaks to you in this post?
• Have you experienced or witnessed the impact that a simple act of love can have on a person?

____________________________________________________________

About Stephanie:
Stephanie is a humanitarian and portrait photographer for fakeleft.com where she shares stories of hope and dignity. She blogs at fakeleft.com/blog and tweets at @stephmotz

TGIF: 3 “A-Ha Moments” in the Aftermath of Running My First Half-Marathon

On ginger tea, the ugly cry, sista-friends and a few good men.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“I’d like to see your sweet face today!” I chirped on Idelette’s Facebook wall early Monday morning. “We need to process, unpack and revel.”

Idelette or Idli (as I like to call her) came over a little past noon on a rainy Monday afternoon. Now this wasn’t your average Monday visit. It was the Monday after conquering this behemoth undertaking.

We reflected over our 14-week “SheLoves Half-Marathon,” journey sipping on steaming cups of ginger tea, freshly cut mangoes, a homemade plum torte and banana chips. I’d hoped that spending time with her would give me words to define the full range of emotions I was feeling. We murmured the word “wow” a lot and smiled. Sip. I looked at the carelessly-strewn blue ribbon medal on my desk. It said, “Half-Marathon Runner.” Wow. On what parallel universe was I a half-marathon runner? Words couldn’t give shape to the enormity of what we were both feeling.

Sip.

I can always find words to express what I’m feeling but …

This was different.
This was significant.
This was sacred.

We had trained, toiled and triumphed. Mission accomplished. It’s hard to put into words what we (38 women + Josh) accomplished on Sunday, but if a picture tells a thousand words, then I think my entire half-marathon experience can be summed up in this one picture:

This is me, sobbing in my sister’s arms seconds after crossing the finish line. This wasn’t a polite sniff. A sentimental misty-eye. A feel-good teardrop.

This was a raw heart cry that emerged gushed out of the most tender part of my soul. If I weren’t crying in my sister’s arms, I would’ve probably been on my hands and knees, forehead to the ground, rocking myself back and forth weeping. This was me: stripped naked, head-spinning, heart-pounding, pushed to the very edge of my physical capacity and emotional sanity.

I had listened to the still small voice in my heart.
I had finished what I set out to do.
I had given it all.

In talking with my friend Kelley over Skype this week, I realized that a part of why I crying was because I could feel God’s incredible pleasure wash over me in that moment. So many times in the past I’ve procrastinated, taken the easy road and given up. For once in my life I kept my word, followed through and finished strong.

While I could talk about a million different things from the experience, here are the top three a-ha moments in the aftermath of running my first half-marathon:

1. Go fierce (big) or go home.

Meet my friend Njoki. I love this picture of us hugging just as she crossed the finish line! I want you to take a moment to look at her face. Go on. Scroll up. I’ll wait.

Primal, raw and fierce.

What you don’t know about the picture is that Njoki’s knee popped out of its socket at the 14km mark. This hardcore woman ran seven kilometers on a bum knee! She is such a fighter. I’ve mentioned this quote on TGIF before: “The difference between try and triumph is a little umph.” Njoki, gave it her umph alright. She ran across that line Saving Private Ryan style. In order to live a great life, to write a grand story, to leave behind a legacy you have to be fiercely committed to unleash the ferocious lioness within. And hey … if you need a solid cry later? We can hug it out over Ben & Jerry’s and watch Grey’s.

Lukewarm, mellow and laid-back can’t change the world. Fierce, relentless and a touch of crazy,  just might. 

2. Sisterhood is powerful.

At the 17km mark my left leg started to seriously cramp up. My calves were rock hard like coconuts. Every step was excruciating and to be honest, I didn’t know how I was going to finish. Enter stage right, a mini battalion of sista-friends. 

When the girls saw me struggling to reach the finish line they ran out to support me. This of course made me so emotional I started to do the ugly cry, which is incidentally why I’m covering my face. Hearing your friends say predictable things in times of distress is strangely comforting. Words like, “Go Tina”, “You’re almost there” and “You’re a rockstar!” were crucial to my finishing the race.

We all need someone in our corner. We need someone who believes in us. We need someone to chant, “You’re almost there.” We need to be the kind of girls who cheer each other across the finish line of life. Note to self: Show up for someone else today. *insert customary girl power anthem here: “We are a family, I’ve got all my sisters with me …” *

3. Good men are not an urban myth.

This is a picture of my friend Jenna’s mom and dad. I love that her dad is hugging his wife with one arm and documenting her victory with the other. Who says men can’t multi-task?

After race-day my Facebook newsfeed has had a steady stream of “likes,” comments and notifications regarding the half-marathon. My favourite status updates, however, have been from men bragging on their wives. Reading things like: “My wife is my hero;” “My wife just ran 21km. Boom!”; “I want to be just like my wife when I grow up,” make me want to break out into a tribal dance to the heavens.

While 38 women celebrated this physical and spiritual victory, about 38 men (give or take a few) took pictures, recorded video, watched babies, held jackets, carried towels, parked cars, distributed hugs and stood proudly on the sidelines. Giving my dad a hug before starting my last kilometer recharged me in a way that I can’t explain.

Husbands, sons and brothers rallied around their warrior womenfolk.

Isn’t this what God intended? Men who are strengthened, not intimidated, by women kicking butt at life. Men who cheer women across the finish line of life. Men who believe that women can shape culture, history and generations.

Men and women standing side by side, changing the world, one step at a time.

Sunday (bloody Sunday) was beautiful proof that it’s possible.

It’s out there, man … I’ve seen it …

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Here’s a look back at our 14-week journey:

1. The Risky Business of Changing the World
2. What I Learned About World Peace from JFK, Titanic and Miss Congeniality
3. What Training for a Half-Marathon is Teaching me about Writing
4. The Yellow T-Shirt that Taught Me to Love my Thunder Thighs
5. Why is Beyonce Giving Me Mixed Signals?
6. Are you a Lone Nut or a Leader?
7. I Broke My iPhone But Life is Still Pretty Awesome
8. I’m Coming Out and I Want the World to Know
9. How a Cardboard Pirate Ship Helped Me Realize That My Life Had Come Full Circle
10. One Wedding, Two Friends and Learning to Let Go
11. Girl Meets Boy, Freaks “The-Heck-Out” and Runs Away. The End.
12. How I Learned to Savour My Charlie Brown Moment?
13. Our 14 Favourite “PowerSongs”: Anthems for the Battle of the Hamstrings vs. Heartstrings
14. The Final Countdown: On exquisite blueberry tarts, epic writer’s block and savouring the moment.

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So my SheLoves peeps, I have three thoughts this week:

1. Have you had a “Go fierce or go home” moment? When was the last time you gave 100% to something?

2. Can you think of a difficult season in your life when a sister helped you across the “finish line” of life? Is there a girl in your world that you need to show up for? Dig deep.

3. What are your views on men and women working together to change the future? Are you encouraged or disheartened by the current state of gender wars? Are we making progress or losing ground, according to you? I’d be curious to hear your thoughts.

And if you have been following our journey and not yet given to this incredible cause, we’d love for you to be part of this beautiful story we are all writing together. It’s not too late to give! Donate: HERE!

Love you more than the bacon cheeseburger and yam fries I inhaled after the race,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

SheLoves Half-Marathon for Living Hope
- How it all got started? Read the story: HERE

- Donate: HERE

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

What Does Running a Half-Marathon with Your Sisters Look Like?

On hugs, sweat ‘n tears.

Photos by Brandi-Lee Doucette and friends | Twitter: @brandilee1
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It’s hard to put into words what we (38 women + Josh) accomplished yesterday. It’s hard to give expression to the strength and camaraderie we saw yesterday as we supported and suffered (yes, it was hard) on behalf of our sisters in Northern Uganda. Stiff knees, sore hamstrings, purple toes and seizing hips seem insignificant compared to what some of our sisters have endured. We are laughing and crying, because yesterday “the good guys” won for a change.

Thirty-eighty women in our world have come alive. Our Facebook newsfeed is proof of that. There is a steady stream of “likes,” notes, comments, pictures, tweets and emails flying around. Our friends and family have rallied so beautifully around this cause—there’s something about a company of women rising up to be the change that sets hearts ablaze and moves others to mobilize too.

We hope these pictures communicate some of the very big emotion of our day.

We love you more than carbo-loading before race day,
xoxo
Teen + Idelette