the blog is broken: taking up space

I’ve been searching for a long time a way that I can fit into the world — without making too much noise, without stirring the pan so much that the fried potatoes mush together, without taking up space.

My hope in this journey was that I’d find or curate a community of people who wanted the same thing in life, to be their authentic selves and feel less alone in what they’d been going through — without taking up space.

I realized it’s impossible to truly be who you are as a person and take up no space at all.

It’s probably a trauma response that I would resort to this — pretending to be A-OK when I was, indeed, itchy or hurt or uncomfortable. I’ve worn a mask my whole freaking life to avoid being chastised and patronized, lectured and humiliated — all because I was simply incapable of reading between the lines or automatically grasping common sense or taught to feel nothing.

I wasn’t allowed to cry after spankings, wasn’t allowed to reject pulling down my pants and showing my stepfather my panty-clad butt, wasn’t allowed to yell or make a peep when I stumbled and hit my toe.

I was the girl in class who, even when she bumped her hip on the corner of a student desk to sit down, would hide the pain. I was the girl who told herself that it was fine, to ignore it, to hold in those tears and mentally numb the pain.

I was the girl who never learned anything more about periods than the bare minimum — hide them from boys, be embarrassed, wear pads. I didn’t know how to carry and conceal them, or how often to change them. I didn’t know how to avoid accidents, and the school nurses reprimanded me for having periods so heavy that, when I did learn how to carry them, I ran out of my supply. Thusly, I was also the girl who — ever since her first period — would have bloody pants, shorts and skirts every. single. period.

For years.

For years, I was that girl.

Like that girl, I’ve hidden that part of myself from everyone, tucked her into a room in the headspace with those memories. Anyone who knew me back then may remember, but we likely have two different stories — them, the story of the girl who never knew when she got her period and the poster child for “free bleeding”; me, the actual girl who was really just abused, neglected, gaslit and infantilized until she converted to reusable menstrual products circa 2014 and no longer bled through her pants in public.

This is not another cliché reinvention post you’ve seen from us many times prior.

It’s more of a statement, a coming out.

The general consensus with bloggers-turned-influencers is that you have to niche down, but what I’ve found in the midst of my three-month-long TikTok/Reels binging is less about the niche and more about just being they’re real freaking selves. You find your people by expressing yourself more and filtering yourself less.

So, hej. I’m Izzy. Also Jane. Sometimes, this body uses other names. We prefer the Swedish hej over hey because it looks cooler, less boring and sounds the same. We love tea, collect more books than we read, have a 3mo tortoiseshell kitten named Galaxy and are so over the feel of working for our right to live until we die, in an unfulfilling job that goes against our morals — because we’re autistic, so we’ve a strong sense of justice and high standards for compassion. I’m more passionate about helping other people grow their followings more than growing my own, but have recently started attempting to do that with mine (even though it’s taboo to admit).

Recent special interests include home decor and vanlife. I’d love to buy a house in a rural area with a couple bedrooms to decorate for specific special interests. I also low-key am looking into determining if Galaxy and I could do the vanlife even if only for half a year (after my 18mo lease, of course). I don’t see myself posting much about the latter anytime soon.

If you’re also into spending more time hoarding books than you’ll read, cats, pursuing your dreams and you don’t care what other people do so long as it isn’t hurting anyone, stick around.

No trauma bonding, though. 😉