My first time sleeping with another woman was a one night stand. I met her in Dublin’s most iconic gay bar, The George, and I was completely infatuated. She carried herself with the most intoxicating confidence, dressed in an ’80s-style two-piece denim outfit and a striped button-up shirt. She came alone, while I had arrived with a large group of friends. This didn’t matter—she seemed to know everybody in the bar. She was what my older queer friends would have described as a real “power lesbian.”

Before we made our way home together, she asked me twice if I was “Sure I liked women” because I “looked straight.” There was nothing stereotypically “gay-looking” about me. I reassured her that while I did find men attractive, I liked women too. “Oh, you’re… Bisexual,” she remarked in a sardonic tone, rolling her eyes.

When we slept together, afterwards she lay next to me and sarcastically asked “So, are you still bisexual then?” as if my one night encounter with her would have affected who else I could potentially be attracted to. It reminded me of how homophobic straight men often tell lesbians “You just haven’t found the right man yet.” Noticing how uncomfortable her question had made me, she quickly laughed it off as a silly drunken joke, and we drifted off to sleep.

I Convinced Myself I Wasn’t a Lesbian
theestablishment.co

Looking back now, I regret sleeping with someone who was so patronizing. But from my experience, gay people being dismissive of bisexuality is a lot more common than one might expect.

I was always most nervous about telling the straight people in my life about the girls I was dating. I presumed, naturally, that my LGBTQ+ friends would be the most understanding and accepting of my bisexuality. But when I told one of my best friends (a gay man in his twenties) that I had begun dating girls, he laughed and said “Oh my god, no! I hate the idea of you sleeping with a woman.” He insinuated that I must have been in a somewhat confused mental state, following my breakup with my ex-boyfriend a few months prior to coming out.

Conversely, my heterosexual mother handled it better than any gay person in my life. I casually slipped into conversation that I had gone on a date with a girl and her response was astonishingly simple and ideal: “Cool, was she nice?” There was no taxing or upsetting conversation. Nothing to explain or defend. I told myself that the gay people in my life had only reacted this way because they were used to me exclusively dating men for so long, that they were adjusting to my coming out just as straight people were. But it was far from being all in my head.

He insinuated that I must have been in a somewhat confused mental state, following my breakup with my ex-boyfriend a few months prior to coming out.
Click To Tweet

In September 2013, a prominent lesbian YouTuber, Arielle Scarcella, published a video entitled “What Lesbians Think About Bisexuals.” She asked several gay women to describe bisexuals in one word. The first woman answered with “Greedy.” Other responses included “Confused,” “Messy,” and “Rare- it’s a rare unicorn kind of thing.”

She then asked them to imagine themselves in the following fictional situation: “You’re at a lesbian party. You look across the room and see the hottest girl at the party. You walk up to her, and it turns out she’s bisexual. What’s the first thought that pops into your head?”

“That’s so unfortunate,” one of the women replied, implying that bisexuality is a major deterrent for lesbians. Sometimes, even women who sexually identify as lesbian are judged for sleeping with men prior to coming out. “Gold star” lesbians—women who have never had sex with a man—are held in high esteem within the lesbian community.

This is because unfortunately, society is still wired to think that sexuality is a limited thing, when truthfully it’s incredibly fluid and for many, it takes time to “figure it out.” Therefore, implying that bisexuality is a “phase” and that monosexuality is mandatory only makes things more confusing for someone who might be figuring it out, or who otherwise would be perfectly content identifying as bisexual.

On Finding Pride While Having Faith
theestablishment.co

A study conducted by the intimate toy website Adam & Eve found that out of 1,000 people over the age of 18-years-old, 47% of respondents had no intention of ever dating a bisexual person, 19% were undecided, and only 35% were open to it.

While the study did not ask participants to state their sexual orientation, it’s clear that bi-erasure and biphobia exists within the LGBTQ+ community and not just outside of it. Why is it that some lesbians and gay men tend to exclude bisexual people from their dating pool?

According to a study published in the journal Psychology of Sexual Orientation and Gender Diversity, this could be linked to the fact that people generally perceive bisexuals as being more attracted to men than they are to women. Bisexual women in particular are perceived as only sleeping with women for “fun” or to arouse heterosexual men, who often fetishize sex between women. The research shows that lesbian women had a more negative attitude toward bisexual women than bisexual men or gay men.

It is often implied that coming out as bisexual is a stepping-stone for coming out as gay. While some people have come out as bisexual before coming out as gay (for instance, Elton John), using bisexuality to test the homophobic waters is unfair to both people who identify as bisexual and to homosexuals. It’s a symptom of a larger problem, a clear indication of cultural homophobia—it implies that being bisexual is somehow more acceptable than being gay, a “safer” way to identify even if it’s not the truth. Yet bisexuality is not widely understood or accepted either, and using bisexuality as a stop-gap identity only furthers the assumption that bisexuals are lying about who we are. We are considered too promiscuous, incapable of fidelity, or too “risky” to date in case we’re merely going through some sort of experimental phase.

Using bisexuality as a stop-gap identity only furthers the assumption that bisexuals are lying about who we are.
Click To Tweet

These generalizations and misconceptions are both entirely unfounded and downright tiring. Society expects us to confine our attractions to one gender, but would shun us for limiting our attractions and having a “type” when it comes to race, or height, or hair color, etc. In reality it comes down to a fear of rejection. Lesbians fear being rejected for a man, and straight men fear being rejected for a woman. The idea that we are fickle and neglectful is ridiculous and there is no research to support it. Many bisexuals are happy to be in and even seek out committed monogamous relationships. Not to mention, rejection can occur in any relationship, regardless of the sexuality of the couple. Therefore, the fear of being rejected for the opposite sex while dating a bisexual person is entirely irrational.

Reducing a full human being to this handful of derogatory adjectives is unacceptable. We are all gloriously unique, no matter where we fall on the spectrum. When the legitimacy of bisexuality is questioned and challenged in such a way, it prevents or delays many bisexual people from coming out. Some of the comments from bisexual people on Scarcella’s video included “This broke my heart” and “This actually made me cry because I’m bi.”

What’s even worse is that bisexual people are actually more likely to suffer from depression, anxiety, or suicidal ideation than lesbian, gay, or heterosexual people. Ethan Mereish, one of the lead authors of an American University Study on the specific stressors bisexual people encounter, said that “Bisexual people face double discrimination in multiple settings—bisexual people are often invisible, rejected, invalidated, [and] stigmatised in the heterosexual community as well as the traditional LGBTQ communities.”

Part of the disdain for bisexuality among some of the lesbian and gay community no doubt comes from the fact that bisexuals benefit from straight-passing privilege. Prior to coming out as bisexual, I was in a long-term monogamous relationship with a man, and I decided not to address my bisexuality at all because of the relationship.

Admittedly, things are a whole lot easier when you are dating someone of the opposite sex. There is never a need to be acutely aware of who might be looking at you when you hold hands or kiss in public. There are no intrusive questions at social gatherings about who plays what role in the relationship, or how sex works between you, or whether you know this one particular “other lesbian” who lives in the same very large city as you (all of which I have subsequently experienced since beginning to date women).

Straight-passing relationships are simply more convenient, and there is no real “need” to come out. Except the fact that you are concealing an important part of your own identity and constantly feel as though you aren’t being truly honest with your partner.

Is My Friend Still Bisexual? A Handy Guide
theestablishment.co

On numerous occasions, my ex directly asked me about my sexuality. I had the opportunity to come out to him, but I didn’t feel ready. I was afraid that dating a bisexual person would be something that a straight man might also be against. Of course, I was wrong to think that. When I reflect on the relationship now, I believe he would have accepted me for who I am. Regardless, I have come to be proud of my sexuality and I know that there are plenty of people who are welcoming of bisexuals in their dating pool.

I don’t personally know any bisexual person who would claim that we are more harshly judged or discriminated against than gay couples. This is not the Oppression Olympics. Much of the LGBTQ+ community faces unfortunate and unnecessary discrimination.

Rather than debating about who has it worse, let’s acknowledge that it can feel terribly stifling and painful to be unable to speak or act openly about your sexual identity. Let’s do better for the bisexual community. Let’s increase bi-visibility in books and television, and decrease biphobia by educating ourselves on misconceptions about bisexuality, and become the best possible allies we can be. Now is the time for action and solidarity. We need  allyship year-round, not just during Pride month.

Last Saturday morning my friend and I were having a WhatsApp debrief on the sex we’d had the night before. As we shared our favorite flashbacks, I was surprised to see a picture pop up in our chat. Of me. And another friend.

“Oh! There are pictures?!” I said.

“Hope you don’t mind!” he replied. Flanked by a smiley face emoji.

Now. I like taking sexy pictures and I like having them taken. I enjoy sending and receiving them, both in anticipation and in retrospect. So no, in many ways, I didn’t mind. But what made him assume I’d be cool with this digital documentation? We had talked about our work and he knew I wrote about sex for a living.

Was it possible he’d taken that to mean I was down for anything?

“I didn’t know you’d taken photos,” I tapped back. “In the future I’d rather you didn’t do that without checking.”

“Of course, sorry,” came the response. “I can delete them if you want.”

“No, it’s OK,” I said. The pictures weren’t really the problem (plus, I liked having them). It was more important to me to set the boundary and have him acknowledge it.

“Overall, I had a really good time,” I added. “Yes,” agreed my friend. “Thanks for being so game!”

Game? I suddenly felt like my response was being read as acquiescence.

This wasn’t the first time my general open mindedness had been used against me. “I thought you were sex-positive?!” one partner had leveled at me when I expressed disinterest in a particular kink. I’d like to tell you I brushed it (and him) off, but I admit it—he made me doubt myself.

For me, sex positivity is about consent and communication. It means being open and informed; it has never meant an obligation to experiment or push boundaries. As far as I’m concerned, the decision not to have sex is just as sex positive as the decision to have sex, as long as it’s done consensually and without judgement or shame.

But not everyone interprets it that way.

The term “sex positive” is attributed to Austrian psychoanalyst Willhem Reich, who hypothesized an alternative society to the prohibitive, “sex negative” culture that dominated early 20th century Europe. In the 1980s, sex positivity came to prominence as a response to the anti-porn campaigns led in the U.S. by Andrea Dworkin and the radical feminist Women Against Pornography group.

The rad-fems argued that, amongst other things, “intercourse is the pure, sterile, formal expression of men’s contempt for women,” which prompted writer Ellen Willis to question whether the message of feminism at the time was really any different to that of the right-wing abstinence movement.

In her 1981 essay “Lust Horizons: Is the women’s movement pro-sex?” she argued that instead of viewing porn as inherently misogynistic, women could use it to learn about their own sexual desires. After all, she wrote, “the purpose of women’s liberation is to liberate women, not defend our superior capacity for abstinence.”

What she termed “pro-sex” was the beginning of the sex positive movement, which cultural anthropologist Gayle Rubin described as “an exciting, innovative, and articulate defense of sexual pleasure and erotic justice.”

These days the definition is broader, but also more heavily debated. The International Society for Sexual Medicine defines sex positivity as “having positive attitudes about sex, feeling comfortable with one’s own sexual identity and the sexual behaviors of others.”

Others see participation as a crucial part. Author and activist Allena Gabosch talks about sex positivity as “an attitude […] that regards all consensual sexual activities as fundamentally healthy and pleasurable, and encourages sexual pleasure and experimentation.”

Meanwhile in mainstream media, sex positivity is focused on “improving” and “spicing up” our sex lives.

For people who find sex difficult, dysfunctional, or who are opting out altogether, this message is at best alienating and at worst dehumanizing.

Ginger, an asexual, trans non-binary person who contacted me via Twitter, said: “Most people who use ‘sex positive’ use it to mean ‘sex is a Good Thing.’ This can leave ace people feeling isolated or excluded.”

Dr. Meg-John Barker—academic, activist, and writer specializing in sex and relationships—agrees there is too much emphasis placed on the relationship between plentiful sex and good health:

“People feel pressured to have sex they don’t want and to do sex acts they aren’t really into. That’s a problem for both consent and pleasure because forcing yourself to do something you don’t really want to do is an excellent way of turning you off sex completely.”

Laura, who blogs about low sex drive on her website Sexponential, found that much sex-positive advice is centered around increasing the frequency of sex, something she found counterproductive.

“I was advised to try scheduling sex. But the day would come and I just felt this dread. I felt so much pressure to perform. People see me as an ‘empowered woman’ so they just assumed I was having an amazing sex life. I didn’t feel like I had anyone I could talk to.”

This feeling was echoed by the founders of The Vaginismus Network, a community to support and connect women who have vaginismus, a condition that causes pain during vaginal penetration.

“You feel resentful when people are talking about their amazing sex lives. I used to go to the bar to get drinks or I’d go to the toilet to excuse myself,” co-founder Kat said. “It’s great to be able to talk about having sex and not be shocked. But if someone says actually I hate sex and it’s painful, that shouldn’t shock you either. That shouldn’t be shameful.”

Sex positivity is an attitude that regards all consensual sexual activities as fundamentally healthy and pleasurable.
Click To Tweet

Even in sex-positive subcultures, where mainstream ideas of heterosexual, monogamous, vanilla sex are rejected, other kinds of sex often take their place and the pressure to participate can be just as strong.

“Often in queer, poly, and kink communities their approaches seem to be that their sex is good because it is a radical act,” said Ginger.

This is what Rubin referred to as the “hierarchical valuation of sex acts.” But, wrote Rubin, “it is just as objectionable to insist that everyone should be lesbian, non-monogamous, or kinky, as to believe that everyone should be heterosexual, married, or vanilla.”

While researching this piece I was stunned by the stories I heard from my own sex-positive communities. One friend told me about a club where by entering you consented to whatever happened inside. Another told me about declining to have sex with someone at a kinky party only to be told, “you can’t reject me, we don’t do that here.” Yet another talked of being shamed for having a gender preference and told to be “open to different experiences.”

In queer feminist zine FUCKED, one anonymous author explains:

 “Party spaces are never sexually appealing to me. I resent not having the option to opt out of these things and still feel safe, feel like a part of the community.”

Barker says this is not uncommon. “These kinds of spaces can be particularly bad because sex positivity can give people implicit permission to be creepy and non-consensual, suggesting that everybody in those spaces should be ‘up for it.’”

The pressure to be or be seen as sex positive is almost as damaging as the sex-negative messages it is supposed to challenge. So what can we do about it?

“It’s really important that we develop a culture where it is just as acceptable not to feel sexual as it is to feel sexual,” says Barker. This idea is explored in their latest book, co-authored with sex educator Justin Hancock: Enjoy Sex: How, when and IF you want to.

“We’re all supposed to love sex, to be really experimental, and to have incredible orgasms,” they write. “In this book we’re trying to get away from the sex-negative and sex-positive messages to find a kinder way in which we can all approach sex and enjoy it if we want to.”

Sarah Beilfuss is co-founder of London-based sex-positive women’s community Scarlet Ladies. She decided to temporarily abstain from sex after she was raped. She hasn’t had sex with a partner for over a year and sees this as in keeping with sex-positive values.

“People assume sex positive means you have lots of sex. I see it as being empowered to do what you want and need and for me that was going abstinent. In Scarlet Ladies there are several women who’ve taken a step back from sex. Being sex positive should mean that you have your boundaries firmly in place, know what you want, and are comfortable saying no as well as yes.”

Setting boundaries isn’t always easy, but if it fosters better consent and communication, what can I say? I’m game.

Identities are important. They help us define who we are, and understand our place in the world. But sometimes, those very same identities exist as diametrically opposing forces within us; they are a juxtaposition that sends ripping cracks through our very idea of selfhood, leaving us confused, isolated, and bound in inner conflict.

And that’s how I felt for many, many years. Jewish. Lesbian. Lesbian. Jewish. I was both, and that made me feel like neither.

From one community I hear, “how can you be a part of a religion that hates your very existence?” while the other says, “how can you be a part of a group that G-d would not approve of?”

And so I’ve teetered on the edge of both worlds; finding pride in both my faith and my sexuality has been a long, arduous road to reconciliation.

At 13 I came out—for the first time—but at a fairly religious school (as you can expect) it was not accepted with open arms flung wide. I distinctly remember the moment it happened. During a history lesson, we had trailed into a dangerous discussion of homosexuality. The usual comments, slurs, and noises of disgust echoed around the room. I couldn’t take it. Years of anger, angst, and self-hatred burst forth and formed the words that blurted from my mouth: “I’m gay.”

What came next is a blur. But the moment those two words left my lips, my world changed.

Although there were those who stood by me, I had the usual mix of rejection, name-calling, and in one particularly unfortunate episode, a petition by some of my peers to get me expelled. Old Testament verses of corporal punishment were frequently quoted during discussions of my sexuality at school alongside other students and in the Synagogue with sermons; my fate of eternal damnation was certified, and attempts to save my soul through prayer were lovingly given.

But in truth, the harshest criticism, and the most vile disgust and hatred, came from none other than myself. Every night I would pray to G-d to make me straight, to make me like the way a boy’s hoodie smelled when he gave it to me if I was cold, to make me feel enticed by the way stubble rubbed against my cheek, to make me normal. I didn’t understand, why me.

Black Women Freethinkers Take On Religion
theestablishment.co

If G-d loves all his children, why would he make me so detestable? I used to sit on the floor of my kitchen, tears flooding my face, feeling painfully torn in two directions. Knowing who you are is supposed to be a beautiful thing, a moment of epiphany and realization and calm.

But for me, knowing who I was was to be tormented.

Over the next four years, through deep conversations, debates, and determination, many came around and embraced my sexuality, including those who had previously shunned or questioned me; they loved the sinner despite the sin.

But for me to truly learn to love myself and accept my sexuality, it took far longer. I went along with the usual playground flirtations and games, the adolescent dance of sloppy kisses at parties, the dates over drinks and food 18 year-olds think is fancy. I was in and out of the closet so much that people believed I’d found Narnia.

Those around me just couldn’t understand; how I could be so vocal in asking for acceptance from others, but couldn’t find the same acceptance from within? In truth, until I was 19 (six years after I first came out, and 12 years from the time I first realized who I was), I couldn’t understand this internal dichotomy either.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment where I finally found my peace. It’s an amalgamated feeling of foggy memories of finally finding love—slipping my hand into my girlfriend’s felt right, not wrong—throwing handfuls of sweaty glitter onto Pride floats, and hours of RuPaul’s Drag Race. Seeing all the joy, beauty, and goodness people felt within themselves because of their sexuality, and not in spite of it, made me question what could be so awful about feeling the way I did.

I recognized that I didn’t have to make a choice anymore — my Judaism and my sexuality were equally valid aspects and wants of my heart. I suppose I finally believed the old adage that tells you to follow it.

I was in and out of the closet so much people believed I’d found Narnia.
Click To Tweet

My story is not unique. It is one that plays out in churches, mosques, synagogues, and places of worship across the world. Coming out is never easy, but coming out within the context of religion adds another layer to the struggle. Individuals who are both religious and LGBT+ face the prospect of an entire community that they grew up with turning their backs on them, of being cast out and criticized.

Pride means something different to those who face these particular threats. So, I asked people who identify as both having faith and as LGBT+ to share their experiences, and what Pride means to them.

Rowan, 18, FTM, Christian

“I’ve received a lot of criticism — I’ve had people tell me that they ‘disagree’ with my identity. It just so happens that growing up in a Christian community meant that most of the people I came out to first were childhood friends I knew via the church. These people always made it very clear that their opinion of my identity didn’t affect how much they cared about me—even if it hurts—and that counts for something I suppose.

I never personally had any doubts that God loved me under justifications that He doesn’t make mistakes. If I’ve been made like this, it’s a path he wants me to take, and I can use my body in a way that honors Him through becoming the person He wants me to be . . .

But there was always the thought in the back of my mind that I was twisting the Bible’s words to make me feel better about my situation. Talking to other people who shared my faith—or at least who had a faith and so understood my experience—made it a lot easier for me to reconcile my sexual/gender identity without feeling guilty at all.

When Spiritual Leaders Abuse
theestablishment.co

I do feel proud of both of my identities, kind of more so because I have both identities—like, there’s often stereotypes of people with a faith/religion hating queer people and queer people in return being intolerant of faith groups, and it’s nice to think that I can be open minded on both sides.

Pride should be a celebration of inclusivity and tolerance, so it would be unfair of me or anyone else to allow my faith to prevent me from enjoying it.”

Brian, 21, Bisexual, Christian:

“The most rejection I’ve faced has been from my parents, and the Afrikaans church that they’re a part of. My parents don’t accept my sexuality; they say that they pray for me to stop being gay every day and refuse to be a part of my life with my partner.

Religion to some people is something very beautiful, but to others it is something very harmful. Because I have understood what it means to be rejected by a religion, I find Pride is a concept that means a lot to me; it means I’m saying I’m not going to let any institution tell me that what I am isn’t okay. I take pride in the fact that me and others share in a large experience of rejection. Religion for me informs my pride.

Religion has meant that people aren’t willing to consider what it actually means to be gay, and for a lot of religious communities being gay is not accepted and it’s a fairly common experience amongst LGBT+ globally that they find it difficult to come out or they’re completely rejected by their community. For me and those people, Pride means something powerful: I’m proud of who I am, I’m proud of my chosen family.”

Qaisar, 30, Queer, Muslim:

“Pride is not only the opposite of shame; it’s the opposite of invisibility, erasure, and silence. To be a queer Muslim during Pride month is about voraciously affirming one’s own existence against a backdrop of religiously-motivated homophobia, and against the virulent Islamophobia and racism that underlines many Western queer spaces and movements.

Online and in the books of bearded Saudi-funded clerics, you can find a million ways to spell out your hell-bound journey. But my own experience in real life has been remarkably serene; I am lucky to have a family that for the most part—though with difficulty—has accepted my sexual orientation, and have further found allies within my own community networks. Granted, there have been plenty of friendly and unfriendly debates on the reconciliation between faith and sexual orientation or gender identity, but oftentimes I have found being Muslim in queer spaces a greater challenge than the reverse.

Pride is not only the opposite of shame; it’s the opposite of invisibility, erasure, and silence.
Click To Tweet

Firstly, that the history of Islam and the Muslim world — the orientalist geography of the term notwithstanding — is replete with orientations and identities wholly alien to modern heteronormative ideals, and queer life has found expressions in Islamic cultures from Persia, to Morocco, to India and Indonesia.

Secondly, I have found like-minded Muslims from across the LGBTQI+ spectrum with whom to build affirming community groups, discussion circles, and prayer spaces, and in doing so, shatter the false fantasy shared by Islamic conservatives and LGBT secularists; you can’t be gay and Muslim.”

Masha, 24, Bisexual, Roman Catholic:

“I grew up in Russia, where the majority of believers belong to the Russian Orthodox Church. However, my family background is partly Polish and Lithuanian, therefore, at the age of 9, I was christened into the Roman Catholic Church and had been a member since. This period covers most of my experience growing up, as well as exploring my sexuality and coming to peace with it.

I slowly realized that I may not be totally heterosexual around the age of 15. As I was a devoted Catholic, I had a mini-breakdown a couple months before my Confirmation, but had no one to talk about it with at the Church or in my family. I went to confession and asked forgiveness for kissing a girl—among other things—skipping class and smoking a cigarette.

The Ugly Hypocrisy And Islamophobia Of My Birthright Trip To Israel
theestablishment.co

Finally, a little while later, at one of the services during the homily, a priest said, “one should not come to the confession if they are not truly sorry about their sins, and shouldn’t come to the communion unless they have committed something extremely bad.” Personally, I didn’t feel particularly bad about loving another person and although I knew it was a sin, I did not feel it was extremely bad; in all other parts of my life I acted like an “OK” Christian.

In a way, Pride for me is to know who I am, and not be ashamed of it. With Christian morals, it is also important to me to be a good, kind, and forgiving person. I believe that, no matter what, the way you treat people is always more meaningful than who you are attracted to. I am always glad to see religious organizations and charities taking part in Pride marches and I feel that in general, we as humanity are moving in the right direction.”

As a community, we’ve all faced rejection, isolation, and the external, internal, and eternal struggle of finding acceptance from others and from ourselves. But, as the above stories show, despite the darkness there are glimmers and bright glares of hope, acceptance, and love to be found and to be proud about. Watching this year’s Pride celebrations around the world, I think I finally understand what that word means.

In the Talmud, the sacred text of Judaism, there is a story of Hillel, a sage scholar said to be associated with the holy book’s development—one of the most important figures in Jewish history. He came across a gentile who demanded that the entire Talmud be explained to him while standing on one foot. Hillel simply replied:

“What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow: this is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary.”

Love, kindness, and social justice are the beating heart of the Jewish faith, and of many other religions; these virtues should be given freely no matter how a person identifies. We are all deserving subjects of the Lord’s love.

I’m Jewish, and I’m a lesbian. I can be both. I am both. I will always be both. The internal divisions have healed, even if the scars are still there — and I endeavor to live a life that G-d would be proud of.