Is It a Privilege to Pee?

Apparently, yes! ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

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Gaetz, Hegseth, and RFK. Oh my!

 

There's still time to melt Trump's wicked witches ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

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Do We Need to Worry About Susie Wiles and Elise Stefanik? Um. Yeah.

 

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"Was It Foolish to Hope?"

Honest talk after a painful loss ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

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"I woke up worried for my daughter."

 

We reflect on this year's election ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

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I Was a Sexual-Assault Advocate Under Trump

Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. And no—we can’t go back

By Alisa Sieber

Imagine walking into your office every morning—a room where you’ve listened to countless survivors recount their stories, where the air is often heavy with the weight of trauma. You sit down at your desk, surrounded by the files of people who trusted you to advocate for them, only to look up and see a framed photograph of the leader of your organization—a man who was accused of sexual misconduct.

That was my reality. My commander-in-chief was Donald Trump, the man who openly boasted about grabbing women “by the pussy.” And suddenly, after January 2017, he was at the top of the military chain of command, overseeing everything including the very program where I served as a Sexual Assault Response Coordinator (SARC) in the Marine Corps.

How did I end up here, serving as a victim advocate under a president who openly bragged about violating women’s bodies?

At 17, I joined the Marine Corps on a parental waiver, seeking structure, belonging, and a way to overcome the depression and trauma I carried from past abuse. I had trusted the Corps to make me stronger than my pain, to help me become untouchable. But that trust was misplaced, and I found myself a victim of sexual assault within the organization I thought would protect me. The weight of these experiences grew heavier as I pushed myself harder, hoping the pain would fade.

Eventually, I became a C-130 pilot, flying logistical missions and supporting operations worldwide. Yet, despite my skills, I never felt I truly belonged in the cockpit. Constant pressure in a male-dominated field kept me perpetually on edge. Any sign of struggle was seen as weakness. I felt like I was breaking myself just to perform, overcompensating to hide everything I’d endured.

Midway through my career, I was assigned the role of victim advocate for the Department of Defense’s Sexual Assault Prevention and Response Program. I knew this role could trigger my own unreported trauma, but saying “no” wasn’t an option. Refusing would have disappointed my leadership, who wouldn’t have understood. And I knew survivors needed someone who truly cared, so I took the training to become a victim advocate during the 2016 election.

At that time, I never could have imagined that a perpetrator would rise to commander-in-chief. I had commissioned just as “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was repealed, and combat roles had opened to all genders—a glimpse of progress. I was idealistic, believing I could help survivors find the courage to report where I hadn’t, trusting they would be supported by leaders who upheld accountability and respect.

“Everything changed for me when I became a mother,” writes Sieber, here in 2017. (Photo courtesy of Alisa Sieber)

After Trump took office, the culture shifted dramatically. Frequent policy changes and inflammatory rhetoric created tension and uncertainty within units, blurring lines around acceptable behavior. Locker room talk, inappropriate jokes, and divisive comments on gender and sexual orientation reignited divisions we thought were behind us. And my own job got harder: How could we tell survivors they mattered when the man at the top dismissed responsibility and minimized identity, service, and assault? His actions sent a clear message: integrity was no longer a priority.

For survivors like me, that shift was painful. Each day, I worked closely with other military personnel who had survived violence—accompanying them to appointments, guiding them through the judicial process, and bearing witness to their stories. The hardest moments were sitting with them as they unraveled, recounting violations committed by those they trusted—often colleagues who wore the same uniform.

In those vulnerable moments, Trump’s photograph was more than an image. It was a symbol of abandonment, a message that survivors’ pain didn’t matter. Justice felt impossible in a system that seemed to be moving backward. Survivors who dared to speak up were often ostracized, while perpetrators faced minimal consequences.

Each story weighed heavily on me, reminding me daily that the system wasn’t built to save them—or me. By 2019, I left the military, hoping civilian life would lift that burden. But the pain followed. Outside the military, I found that people didn’t want to hear about the dark realities of service or the systemic failures that harm survivors. The same people who claimed to love their country would flip their flags upside down, dismissing my nine years of service because I didn’t share their values. For believing in empathy, justice, and accountability, my experience as a Marine—my skills, my sacrifices—seemed to mean nothing. Once again, I felt silenced. And that silence is not something I want my daughters to inherit.

As I began to share my experiences, other survivors—people I never expected—started opening up to me. One of the most profound moments came recently when my own mother shared a story I had never heard before. At 18, she was drugged, assaulted, and left pregnant. Raised in a strict religious household, she couldn’t turn to her family, fearing punishment. Instead, she found support at Planned Parenthood. If not for her courage, I wouldn’t be here today.

Her story brings everything full circle—showing how bodily autonomy shapes our lives. It reinforces for me that we need leadership grounded in empathy, not just power.

The fight for survivors of military sexual trauma is far from over. With threats like Project 2025 proposing cuts to veterans’ disability benefits, survivors who serve face even greater challenges—alongside active-duty women whose health care autonomy is already limited. 

We can’t allow that. I dream of a world where no survivor must live in the shadow of a predator. A world where all of us can stand openly in the light, safe and valued. And we can make that world possible when we vote.

 

 

Alisa Sieber is a Marine Corps veteran, former C-130 pilot, and Sexual Assault Response Coordinator (SARC) who served under the Trump administration. Today she is a writer and advocate, she uses her voice to shed light on the systemic challenges survivors face and the importance of leadership that truly values human dignity.

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Her life-saving abortion would have been a "crime"

 

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How Much Do You Know About Menopause?

A new documentary might teach you things about your own body that your doctor won’t.

By Vivian Manning-Schaffel

The migraines, joint pain, night sweats, and debilitating brain fog began in my mid-forties. With two young children to keep up with, there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make me feel present. I had an inkling I might be perimenopausal, but no one—not even my OB/GYN at the time—sat me down and told me what I was experiencing was normal, let alone offered me treatment options.

I, for one, would’ve greatly appreciated if a new documentary, The M Factor: Shredding the Silence on Menopause, came out a decade ago when my hormonal shenanigans began. Produced by Tamsen Fadal and Denise Pines, it’s airing tonight, Wednesday October 17, on PBS, right in time for World Menopause Day on 10/18. It’s the first menopause film to earn medical accreditation, meaning doctors and nurses can earn credits just by watching it.

In 2025, more than 1 billion women worldwide will be in menopause, after a five-to-ten-year period of symptoms ranging from hot flashes and mood swings to vaginal dryness and heart palpitations. Yet, even though menopause is as natural as puberty or childbirth, it has long been criminally neglected, under-researched, misdiagnosed, and mistreated. Too many women aren’t properly informed before the signs kick in, are gaslit or dismissed by their doctors when said symptoms show up, and end up feeling like they’re going insane. 

The documentary fills in some of these gaps, explaining what to expect when you’re done with the possibility of expecting from a medical, emotional, cultural, and historical perspective. In the absence of widespread guidance, some of the doctors featured have become revered social media heroes. For example, Dr. Lisa Mosconi, a neuroscientist and author of The Menopause Brain, discusses her important study demonstrating how estrogen connects to brain health and cognitive function because we have estrogen receptors in our brains—one of many key findings in support of Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) as the gold standard of menopause treatment. 

It took a while to get to that gold standard: The documentary takes us through the devastating impact of a flawed as-hell 2002 Women's Health Initiative study falsely claiming HRT increased the risk of blood clots and breast cancer—a good section of the homogenous group of subjects were well into their seventies and could’ve been diagnosed with those conditions, anyway. Mary Jane Minkin, MD, a clinical professor of obstetrics, gynecology, and reproductive sciences at Yale School of Medicine who appears in the documentary, told me when this study came out, doctors stopped prescribing HRT, and menopause education in the U.S. all but ceased. More than 20 years later, she added, a study led by a colleague of hers proved less than a third of the OB/GYN residents surveyed were taught a menopause curriculum. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmrMwBh7l8w

Fortunately, a far more inclusive, age-appropriate, longitudinal study about women in midlife called the Study of Women’s Health Across the Nation eventually disproved the WHI study, restoring the credibility of HRT. For me, it took several years of complaining, writing an article about the efficacy of HRT, and a series of tests to convince my OB/GYN to give me a prescription. Now that my sleep has largely been restored, my joints feel better, and my brain fog has immediately cleared, I mourn the years I struggled through symptoms for absolutely no reason. 

The documentary takes care to note that menopause isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience. The severity and length of symptoms can vary greatly depending on who you are; they can last an average of 4.8 years for Japanese-American women and an average of 10.1 years for Black women. It also delves into the dark history of inequities of gynecology, including how Black enslaved women’s bodies were experimented upon by American gynecologists and the fact that Black women still suffer adverse outcomes and maternal mortality at disproportionately high rates. 

Things seem to be slowly changing for the better: President Biden signed an executive order that allocates 12 billion dollars to women’s midlife research—something Minkin hopes will further inspire young medical students to follow in her footsteps: “I try to trick my medical students into going into menopause research because I guarantee you there’s a Nobel prize for the person who can figure this out,” she says in the documentary. 

The filmmakers hope all women will learn more about menopause—even if they’re not there yet. Whether or not we eventually seek treatment for symptoms is up to us, but Sharon Malone, MD, another certified menopause practitioner, says in the doc that we may be doing our bodies a disservice by white-knuckling it. “The option should be, ‘I’m going to go, I’m going to get this addressed’ not ‘I’ll just suffer through and it’ll be over in a decade,’” she says. “You’re doing far more harm than good by just not addressing what the issues are.”

 

Vivian Manning-Schaffel is a journalist and essayist who covers entertainment, culture, psychology, and women’s health. Her Substack, MUTHR, FCKD, covers pop culture through a feminist Gen X lens.

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New Tie, Same Old Misogyny: J. D. Vance's Failed Rebrand

By Shannon Watts

Since becoming the vice presidential nominee almost three months ago, J. D. Vance has taken almost constant fire for his long history of denigrating women, including comments on podcasts about the tragedy of remaining childless, the misery of women who work outside the home, and the duty of every post-menopausal woman to serve as stop-gap childcare for her family. As a result, Vance has the worst net favorability rating for any vice-presidential candidate in history and has become a walking meme for masculinity gone wrong.

Last night, in an attempt to shed that electoral albatross, we watched in real-time on live television as Vance attempted a calculated rebranding of himself as an ally to women everywhere. 

From the glaring symbolism of Vance’s Barbiecore tie (instead of the traditional red tie Republicans typically wear) to his constant shoutouts to the women “very dear to me”  (including his mother, grandmother and several anonymous women he claims to know who have been through some things), Vance worked hard to project feminine energy—someone who listens, who feels empathy, who might be open to changing his mind. But instead of embodying any of those things authentically, Vance’s debate performance came off like cosplay. This stab at a rebrand was as transparently pink-washed as his tie.

For me, Vance’s mask fell off a few times during the debate. It started when the two women moderators interrupted him for not following the agreed-upon rules, even cutting off his mic. Testy and defensive, Vance talked over them with the now-famous complaint, “The rules were that you guys weren’t going to fact check.” And even though he tried to camouflage it, Vance couldn’t disguise the misogyny that has underpinned his policy platform for decades. Moderator Margaret Brennan ended the exchange by quipping, “Thank you for explaining the legal process,” in a tone that struck a chord with every woman who has ever been mansplained to in a meeting.

When the issue of childcare came up, he implied he supported efforts to make it more affordable—even though he skipped the Senate vote for an expanded child tax credit. When abortion came up, Vance implied he didn’t support a national ban—when, in fact, he has stated publicly that he does. He told the story of a friend who needed an abortion in order to leave an abusive partner—but failed to mention the laws he supports would have instead prevented her from leaving.

But even more revealing, whenever issues like those were discussed, Vance made it clear that he sees those issues as only impacting women, as if they’re somehow untethered from any broad economic and societal implications or don’t also affect women’s partners, children, bosses, everyone. When he spoke about wanting the Republican party to become “pro-family in the fullest sense of the word,” he meant “making it easier for moms to afford to have babies.”

Even the new incarnation of Vance fails to understand that the “women’s issues” discussed during the debate are actually issues that impact everyone’s lives. The lack of high-quality, affordable childcare hurts parents, children, and employers alike. And restricting women’s rights restricts the freedom of all. We now live in a world where men are actively advocating for paid family leave and supporting abortion rights. But in his attempt to modernize his stance on these issues, Vance just wants to tell us about a woman he “knows.”  

Despite Vance’s best efforts to rebrand, women wisely saw through his performance for what it was: performative. According to a CNN instant poll, after the debate Walz had the advantage among women, rising 18 points in favorability. The message is clear: We simply aren’t buying the “new and improved” Vance he’s trying to sell us. 

 

Shannon Watts is an author, organizer, and speaker. She founded Moms Demand Action and recently organized one of the largest Zoom gatherings in history, mobilizing women voters for the 2024 Kamala Harris campaign. Her new book Fired Up is coming in 2025.

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Can the Taliban Be Taken to Court?

 

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