Pip: Mare Martell writes like someone who has decided, very firmly, that shrinking is for wool sweaters.
Mara: Today we're covering two territories that turn out to be the same conversation from different angles — what it looks like to take up space on your own terms, and what it sounds like to refuse to give that space back under pressure.
Pip: Let's start with the case for expansion.
Self-Expression And Taking Up Space
Mara: The question both posts in this segment are circling is deceptively simple: what happened to the version of you that had no rules about how much room she was allowed to occupy?
Pip: Take up Space answers that directly. Here is the line that does the most work: "You were meant to be loud; to take up the space stolen from you by those who fear your wealth of experience and wisdom."
Mara: And the consequence is right there in the next sentence — words like old, crone, bitch get reframed not as insults but as tools of containment. The post is saying the vocabulary used against you was engineered to keep you small.
Pip: Which is a fairly efficient piece of social criticism dressed up as a pep talk.
Mara: Retrieve the Wild Woman traces how that containment gets installed in the first place. It maps the stages — girlhood, tweens, dating age, marriage — as a sequence of rule changes, each one narrowing what's permitted. By adulthood, the post argues, the Wild Woman is still there, just floating along behind, staring at the mud puddles.
Pip: The mud puddle as existential metaphor is doing a lot of heavy lifting, and honestly it earns it.
Mara: The post also cites a National Science Foundation figure — that people average over fifty thousand thoughts a day — to make the point that even ten thoughts about you amounts to 0.02 percent of someone's mental real estate. The worry about what others think costs you far more than it costs them.
Pip: So the math of self-consciousness is terrible and you should stop doing it.
Mara: That's essentially the argument, yes. Both posts land on permission — not permission granted by anyone else, but the kind you extend to yourself. Which is where the next segment picks up, because permission is a different thing entirely when it's being actively withheld.
Survivor Healing And Resistance
Mara: NO MORE is a poem written for a Clothesline Project event at a domestic violence crisis center, and it names its targets plainly from the first line — not victims, but the systems and people that tolerate violence and silence survivors.
Pip: The poem earns its title by repeating it as a refrain that builds. Here is the turn where it shifts from apology to declaration: "I won't lay prostate on the canvas and beg forgiveness for a sin I didn't commit but HE did. No. I won't do that. No More!"
Mara: What that shift means in practice is a formal refusal of the guilt transfer — the mechanism by which survivors get prosecuted in the court of public opinion while perpetrators get released back into the world. The poem names that directly: "while you sat in judgment of MY actions and MY life, He repeated his offensive on a sister and a wife."
Pip: That is not metaphor. That is a documented pattern described in plain verse.
Mara: The poem moves through several registers — grief, fury, irony — but it ends in collective voice. It closes by expanding from "I am one woman and I count" outward to "We are women whose light cannot be dimmed," building to a call-and-response that was clearly written to be spoken aloud in a room full of people who needed to hear it together.
Pip: There is a difference between a poem you read and a poem that is asking you to stand up while you read it. This one is the second kind.
Mara: And it connects back to everything the first segment was building toward — the Wild Woman who was told to step around the puddle, the woman told to stay small, eventually finding a voice loud enough to say the words that matter.
Pip: Taking up space and refusing to give it back — those turn out to be the same act at different moments in the same life.
Mara: Next time, we'll see what other territory that life covers.
Mare Martell 