Putas Who Read.

Eight Minutes is All We Need.

Isabella Braga — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 23:20:53 GMT

I spoke to a houseless woman today named Emily Anderson. She was sweet and genuine. She had some missing teeth and her speech was a bit mumbled, but she spoke nonetheless. I was waiting at the bus stop when I saw her walk up, hoping to take a seat next to me. I put on a polite smile, as one does, and she asked when the next bus was coming. I told her eight minutes. For those next eight minutes, we talked.

She told me how she once wore glasses like mine, but one day, while getting water from some free jugs, another houseless man rode by on a bike and struck her in the face with a metal rod. She fell unconscious onto the curb and woke up as the sun set. While she was unconscious, cars had run her over. The same man later dragged her to his tent and demanded a cheeseburger. She got him one and stayed the night in his pop up tent, fearing she would be killed. In just eight minutes, I learned more about her than I ever expected.

She told me she had suffered multiple miscarriages after being raped by men. Her uterus is now so weak from trauma that she can no longer carry a pregnancy. The bus arrived and we got on together. I think she assumed I would find another seat, but I asked if I could sit next to her.

I asked if she had been to a homeless shelter. She said no, but that she had been trying to find one, so we looked up the closest option together. She asked where this bus was going, and I showed her the route on my phone. I told her that if she wanted to go farther, she could get off at the next stop and wait for bus 20 or 30.

Then I asked her name.

She said, Emily. Emily Anderson.

I told her it was a beautiful name.

She smiled, stood up, and got off the bus, hoping to catch the next one.

As I reflect on this encounter that happened no more than 25 minutes ago, I realize that most houseless people simply want to be listened to. Often, people avoid them because in our minds, being human means having a home. It means having clean clothes and easy access to drinking water. When someone does not fit that image, we subconsciously strip them of complexity. We reduce them to a problem instead of a person.

We see this same dynamic in third world countries. More often than not, when watching documentaries, I feel disgusted by how interviewers speak about impoverished people. There is usually pity in their voice, as if suffering is something to be packaged for good coverage or monetized storytelling. It is enraging and gross, and most of all completely dehumanizing.

Houseless people are humans, just like me and you and the person sitting across from us on the bus. They are not statistics and they are not cautionary tales. They are individuals with names, stories, humor, trauma, and dignity.

Being close to poverty firsthand has allowed me to understand this more deeply. When living in Brasil, the small town I called home, Pedra de Guaratiba, was very poor. Thankfully my immediate family was more privileged because of my dad and his degree, but my extended family on my mom’s side struggled greatly. Our house was directly across from a family whose home was built from collected trash. They were drug addicts and alcoholics, but they were also people. Every Christmas, they came to eat with my very large extended family. That was just what we did. We made room.

I think what struck me most about Emily was not only the violence she endured, but the fact that in eight minutes she trusted me with pieces of her life that many people would never want to hear. All she needed was someone to sit next to her. Not above her,n ot away from her, but next to her. That small decision felt simple in the moment. But now I realize it meant something larger. It meant choosing to see her.

Maybe that is where change begins. Not in grand gestures or perfectly crafted documentaries, but in small moments of shared space. Maybe in eight minutes at a bus stop.

And I hope I see Emily again someday. I hope we cross paths at another bus stop or on another ride, and that next time we get more than eight minutes. Because everyone deserves more than a passing moment, everyone deserves to be heard.

I outgrew them.

Isabella Braga — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 01:01:19 GMT

I often stay in friendships for the sake of belonging, not because the people actually align with my morals. Recently, I came to the realization that I was sexually assaulted. Like many women, I arrived at that truth slowly. I could not believe he would do this to me because he was my friend, but even the people we trust can do bad things. After sitting with it, replaying the moment again and again, I finally named it for what it was. Last weekend, at a party, I confronted him. I cried, not because he said anything cruel, but because I was scared for him. Scared his image would be ruined. Scared people would hate him. Scared he would have to face consequences. How absurd! Even in my own pain, I found myself protecting the person who caused it. That realization shook me. It forced me to look at how instinctively I prioritize other people’s comfort over my own safety.

After that night, I started questioning my friendships. I wondered whether they are rooted in genuine connection or simply maintained out of habit, fear, and a desire to feel secure. I noticed that some of my closest relationships carry a quiet tension, a disconnect between their actions and my values. Recently, this became clear when someone close to me repeatedly lied to others while refusing to take responsibility for their own decisions. Lying is not part of my moral compass, so witnessing it felt foreign. Yet I stayed, held together by shared memories, familiarity, and comfort.

As I write this, I am sitting with the truth that some friendships probably need to end. I know what is right, but I hesitate because I care. Because I do not want people I love to suffer the consequences of their actions. This is a pattern for me, one that traces back to childhood: learning to be the peacemaker, the understanding one, the person who absorbs discomfort so others do not have to. Somewhere along the way, I learned that love meant endurance.

But I am in college now. I am stepping into adulthood. And surrounding myself with people who lie, who are unnecessarily mean, who treat drama like entertainment is not good for my life. I have always known this, but I see it with more clarity now. As we grow, we need people beside us who share our moral compass. Otherwise, where do we find balance when we stumble? I have a strong sense of self, but proximity matters. When you are constantly around behavior that contradicts your values, you start bending, even when you fight it. I feel myself changing around certain people. I catch myself rationalizing things I would normally walk away from. No matter how hard I try to stay rooted, it is difficult when these are your closest friends, when harmful behavior is normalized, when setting a boundary suddenly makes you the problem.

People are different, and the way I live does not have to align with theirs. That is okay. But friendship requires more than shared memories. It requires shared integrity. It requires accountability. It requires respect. I am learning that belonging should never cost me my peace, that loyalty does not mean self abandonment, and that caring about others does not require excusing harm. I am also learning that outgrowing people does not make me cold. It means I am listening to myself. It means I am choosing healing over familiarity, alignment over attachment, and honesty over comfort. This is what growth looks like for me right now.

I am still learning, still unlearning, still figuring out what it means to choose myself without guilt. I just wanted to share this thought, because I know I am not the only one navigating complicated friendships, blurred boundaries, and the quiet grief that comes with outgrowing people you once loved.

Unlearning the Patriarchy.

Isabella Braga — Tue, 13 Jan 2026 07:55:53 GMT

I think most women have this unexplainable need to be liked by men. If you do not, I am jealous. I want to rip this need to be liked by the patriarchy out of me. Being the weird girl growing up did not make my perception of myself easy.

I moved to the United States when I was around seven years old. I had to learn English in an ESOL class full of Spanish speakers, feeling seen but not heard. I wore leggings even in the scorching heat of the playground because my leg hair was darker than the other girls around me. I wanted so badly to be loved, for some boy to have a silly, insignificant crush on me. I tried so hard to fit in, to mold myself and the rich culture in my blood, to dilute it so I would be liked. A seven year old should not think this way.

After many long years of suffering and self doubt, I grew to accept my body. I love who I am, and I do not want to change, but sometimes it still sneaks up on me. This is especially present in my romantic relationships. When someone I like calls me beautiful, I can see my eleven year old self reflected in their eyes, telling me it is a lie. I see her crying in her mom’s arms, asking why she is so weird and unpopular. Why do boys not think she is pretty enough?

I remember in third grade during the pacer test, one of the boys who had already finished was making fun of how slow the girls were. He asked me, “Why does your butt jiggle when you run?” In middle school, the boy I had a crush on made fun of my badly done pixie cut and said, “I bet you don’t shave.” Throughout my seven years as a ballerina, I was told my posture was bad. In reality, it was because I was genetically curvier than the other girls. I never made it to pointe shoes because of this.

Now my body is seen as sexy and beautiful. My curvy nature, which I was once mocked for relentlessly, is something boys get off to. It disgusts me, yet I still sit here hoping they like my body enough. That I am hot enough, intriguing enough, enough for them to want me. I do not know why this is. I think it is underlying misogyny passed down through generations and internalized in my blood.

I have researched this topic many times, but writing this made me want to dig deeper. While doing so, I discovered an article by Maria Evteeva. She writes, ‘“Historically, the gender binary has facilitated oppression by delineating cultural constructs as inherent male and female characteristics, thereby justifying hierarchical relationships as natural and establishing regulations that disapprove of or punish deviations from these socially constructed norms” (Bleier, 1984). According to Wittig, the social categories of male and female serve to conceal the reality that social differences are always intertwined with political, economic, and ideological structures (Wittig, 1982). Gender beliefs and stereotypes may vary across cultures and historical periods, but they consistently align with prevailing cultural norms (Worell and Remer, 1996).”’

Basically, the idea that there are only two genders has long been used to justify inequality. Society teaches us that men and women are naturally different in specific ways and then uses those differences to explain why one group has more power than the other. When someone does not fit these expectations, they are often judged or punished. Wittig points out that the labels “male” and “female” make these power systems harder to see because they distract us from the political, economic, and social forces that actually create inequality. Even though ideas about gender change across cultures and time periods, they usually continue to support the dominant values and power structures of society.

This framework helps explain the feeling I describe at the beginning, the persistent need to be liked by men. If gender roles are treated as natural and unavoidable, then a woman’s worth becomes tied to how well she performs femininity and how desirable she is to men. From a young age, I learned that my body, my behavior, and even my culture were subject to evaluation. When I did not fit neatly into those expectations, I was punished socially through ridicule, exclusion, and shame. Wittig’s argument clarifies why these experiences felt personal but were actually structural. The labels “male” and “female” hid the systems of power shaping my self perception and made my desire for male validation feel like a personal flaw rather than a learned survival strategy.

This idea connects directly to a study from the National Institute of Health on gender differences in perceptions of sexual intent. The study found that stereotypical gender based expectations are strongest when the target is female, when her behavior is mundane or ambiguous, and when the observer holds negative attitudes toward women and relationships. In simpler terms, women are more likely to be sexualized even when they are doing nothing explicitly sexual, and men’s sexual intentions are often normalized or excused. This explains why my body could be mocked in childhood, policed in adolescence, and later eroticized in adulthood. The same gender binary that punished me for being “too much” now rewards me, but only through sexualization. My worth is still filtered through male desire.

Together, these sources reveal how deeply internalized misogyny operates. Evteeva and Wittig explain the structural foundation of gender inequality, while the NIH study shows how those structures play out in everyday interactions, especially in heterosexual dynamics. They help explain why I can feel disgusted by being sexualized yet still crave validation from the same system that harmed me. My desire to be liked by men is not contradictory. It is the result of growing up in a culture where approval, safety, and value were consistently tied to male perception. It’s not gone yet, but I want it to be—I’m getting there. We all will.