I often bike along the wide sidewalk that runs along the Intracoastal Waterway north from our neighborhood in West Palm Beach to Donald Trump’s place on the barrier island of Palm Beach. Our home is less than three miles away from Mar-a-Lago. His residence rests within a private club on 20 acres that boasts a restaurant, large pool, six tennis courts, fitness center, and spa.

It’s not that I chose to ride by his place. It’s the only logical and safe route for a bike ride. Heading south brings me into a neighborhood with narrow sidewalks and overhanging plant growth which often requires ducking to avoid collision with my head. If I ride west, within a few blocks there’s a busy road full of businesses and cars driving too fast. Plus, there’s no bike lane. Riding two blocks east and then north is the only safe route for a bike ride, but it does bring me close to or past Mar-a-Lago.

My husband and I live on the western side of the Intracoastal, blocks of small cottages built in the 1950s. These humble abodes were originally planned for the working class of the area, some of whom were servants in the stately Palm Beach mansions. It’s still a bit like this today. We know people who work on “The Island” as property managers and folks employed at Mar-a-Lago in the spa, and working in security and maintenance.

I live with lupus and a very rare blood disorder, autoimmune hemolytic anemia, mixed type. One of the strange things my blood does is form micro clots in the cold, a condition called cold agglutinin disease. My hematologists tell me that escaping the northern winters will allow me to live longer. My husband and I split our time between his Florida house and mine in Pittsburgh.

On perfect Florida winter days, 65-75 degrees with low humidity, I try to exercise. The bike trip to Mar-a-Lago and back takes less than 20 minutes—5.26 miles, round trip. This also requires my hemoglobin to be above 10 or at least close to it, which is still mildly anemic. That means I’ll be huffing and puffing, short of breath, more than most people would be for the short bike ride.

Earth Day two years ago was one of those perfect weather days. I felt angst regarding Mother Earth’s health, but I wanted to celebrate the gift of sun and a light breeze. I filled a water bottle, maneuvered my silver bike out of the shed, inflated my tires, and set off.

Heading east two blocks brought me past many updated 1950s homes and several modern mansions that had taken their place. Straight out of Architectural Digest, these huge rectangular homes tend to be closer to the Intracoastal.

Golden morning sunlight angled on the sidewalk creating a soft glow. I turned left on Flagler Drive and headed north along the wide sidewalk dotted with soaring 30-foot Royal Palm trees. A man and his fishing pole focused on the water. A white bucket waited next to him. The water to my right glinted in a myriad of points as the occasional boat or yacht motored past me, wakes slapping the cement seawall. On the opposite bank stood spectacular pools and rear façades of the majestic mansions of Palm Beach.

I biked as far as the wall surrounding Trump’s conclave and the southern entrance used for workers and deliveries. It’s a simple gate manned by a security guard along with a sheriff’s tower with an armed lookout that appeared after he won his first presidency.

I rode my bike there around that time too, shocked and infuriated that he could win after his infamous “grab them by the pussy” comment. Years before, he bragged that he went backstage while beauty contestants were in various stages of undress. The friendship between Trump and Epstein was well documented, and we locals had learned years before of Epstein’s shockingly lenient non-prosecution agreement that allowed him to leave jail six days a week. Sure, there’s no proof that Trump committed crimes, but his own words were horrific. That day, after the election, I exhaled some of my frustration and exerted myself, pedaling hard, on the way back.

Another time, also during Trump’s first presidency, I rode to Mar-a-Lago after the news showed videos of wailing children taken from their parents at the border. A hot rage manifested in my esophagus. I couldn’t leave my fury that day. It followed me home and disrupted my sleep.

I took my bike there a few weeks after the attack on the Capitol. This time, I thought, the danger was clear. The pink/purple bougainvillea on the wall around his compound seemed particularly lovely. The man didn’t really enjoy politics anyway. Wouldn’t he rather just mingle with like-minded moguls, and do the things that wealthy people do? I enjoyed a certainty that he’d be removed and never run again.

In November of 2022, around five months after the announcement of the second trove of top-secret documents stored at Mar-a-Lago, I walked the distance. That day, the skies bore steely gray clouds. The mugginess felt as if it could coalesce into raindrops at any moment. But I had decent energy, and there was a strong briny wind coming from the ocean. A circle of vultures flew around Mar-a-Lago’s tower. People couldn’t discount such a threat to national security. I sighed as I left my thoughts in the air above, hanging in the gray sky with the buzzards.

One Friday afternoon this past March, my husband and I were looking for a bit of stress relief. We were disheartened at the news about ICE grabbing hardworking people with no criminal records. We were disgusted at the massive defunding for medical research and the cuts to Medicare, which I need to survive.

“Let’s ride down to Mar-a-Lago, flip the bird, and ride back,” I said. (Note: I wouldn’t do this to our Supreme Leader’s home. If federal law enforcement is reading this, it was a joke. Laughing/crying emoji.)

We biked east, turned north, and pedaled next to those stately palm trees and the Intracoastal. I’d had a series of infusion drug therapy eight months before, and my hemoglobin was the highest it had been in over a decade. I told everyone who asked that I felt like Wonder Woman.

About a mile in, Ed said, “Look!” His hands rested on his handlebars, and he gestured with a nod. “There are no cars, but the drawbridge isn’t up. He must be coming.”

“Check out the Coast Guard.” I gave my own nod to two boats, maybe 30 feet long, with machine guns aimed toward our side. The sound of a Palm Beach County helicopter whirled above us to our left.

A few cars were backed up on Flagler Drive. One Palm Beach County sheriff’s officer stood guard on the street. His vehicle, lights flashing, blocked the intersection. Another officer and car sat across the street. The bridge was to our right.

We were the only ones standing there. Trump’s faithfuls were likely bored with the spectacle by now. They’d had so many opportunities to witness the motorcade as he’d come into town to golf on the taxpayers’ dime almost every weekend.

The helicopter tipped forward loudly and hovered above the center of the bridge. Two motorcycles, lights flashing, came first, then a communications van with antennae, then multiple vehicles, including two fire rescue trucks and an ambulance.

In the last custom black limousine, Trump was on the rear passenger side. The only window not tinted black was the one with his face. The Beast, his limo, was no more than 20 feet away. He turned his head and lifted his hand in a wave.

“He waved to me!” My voice squeaked high in surprise.

The officer chuckled. He said his children always asked for a photo, but he wasn’t allowed to look in the direction of the motorcade. It was his job to scan the area.

“It was your blonde ponytail,” my husband muttered. We still wore our helmets and mirrored sunglasses, our bikes resting between our legs. My hair was gathered in a low side ponytail hanging on my left breast.

“He waves to everyone,” I said. “Maybe it was the cars.”

“No, it was your ponytail,” my husband said. “He didn’t wave to me. And no one else is standing here.” Ed gestured with an upturned palm and lifted his eyebrows.

Trump looked tired. Maybe he was hungry or had to pee. It occurred to me that he was probably looking forward to getting home. For a split second, the two of us, the weak and the strong, didn’t seem so different.

A bit later, rehydrated and with bikes in the shed, we sat on the living room couch. I opened my laptop and banged out several paragraphs. I told Ed I wanted to explore the juxtaposition of weak and strong. I wanted to write about power. He shook his head.

“Don’t do this, Annie,” he said. “This could be dangerous.”

If power is defined by money, domination, fear, and control, then President Trump is certainly powerful. It continues to shock me that some people feel that domination is not only acceptable, honorable, and necessary…but that this is the only way.

When I was young, as a Roman Catholic, I called God by the masculine “Father,” “Son,” and the gender neutral “Holy Spirit.” Over a decade ago, I identified the Divine as Feminine. Now, I sense God as the Christ within, a guidance neither male nor female, but with characteristics of both, better described as maybe Divine Love. And I have no doubt about the power and the goodness of Jesus’s main message: the Golden Rule, a central precept of most religions. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” (Matthew 7:12).

When I was active in the Church, leaders told us we could use “discernment” to figure out “what was of God” as opposed to what was a human failing. You could run any decision through a biblical Geiger counter using Philippians 4:8. Is it true? Is it honorable? Is it just? Is it lovely? Is it commendable? Also, one should ask: Is it pure? But to be clear “pure” in this context has nothing to do with race. Rather it’s asking if something is morally decent.

It’s easy for me to recognize that policies of care and compassion for humans, animals, the earth, clean air, clean water, and a democratic government that protects basic rights all elicit a yes to the questions above and align with the Golden Rule. Yet I’m angered that Trump, his cabinet, and his followers claim their version of Christianity interprets these precepts in a different way. They claim they are doing God’s work by dismantling protections, discounting due process, and rounding up “illegal aliens.” I continue to read and witness how his vast executive overreach is causing massive uncertainty, fear, and suffering.

Twenty-five years ago, when I was first diagnosed with lupus, my rheumatologist told me to stop working and file for disability. While I’d reached my goal of becoming a mother to three great kids, the career highlights I’d planned (a Ph.D. and a job as an administrator of a school) were suddenly impossible. As I was medically cleared for only part-time work, I tried tutoring and teaching one class at the local community college. When lupus fatigue prevented that, I shifted to writing.

Five years later, I started a literary nonprofit in which I could volunteer a few hours a month on my own schedule. Eventually, the stress of even that volunteerism was too much, and I dissolved the nonprofit. I now write, publish a bit, and dabble as a patient advocate. I aimed for several milestones and reached a few: publishing short stories and essays (yes), finishing a boo,k then two (done), finding an agent and/or a publisher for the books (not yet), and functioning as a community leader for the literary world (sort of, for a while at least). I also hiked to the top of Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire while anemic. I nearly gave up twice, but I did it. The joint pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t sleep the night after the hike even after taking medication. Yet I take great pride in that accomplishment.

I didn’t set out to connect with President Trump. Yet the moment we looked at each other was a milestone for me, as a writer and activist. He may be powerful, but he is also human. If I remember that…if I conjure up that moment…I can access the courage to write about him.

Regenerative power doesn’t come from domination. It comes from collaboration, online gatherings learning about nonviolent resistance. Power is working with other patient advocates, as we bring attention to rare diseases and campaign for affordable insurance and safe effective treatments. So many of us need Medicare and Medicaid. We understand we’re going to die. We simply want to squeeze out as much quality of life for as many days as we can.

Biking isn’t enough to keep us alive.

After the wave, I didn’t leave my anger in the air with the helicopter, nor did I leave it in the water of the Intracoastal. I didn’t exhale it on The Beast. I’m using it to write these words.

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Ann Mallen is a former teacher and current writer of both fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in a variety of literary journals and periodicals including The Washington Post and HuffPost Personal. She is a cancer survivor and lives with lupus and autoimmune hemolytic anemia. She was also the founder and director for nine years of The Cream Literary Alliance, a 501c3 nonprofit. She advocates for patients with AIHA and has been invited to present for awareness days, to attend professional summits and conferences, and to teach at a patient conference. She also writes the Substack publication: Staying Power. Website: annmallen.com

Another mourning.

I have to pretend the fogged-up mirror can’t see me. Or hold me.

Me and the mirror this morning.

Revulsion.

Training my eyes on them.

My hips versus me. All my life. It’s been my battle.

Curves.

Iconic French actress Catherine Deneuve was right. As you age, you can either have your ass or your face. I gently traced my chin with anti-aging skincare products, and my face card did not disappoint. No wrinkles. No pores.

But.

Ass. Flat as my front tire that one time.

Hips MIA.

Stomach slowly softening, expanding. Concave to convex, rolling gently over my panties’ waistband. Rising like focaccia bread dough.

I’m 58. I’ve been through Afghanistan with my hips (body). It’s time for diplomacy.

The mirror is my adversary. I rarely look at myself after I bathe. I keep my eyes fixed on my face. In my thirties, women in their fifties told me they never looked at their bodies anymore. I never understood. Now I do. You don’t exist in the mirror anymore. You’re met with a woman you don’t know but would long to meet if you had your clothes on.

South of my chin, my breasts still look lovely. Rounded and without a hint of sagging. Small boobs for the win. The rest further down is unfamiliar terrain. Cellulite always got the better of me due to genetics. With Pilates I had softness with the hardness of lean muscle and it didn’t dare appear (as much). Now it litters my thighs, or what’s left of them. My hips shrunk away. No, they’re sagging like I took too much Ozempic.

My daughter’s early-onset schizophrenia diagnosis prompted me to stop self-care. I had no time for anything except her. My brain was fighting for her life, and I ignored my body. My hips weren’t central to my thoughts anymore. Only my child.

Somehow, my body carefully removed my hips without my knowledge. Or consent. I know I wanted them gone for years, but not like this. Post-menopause hormone loss was no joke. I can feel and (see) my weakness. Yoga for hips and thighs may help to gain muscle back but I lost something dear.

My hips were a part of me. My identity.

My war with my body. I lost.

This morning, dare I say it out loud? I want them back. I’d pay money to get them back. Women like Megan Thee Stallion and Nicki Minaj made hips and butts iconic. I wish in my youth I’d had someone like them reflecting me. Perhaps the war wouldn’t have started, or it could have ended sooner.

Hugging my hips, I fantasize about getting on a surgeon’s table to do fat transfer directly into them. Plump them up like lips. Not Brazilian butt lift big, but just back to what I had. Maybe some 360 liposuction to round everything out. In my mind’s eye I’d look like the rest of Beverly Hills and Miami. A little fine-tuning hurt no one. But I’d never do it. It’s not for me. Not what I needed. The power rests in my mind.

Not buying into beauty standards or diet culture is a start. But it’s hard when it’s encoded into the fiber of my being. Indoctrinated so very young, it’s difficult to change those thought patterns. Eating patterns. Emotional patterns. I’ve nearly killed myself with pills and other methods to keep thin. Laxatives. Overexercising. Starvation. It started with my mother but can end with me.

As a woman with curves, I should be happy other women are envious. Not really. I’ve been borderline fat most of my life. I’ve had to keep myself hungry to stay thin. When I had surgery for an ovarian cyst, my gynecologist said I was skinny. I felt as though I had found the secret to achieving extreme thinness.

A thin Black girl with hips as round as the moon. A world revolved around these wonders. Hard to push into Levi’s. The jeans were bursting at the seams, leaving a gap in the back where they didn’t fit my waist. A flat stomach didn’t help.

Never quite right for fashion. Snickered at in stores when trying on clothes. I struggled to fit into either a size 2 or 4. Always a 6 or 8, the in-between sizes right before the fashion stops at size 10. I was inching closer and closer to my fear. FAT. As a size 12 now looking back, I wish I could fit into an 8. Looking at pictures from the time I was a bobble head. My daughter couldn’t believe it was me. She likes my shape more rounded, more Mama-like.

When I was 15, I knew how fat I was. Never fully looking in the mirror nor at photos. The first glimpse was of them. I’d silently compare myself to everyone, especially White girls who had the Jordache look with flat butts and boyish hips. That’s what I aspired to. My mother said, “Only a dog wants a bone.” If that’s true, why was she constantly telling me I was getting fat?

One Saturday night while watching Bette Davis in Dark Victory, I was eating three trays of Oreos, and my hand kept reaching and pulling them into my mouth. There were often two in my mouth at once. I licked the cream and kept the cookie crunch deep in my cheek. Slowly I’d mix the two with my tongue. Repeat.

While I was transfixed by the sugar and Bette’s character Judith going blind, I didn’t notice my mother ripping the sugary trays from my crumb-filled lap.

“You just ate dinner. You’re going on a diet. Now.”

Flabbergasted, I wiped the crumbs on my face onto my shirt. I lay across my twin bed. Nothing to worry about now. I wondered if we still had Carvel ice cream.

Yawning, I thought, I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Deal with it; I did.

The 1980s were the golden era of diet food. Lean Cuisine with the eponymous black box. Diet Coke, zero calories. Sweet’N Low, bitter yet satisfying. This was my new world, and I adapted. I ate every crappy “lite” food imaginable. There was no light in that plastic, overprocessed food. I was still growing, yet I was given slop to maintain my figure. No one wanted to grow up fat. It’d be harder to lose when you’re older. They said.

I had no idea that diet pills, specifically Dexatrim, would become my go-to. Savior. Those pills made me so energetic that I lost weight quickly. I doubt these were for kids…but I ate them like candy.

The effect was chilling in my body. I felt so good. I could do anything. Schoolwork. Chores. My mouth was dry, and I was never hungry. Later, I would use laxatives. Different pill, same result.

I was brand new.

I loved the new me. I looked like a supermodel at a mere 5’5’‘.

Protruding hip bones, check.

Pronounced collarbone, check.

My hands gingerly stroked my newly visible ribs (gasp).

Stunning.

But my hips remained. Slightly narrower, but not the boyish look fashioned by my White friends. Those girls were the standard along with their layered blonde hair.

Not even Frankenstein diet pills could get rid of them. They’re like cockroaches; they could survive the apocalypse.

Looking head-on the mirror has two faces. It reflects both youth and age. I don’t long for youth; I wouldn’t trade who I am today for a smaller number. I don’t want to look like a cookie cutter walking down the street, I want to look like me. I want aging to mean something. Slow long walks with my chihuahua, easy stretches.

I’m vibrant and alive with or without my hips. I’m trying to see through the fog.

Maybe in this moment I accept it (me).

Or will one day soon.

I feel silly for wasting my life’s energy on something I couldn’t change. Possibly a life lesson. I could start loving (or liking) what’s left. That’s still me too. I can be kind to myself whether the lighting is or not. I should listen to the advice I’d give others: “Give yourself (and your body) grace.”

My hips and I may be in détente, but I have redefined victory as something sweet—trays of cinnamon Selena Gomez Oreos—for me.

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Brittany Miles is a mental health advocate and essay writer published in Newsweek, Business Insider, The Seattle Times, NAMI blog, and more. Her writing can be found on the website morethanguardians.com.