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The concept of (鈥渂ody-territory鈥�) around which the Xinka women in Guatemala organize themselves recognizes the interconnectedness between human bodies and all other living beings.

Within this Indigenous philosophy, the body is understood as disputed political territory that is part of the land that has been colonized, exploited, and destroyed by a capitalist, patriarchal system. Both individual and collective subjugation are important pieces of this concept: The colonization of land is interconnected to the hierarchies placed on our bodies to maintain capitalism. 

Our intersections鈥攆rom gender and racialization to (dis)ability and sexual orientation鈥攁re what define our place in the hierarchy of capitalism. These predefined roles become even stricter in times of crisis. Take the COVID-19 pandemic鈥攏ot only did it and reveal the fragility of our bodies, but it also continues to the most vulnerable among us. But what happens when we step into our autonomy and shed the trappings of heteropatriarchal capitalism? What is the ripple effect of that autonomy in the communities we鈥檙e a part of? 

These are deeply personal and potentially transformative questions, which is why it鈥檚 helpful to learn from the lived experiences of activists who have shifted their relationships with their own bodies and discovered how embracing their autonomy helped them build community. Divorcing ourselves from harmful systems can usher in a collective, revolutionary vision that allows us to live as our most authentic selves without judgment, in community with others who are also free. It鈥檚 only by owning the desires of our bodies outside the constraints of capitalism that we can begin building the world we desire. 

As I write this, my country, Brazil, is . I move my body to the voting booth and cast my vote for the Workers鈥� Party candidate, , as adrenaline runs through my bloodstream. Thanks to extreme-right-wing President Jair Bolsonaro鈥檚 , . I鈥檓 grateful for my body and how alive it is. But at the same time, my body feels fragile because it鈥檚 so intrinsically connected to a society that prioritizes capital production above well-being. 

After , my wife and I go to Pedra do Sal, . to resist repression and embrace joy. We move our bodies to the music being played by five women, who are singing a revolutionary song about , a Black bisexual socialist councilor assassinated in 2018. We stretch our bodies in resistance with other bodies鈥攂odies that are queer, Black, femme, and everything in between鈥攁nd in that moment, we can almost feel the coming of a better world.

Lyz Lenz had been taught, like most cisgender women, that she was destined to be a wife and a mother, but the exhaustion of balancing domestic work and her career goals finally came to a breaking point after 12 years of marriage. 鈥淚 was talking to all my friends, and I was just like, how did we get here?鈥� she says. 鈥淗ow did we decide that we were going to be equal, and yet here we are, married. We gave up our maiden names, we are doing all the labor, all the housework, in addition to trying to have careers. And it was this moment of like, 鈥業 can鈥檛 do this.鈥欌��

When her couples counselor suggested Lenz stop writing her first book to save her marriage, she immediately knew what she had to do. 鈥淚 said, 鈥楩ine, I quit my marriage.鈥欌�� Lenz felt all the usual feelings that accompany divorce: sadness, embarrassment, a sense of failure. But other things bloomed too: relief, time to herself, self-discovery, and most importantly, freedom to live her life. 鈥淭hose first couple of weeks when I had moved out, I was renting this house. I had no money,鈥� Lenz recalls. 鈥淎nd I remember being like, 鈥榃hy is this house so clean all the time?鈥� I was told that being a single mother would be hard, and immediately I was like, 鈥楾his is so much fucking easier.鈥欌�� 

Since that realization, Lenz has been writing about the power of being a single mother who chooses to remain unpartnered. In her Substack newsletter, appropriately titled , she has about 鈥�.鈥� In a viral , Lenz vowed to never again cook for a man. 鈥淚 stopped cooking because I wanted to feel as unencumbered as a man walking through the door of his home with the expectation that something had been done for him,鈥� Lenz wrote. 鈥淚 wanted to be free of cutting coupons and rolling dough and worrying about dinner times and feeding. I wanted to rest.鈥� 

Lenz found that shedding the expectations society had of her body鈥攃ooking, cleaning, being a wife, while simultaneously succeeding at her career鈥攚as liberating, and it opened up a new world of options for her. Escaping the heteropatriarchal family allows for a world where women are encouraged to have functions other than wife and mother, and foster different kinds of partnerships鈥攑latonic, lesbian, nonmonogamous鈥攖o nurture their lives. 

After liberating herself from those expectations, Lenz realized she desired a community different from the conservative one she grew up in. Writing has provided it to her. The experience of stepping into her own autonomy and inspiring others to do the same has taught her about the inherent interconnectedness of human beings鈥攁nd how essential this awareness is for community building. 鈥淚t鈥檚 about learning how to be connected as human beings,鈥� Lenz said. 鈥淥ur power is not our individuality. Our community is truly our power. How do I intentionally build community that is fulfilling and sustaining and outside of heteronormative bounds?鈥�

Puma Camill锚 first felt society鈥檚 constraints when she was 6 years old. While dancing one day, Camill锚 moved in a way considered 鈥渢oo feminine鈥� for the body she inhabited. Members of her family chastised her for transgressing an invisible line that Camill锚 never knew existed. From that moment on, she avoided certain gestures, trying to perform the gender she was assigned at birth.

鈥淢y body became stuck. It started giving in to the stereotypes of Blackness imposed by society,鈥� she says. 鈥淢y body started learning the performativity of [Black] masculinity.鈥� At 14, when Camill锚 began practicing 鈥攁 mixture of martial arts, dancing, and acrobatics that enslaved Afro Brazilians invented to defend themselves from their enslavers鈥攕he began reconnecting with movement. Despite capoeira鈥檚 battle roots, the sport is also a kind of dance, one that allowed Camill锚 to move gracefully and expansively in a space that鈥檚 demographically . 

At 18, she came out as a gay man and became homeless. As a result, she began having sex with men for money. Walking the streets of Campinas, Brazil, she met trans women and (a trans femme identity specific to Latin America) who depended on sex work to survive. Capoeira became a practice of strength for Camill锚, much like it was for her ancestors; not only did she practice the sport to reconnect with her body, she also used it as a tool for defense when things turned violent with her clients.

Then, in 2019, Camill锚 attended a ballroom event in Campinas. Watching people vogue made her heart flutter and reminded her that the movements were already inside her; she just needed to listen to how her body wanted to move, abandoning the masculine performance that was forced upon her. From that moment, Camill锚 became a pioneer of mixing vogue and capoeira, creating a new form that includes flips and acrobatics with whips. Today, Camill锚鈥檚 unique dance methodology is world-famous, and she has accrued . The dance she invented allowed her to better understand her gender identity. 鈥淏allroom helped me understand myself as a femme queen, as a trans person, as a travesti,鈥� Camill锚 explains. 鈥淚t helped me search for my own expression, for my marginalized, feminine body.鈥�

Camill锚 knows that not all communities are welcoming of a body like hers鈥攁fter all, her own family tried to suppress her real essence. In the U.S., it鈥檚 estimated that , a direct result of families rejecting their queer children. The , however, helped her listen to her body. 鈥溛蘼胧悠� and more, I see my body as political communication,鈥� Camill锚 explains, emphasizing that she uses dance to challenge how people see her body鈥攎asculine, oppressed, nonexistent鈥攁nd articulate how she wants her body to be seen鈥攆eminine, exquisite, solid, and real. 鈥淚 tell my story and encourage people to listen to their bodies.鈥�

In 2022, Camill锚 founded (Capoeira for Everyone), a nonprofit collective that鈥檚 inclusive of all bodies and genders. Camill锚 doesn鈥檛 want kids to ever feel like she did, so she鈥檚 advocating for more inclusion in her field. 鈥淚 want to pierce the bubbles of masculinity and femininity that are imposed onto us,鈥� Camill锚 says. 鈥淢any people are attached to those rules, and when I show that I exist and share dance with them, they鈥檙e more likely to liberate themselves.鈥� 

Philadelphia-based multidisciplinary artist, scholar, and ex-cam girl challenges the very concept of the human body in her work. As a Black queer femme born in a Christian family, she has always tried to make sense of the ways her body has been hypersexualized and adultified since age 15. On Instagram, under the handle , Ibaorimi photographs her own body, dressed in Black femme aesthetics, as an exploration of the intersection of Blackness, desirability, and liberation. 

鈥淲hat even is Black bodily autonomy?鈥� she wrote under a photo of her cleavage and lips. 鈥淸Bodily autonomy] is a principle and a promise of settler-colonialism. That is a principle and a promise within the confines of an anti-Black world. This world revolves around our negation.鈥� 

Ibaorimi鈥檚 Instagram handle is a reference to used by members of the Los Angeles Police Department and other public officials to describe the murders of people of color who were considered 鈥渘onhuman.鈥� The term was often used to refer to sex workers killed by police. A doctoral candidate of African and African Diaspora Studies at the , Ibaorimi is attempting to reclaim the term and think beyond the bounds of being human. 鈥淚鈥檓 not gonna wallow in the sadness of not being human,鈥� she says. 鈥淚f being human means being like my oppressors鈥攐h baby, I don鈥檛 want it.鈥� 

By exploring the body beyond humanity, Ibaorimi hopes to find novel ways of liberation that aren鈥檛 compromised by anti-Blackness, tokenization, and . If we invented another mode of existing, would it be easier to conceptualize a world beyond racial capitalism? Recently, Ibaorimi moved home due to a family emergency. She is now doing care work for a family member, which has resulted in a reckoning with her own limitations. 鈥淭his body is committed to liberation for Black people and people who are oppressed by way of gender and sexuality, but I also think my body is trying to learn how to not overcommit to the things that we know we may not be able to carry as well.鈥� 

This shift in energies has revealed to Ibaorimi how important it is to model transparency about capacity in organizing spaces. 鈥淧eople may feel like they鈥檙e wearing themselves thin and down, and when they鈥檙e honest about where they are, it helps you as a person, as a community with them, to be honest about where you are too,鈥� she said. An organizer for the Philly chapter of the , an organization focused on the liberation of Black people, and , a grassroots collective led by and for sex workers, she has found that being honest about how much she is able to do has encouraged others to do the same.

Being honest about capacity 鈥渢eaches you to be graceful with one another,鈥� Ibaorimi says. 鈥淏eing in principled struggle with your community is not about being punitive and disciplined. I think part of it is making sure that we鈥檙e organizing within a framework of grace and understanding. It encourages folks to just be more genuine with one another.鈥� Ibaorimi is right to safeguard her mental health: A 2015 study found that . A politic of care that recognizes the limitations of organizers is essential to preserving a body that can work for the collective. 

From that understanding, Ibaorimi believes it鈥檚 possible to extrapolate the world we want to organize for: a world where care work isn鈥檛 expected based on gender or race, but given according to our limitations, needs, and affections. This approach is particularly important for Black women and femmes, who often take on . Resting to get ready for the next struggle against white heteropatriarchal capitalism is a necessity. 

Vilissa Thompson, a Black disability rights consultant, activist, and writer, had a different body than most of her friends when she was growing up in Winnsboro, South Carolina. That created an obstacle to accepting her body, so she attempted to fit in instead. 鈥淲hen it [came] to embracing my body, I was doing so in comparison with other folks,鈥� Thompson says. 鈥淣ow I really understand that this was due to ableism and how we view disabled bodies, how we engage with disabled people.鈥� Thompson was only able to embrace her body when she gave up on being like everyone else.

Even after finding her vocation as a disability activist, Thompson didn鈥檛 feel like she fit in. Though she saw herself as a disabled person, she hardly saw Black women represented in the disability rights movement. So when she read an article on her Twitter timeline about beauty and disability that only included white disabled people, she created the hashtag . 鈥淲hen you鈥檙e bombarded with stories about disabled bodies, they鈥檙e usually about white cis disabled women,鈥� Thompson says. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 see disabled bodies much in general, but when you do see them, they don鈥檛 look like you. And so it鈥檚 still about this connection, of connecting how your body is viewed versus those who are the majority.鈥�

It was this exclusion that inspired her to create spaces for disabled people of color. As a Black woman who is under 4 feet tall and uses a wheelchair, Thompson found that connecting with other Black disabled women helped her navigate the invisibility she always experienced. 鈥淔inding a community of Black disabled women helped me understand we aren鈥檛 isolated, that we鈥檙e all figuring this thing out,鈥� Thompson says. 鈥淲hen we find each other, we鈥檙e not so alone. I think it reduces loneliness and that invisibility.鈥�

Founder and CEO of , an organization focused on promoting self-advocacy and strengthening empowerment among disabled people, Thompson is an expert in creating intentional community. 鈥淢y work is about helping Black women, girls, and femmes to find a community sooner than most of us did,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 think it makes a major difference, finding that community, increasing [your] sense of self and empowerment about your autonomy, your body expression. Being able to do that earlier means so much.鈥� 

Thompson says that understanding you鈥檙e not alone in fighting the -isms and -phobias of society helps articulate solutions to everyday ableism. She highlights intergenerational relationships as a cornerstone of this work. 鈥淚t鈥檚 critical to learn with older folks, not just on an activist, professional level, but also on a personal level, learn from the life lessons they have learned in relation to the disability and outside of that.鈥�

For Sonya Ren茅e Taylor, author, activist, and founder of , is essential to achieving collective liberation. Originally a , Taylor began to delve into body-liberation work in 2010 during a conversation with her friend Natasha. Natasha, who has cerebral palsy, was hesitant to ask her sexual partner to use a condom. She thought she couldn鈥檛 demand something from her sexual partners and that she should feel lucky to be having sex in the first place. Taylor responded quickly: 鈥淵our body is not an apology. You do not use it to say 鈥楽orry for my disability.鈥欌��

In July 2010, Taylor turned the phrase into that reads, in part: 鈥淭he body is not an apology. Let it not be common as oil, ash, or toilet. Let it not be small as gravel, stain, or teeth. Let it not be mountain when it is sand. Let it not be ocean when it is grass. Let it not be shaken, flattened, or razed in contrition.鈥� In 2011, Taylor posted with a caption about society鈥檚 insistence that she make her fat, Black body smaller. 鈥淔or this one camera flash, I am unashamed, unapologetic,鈥� she wrote. People began sharing their own photos, showing off their racialized, disabled, queer bodies without shame. That was the birth of The Body Is Not an Apology, a global digital media and education company that Taylor says has now reached tens of millions across 140 countries who seek to learn about identity, liberation, and social justice.

Taylor鈥檚 work focuses on what our bodies lose through capitalist white supremacist heteropatriarchal socialization and how we can get those things back. 鈥淚 tell people all the time, you鈥檝e never seen a self-loathing toddler,鈥� she explains, emphasizing that society teaches us the wrong lessons about our bodies. 鈥淎nd so the question has always been, how do we get radical self-love that dismantles these bodily hierarchies? What has happened to us that has disconnected us? What is it that has shown up in our lives鈥攊ndividually, interpersonally, socially, economically, politically鈥攖hat has created the fissure between us and our radical self-love?鈥�

If we can peel back the layers of our socialization, we can reconnect with our radical self-love. In turn, that self-love will help us see what needs to change in our communities and societies. Taylor says that after years of trying to be a desirable body in the Black community in Pennsylvania, and then years of activism in which she saw her body in opposition to white supremacy, today she is trying to simply exist. 鈥淚f we were all able to reconnect to and re-embody the knowledge of radical self-love, then we will recognize that that external system is a lie,鈥� Taylor says. 鈥淎nd then we would divest from the system, we would decide that the [hierarchy this society operates on] is a lie, and a vicious, oppression-based entity. And what would it look like for us to collectively divest? When we collectively divest, then the world changes.鈥�