over the pond.

At my sister's wedding last weekend, my Grandad pointed at the ink bramble on my shoulder blade and asked how long I had had it for. He rolled his eyes and asked me how many tattoos I have now, and why I spend money on them. I laughed and told him I liked them.

Often people ask me why but I rarely give them the whole answer.

Its true that I like them. I think that tattoos can be beautiful, that having somebody's art on your body is privilege and a joy, that they add interest and detail to otherwise plain stretches of skin.

But its more than that.

When you have had your body taken away from you, when someone has made you feel small and scared and out of control, when you look in the mirror and cannot recognise yourself anymore- you look for ways to reclaim what should be yours. For me, this has included cutting off my hair and getting tattoos.

There is something powerful about choosing what gets sunk into your skin, how far it goes, how wide it spreads. So often we get stuck with things we never wanted, things we carry around for years, things that permanently alter who we are.

There is relief in the fact that the person who hurt you no longer knows every inch of your skin, can no longer picture you fully when they close their eyes. They are stuck with a version that no longer exists. You are more real than they can imagine. You have outgrown them.

I got my seventh today, hand-poked by a gentle, 6"7 giant covered head to toe in ink. I got a single word: enough. I got it as a celebration of myself, I got it because I faced my abuser and did not crumple or fall to pieces, I got it because I did not hide behind a partner, I got it because I worked hard and spoken out and fought for as many safety measures as possible and protected myself because of them.

It's a statement that I've had enough, that I'm standing my ground, that you must respect my boundaries.

Its a word that is buried beneath my clothes. I won't post a picture on Instagram or Facebook. No one will see it unless I choose for them to see it.

My body is mine once again.

It's taken me a long time to grow into my skin. To learn its dips and dimples, the texture I find on the tips of my fingers, the way it folds round my bones.

And whilst this body has always been mine and mine alone, it has felt too often like a process of reclaiming, taking back, prying out of someone else's hands and expectations.

"Attractive" is a complicated concept.

There is an innate desire to be found desirable, to be looked upon positively, to be accepted.

But possession often accompanies desire.

I want you, I want you, I want you.
I want you.
I want you to be mine.
You are attractive to me.

Too often I found myself claimed by those who found me attractive. Part of me revelled in the attention, the words of adoration, the eager touch and the way eyes flicked over me and stared. But there is a dependency in understanding your attraction only through those who speak it over you. And there is a tendency to shrink into the skin that you find yourself in, moulding into the shape they want you to be.

"In those jeans, wearing that tank top, in that dress, in that shirt."

"With that hair, that lipstick, decorated by those earrings."

That is when you are attractive.

And the reverse. This is when you are not.

Men have scared me this week, reminding me of countless others who have grabbed and pulled and clawed at the idea of my body. I thought I had come to a point of self-belief and strength where I know who I am and what I stand for - and what people can and cannot do to me. But words spoken, casually, so casually, cut me down. I realised that I was still the same, terrified, insecure girl who is desperate for acceptance, who can so easily be exposed and dissected by those who believe they have the right.

Sometimes I want to hold myself close, lose folds of fabric, jersey soft, spun round, encasing this body of mine.

But the space I take up and the shape I am is beautiful and powerful.

Navigating this world as a girl is tough. And I am white, slim, able bodied, and cis-gender. I cannot even begin to imagine the challenges facing those who are not.

It feels like a fight to own your body.
It feels like a fight to present yourself honestly.
If feels like a fight to justify how you move through the world.

It's taken me a long time to grow into my skin.

To grow into my skin.

I am strong and I have made friends with the girl I see in the mirror and I know that I am the only one who can speak truth over myself.

Even as the sound of others drowns out my voice.

And my body is all I have to navigate myself through this world. I cannot give it up or contort it into not taking up any room.

I will not shrink, I will not hide, I will not cover.

It's taken me a long time to grow into my skin.

And I will not stop growing. No matter what you say and how small it makes me feel.

When I was sixteen years old, the top English classes were divided by gender and, as a joint assignment, we did a debate on whether we had reached gender equality, the boys arguing yes and the girls arguing no. I rolled my eyes, crossed my arms and begrudgingly ended up opening the debate. But I didn't agree with our stance. I thought that because I, Sarah Holt, could do whatever I wanted with my life regardless of my gender, that gender equality had been achieved for the entire planet. I wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to work up in London at a top firm and did not see why my gender would affect this goal in any way. I was strong minded and stubborn and thought that women were being weak and pathetic and making mountains out of molehills by getting annoyed at sexist jokes and catcalling.

When I was seventeen years old, I went on a sociology trip to the Women's Library in London to see a feminist exhibition on the gender pay gap and wrote 'I am not a feminist' on my feedback piece of paper and stuck it to the wall. All I had read for the past year or so were blogs of young, married, conservative housewives and I had decided that that was what I really wanted from my life. I thought that feminists did not respect my decision to take up a traditional gender role, that they wanted every woman to go into a high power, male-dominated career and that they did not respect women's natural, maternal feelings.

Now here I am, older, wiser, and proudly proclaiming my support of the dirty f word.

How I've got here is not a journey that can be summed up in one neat little blog post, some stories aren't mine to tell, and some things just clicked without a specific light bulb moment, but I wanted to write about why I support feminism and am proud to call myself a feminist. I am not an arrogant, stubborn teenager anymore and I don't often voice my opinions without careful consideration. I like to listen to other people, see other points of view, adjust my thinking when I realise that it has been flawed. I don't want to shove an argument down people's throats. I don't think that I am always right. But I do feel very strongly about the continual fight for gender equality both here in the UK and worldwide.

Today I got very angry with my sixteen year old brother and his constant digs at my support of feminism. He is firmly stuck in the camp that proclaims they are for equality and but not "feminism" as the very word elevates women over men. This is an incredibly common, misinformed, ignorant view that gets caught up on linguistics and fails to recognise the importance of a movement, belief and stance that works for the interests of our entire society regardless of gender. I got very angry, I threatened to smack him, which, in hindsight, is not an exemplary way to express to someone that feminists are not aggressive man haters. But, as I said, I was very angry. And I didn't actually hit him.

The thing is, it made me so angry because this small thing, this tiny little word, creates divisions between people who share common beliefs and should be working together to promote equality within society.

For a long time I did not know what feminism meant and I did not think it applied to me, I did not want to be a part of this hairy, pedantic, silly group of women, I did not want to be a "feminist". But I was. And this is the main point of this post: I was a feminist even when I refused to admit it and even if you are also refusing to label yourself as such, unless you believe in gender inequality, you are a feminist.

At sixteen, I thought that I didn't need feminism because I could do and be whatever I wanted regardless of my gender. However, the achievement of this mentality was only through the hard work and activism of feminists that changed society's view and opinion of women. The belief that gender shouldn't be an obstacle for me or anyone is a feminist belief. I was a feminist.

At seventeen, I thought that I didn't need feminism because I wanted to conform to the traditional, maternal role as a wife and mother. However, what I failed to realise was that feminism is not the elevation of women in CEO positions over women who stay at home with their children, but the belief that both women and men should be free to choose whatever career and lifestyle that they desire without judgement. The belief that I could choose to do with my life what was right for me as an individual and not as a woman is a feminist belief. Yet again, I was a feminist.

The stigma surrounding the word is heavy, the connotations almost entirely negative and many people have called for a new term, to replace "feminism" with "humanism" or "equalism". But the word is not wrong. Whilst there are many repressive social attitudes towards men that need to be challenged, women still require a greater advocacy. Not just in the UK but around the globe. With the world emerging slowly from a patriarchal system, women need more support, we need women's rights activists. Some people struggle with that statement as it apparently means that we are not supporting genders equally, but it is just a fact. It's like the time that the #yesallwomen campaign on twitter was countered by the #notallmen; it missed the point. At no point was it suggesting that all men are involved in some secret patriarchal club where they meet up to discuss the  importance of the ongoing oppression of women and how to most effectively remove their rights, it was simply showing the lingering effects of a patriarchal system and how women in particular are affected daily. Whilst we fight the ongoing battle for equality, we must fight for women. And this is why the word feminism is still relevant today.

It was a long, stubborn journey to get me to where I am now. And I should not begrudge my brother for being at the beginning and not the end. But we shouldn't just lie down and accept people's ignorance, because they are young or because they "just don't understand". I challenged my brother today because I know that the ideas I was fed at sixteen about men and women manifested themselves in my own relationships in a damaging way. It is not too young to be informed. He will sulk, he will pretend that he doesn't care that he upset me, but he will start to think about why I was so angry and why feminism is such an important issue to me. Slowly, through encountering different people and different experiences, he will hopefully realise that feminism is not a dirty word. It is a word that proudly declares that women are important, that what we should and shouldn't be can't be determined by society's pre-packaged idea of gender, that equality is the only way forward. And one day perhaps I will share with him more than I can ever share with this space on the internet as to why I personally am so passionate about feminism.

We need to stop focusing on words and start focusing on actions and changing society. Whether you claim to be for or against the term feminism, if you believe in gender equality, lets actually start fighting for it. There is a long way to go with regards to be actions and attitudes and we shouldn't be fighting each other, we should be fighting together.

Once, Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on my door and asked for my dad. I live in a vicarage, two doors down from a gorgeous village church, and they made the natural assumption that my father was a vicar. The natural assumption, but the wrong one.