I didn’t grow up in a very religious home. Concerts are where I know to worship. Joy, to me, in its most potent form, feels like expelling lyrics loudly at a stage. It feels like the rattle of drums in my bones. At concerts, I learned to find communion with strangers. I learned to be grateful for the sorrow and scars and coming of age from which great music is born. The performers are more preachers than deities, though we meet them with godly reverence. When we’re lucky, the artist is a young woman.

Over its 15 years on the air, The Bachelor franchise has had some of the most aggravatingly attractive, square jawed, toned, and tantalizing contestants a producer could dream of. Every season, a sea of white faces, usually decorated with an occasional pinch of color, descend upon the Bachelor Mansion to drunkenly vie for the immediate and undying attention of one beautifully sculpted white person. But now, for its 34th season (which starts tonight), the franchise has finally stemmed its wave of “caucasity” by casting its first black bachelorette, Rachel Lindsay.

The United Nations has committed to achieving gender equality and empowering women and girls everywhere by 2030. Some specific targets include ending all forms of discrimination against all women, eliminating all forms of violence against all women, ensuring women’s full and effective participation in public, economic, and political life, and ensuring universal access to sexual and reproductive health resources and reproductive rights.

As with other sport, there are several “official” competitions sanctioned by licensed organizations for college rugby. But there are also unofficial matches—our “friendlies,” our festivals. During these events, teams gather for weekends full of rugby matches, drinking, bruises, wearing over-the-top costumes, and even more rugby. Nothing says “fun” to these people quite like slamming into each other full force while a little buzzed and wearing a tutu.

I was in seventh grade, a twelve-year-old pudgy, buck-toothed, frizzy-haired, acne-prone girl totally oblivious to my supposed physical flaws and shortcomings. I lived in my own sheltered bubble. I went to school, did homework when I got back home, and then played in the backyard with our neighbor’s kid. I went to the library with my mother a lot. Perhaps most informatively, though, I lacked exposure to most media. I watched TV only once a week and seldom watched movies (except for the occasional viewing of Dumbo). This fostered a sense of cluelessness about societal expectations of beauty.

Our society very clearly communicates that pretty is everything. Pretty is skipping breakfast. Pretty is counting calories. Pretty is losing weight (and not gaining it back). Pretty is being told by friends that “you look so skinny.”