In my grandmother’s house in Brixton, there was a small, lacquered box filled with yellowed photographs and dog-eared letters from Lagos. She used to say that every crease in the paper held a memory, a story of a life lived between two worlds. I think of our bodies in much the same way as living archives of our histories, both personal and political. They carry the weight of our ancestors’ journeys and the imprint of societies that attempt to define us, making the fight for bodily autonomy a constant, lived experience. Our skin, our hair, and our very posture tell a story of resilience, adaptation, and defiance against these external pressures.
This notion positions the body not as a neutral, biological entity, but as a site of constant negotiation. It is where the grand narratives of the state and the intimate stories of the self collide in a complex dance. The way we move through the world is shaped by unspoken rules about who is allowed to take up space and how. These rules are not arbitrary; they are the products of centuries of political and social conditioning. Understanding this is the first step toward reclaiming our physical selves from external control.
Consider the pervasive influence of neoliberalism and body politics, which reframes our bodies as projects to be managed and optimised. We are encouraged to see our health, fitness, and appearance as individual responsibilities, solvable through market-based solutions. This cleverly obscures the social determinants of health, such as poverty, pollution, and discrimination. It turns a collective problem into a personal failing, a profitable illusion that keeps us striving for an unattainable ideal.
The Body as a Political Archive
This logic extends deeply into our understanding of personal identity politics, where authenticity is often packaged and sold back to us. We are offered identities to consume, from fashion trends to wellness fads, that promise a sense of belonging. Yet, this form of identity is fragile, dependent on the whims of the market and external validation. It distracts from the more profound work of building a self rooted in community, history, and self-determination.
The political act, then, is to read our bodies as texts of resistance, to understand the stories they tell. It involves recognising how systemic oppression and wellbeing are intrinsically linked, challenging the idea that our struggles are purely personal. When we view our bodies as archives, we connect our individual experiences to a larger, collective history of struggle. This perspective transforms the act of self-preservation into a political statement against erasure and control.
In the UK, this archival reading is particularly potent, given its history of colonialism and migration. The bodies of Black and brown people in Britain are living documents of the Empire’s legacy and its aftermath. They navigate a landscape of contested belonging, where their very presence can be framed as a political issue. To exist authentically in such a context is to challenge the nation’s selective memory and its exclusionary definitions of identity.
The scars we carry, both visible and invisible, are footnotes in this archive, referencing battles fought in private and in public. They speak of encounters with racism, sexism, homophobia, and transphobia, mapping the terrain of social injustice onto our flesh. Acknowledging these marks is not an act of dwelling on pain, but of honouring the resilience it took to survive. It is a way of saying that we are still here, our stories intact.
This framework also helps us understand the politics of disability, where bodies that deviate from the norm are often medicalised and marginalised. The social model of disability argues that it is society’s barriers, not individual impairments, that create disability. By insisting on accessibility and challenging ableist norms, disability activists demonstrate how claiming space for one’s body is a fundamental political act. Their work provides a powerful blueprint for all movements centred on bodily liberation.
The rise of identity politics in the UK can be seen as a collective effort to bring these archives into the light. It is a demand for recognition, a refusal to be silenced or assimilated into a homogenous national identity. It asserts that our diverse experiences and histories matter and must be accounted for in the political sphere. This movement is not about division, but about a more honest and complete telling of who we are as a society.
Ultimately, to see the body as a political archive is to reject its objectification and commodification. It is to treat our physical selves with the reverence of a historian tending to a precious document. We learn to listen to its needs, to respect its limits, and to honour its story. This is the foundation upon which all other acts of resistance are built, a quiet revolution that begins within our skin.
This perspective demands a shift from self-care as an aesthetic to self-preservation as an archival practice. It means nourishing our bodies not just to look a certain way, but to sustain our capacity for joy, for community, and struggle. It is about ensuring the archive remains vibrant and legible for years to come. This is a profound act of politicising mental health and physical well-being.
Therefore, the simple act of being—of tending to our bodies and honouring their stories—becomes a radical stance. It defies a system that profits from our insecurity and alienation from our physical selves. It is a declaration that our bodies are not battlegrounds for political debate, but the very source of our political power. In this archive, we find the strength for the fight ahead.
Reclaiming Bodily Autonomy in the UK: Beyond Choice
The faded pamphlet I found tucked inside a book at a car boot sale, its ink bleeding slightly from a long-forgotten rain shower, was from a 1970s Abortion Rights rally. Its slogan, “A Woman’s Right to Choose,” felt both powerful and strangely incomplete in the current moment. The language of “choice,” while foundational, often overlooks the complex web of social and economic barriers that limit our real-world options, a core tenet of the modern fight for bodily autonomy in the UK. True autonomy is not merely about having a legal right, but about having the resources, support, and freedom from coercion to make that right meaningful.
This is the central argument of the reproductive justice movement in the UK, a framework developed by women of colour. It broadens the conversation beyond abortion to include the right to have children, to not have children, and to parent the children we have in safe and sustainable communities (Ross & Solinger, 2017). It connects reproductive rights to issues of racial justice, economic inequality, and migrant rights. This intersectional approach shows how reclaiming bodily autonomy is impossible without addressing the conditions that constrain it for the most marginalised.
For instance, a person may legally have the “choice” to access contraception. Still, that choice is hollow if they cannot afford travel to a clinic, if they face language barriers, or if they fear judgment from healthcare providers. Similarly, the right to have a child is undermined by a lack of affordable housing, precarious employment, and a hostile environment for migrants. Reproductive justice activism strategies, therefore, focus on building community power and tackling these root causes, moving beyond single-issue campaigns to a more holistic vision of liberation.
Nowhere is this struggle more visible than in the fight for trans rights and healthcare. The current landscape of trans healthcare activism in the UK is a direct response to a system that pathologises trans identities and imposes gruellingly long waiting lists for essential care. Activists are not just demanding better services; they are challenging the very authority of a medical establishment that has historically policed gender identity. They are asserting the right to self-determination, a principle that benefits everyone.
The emergence of trans-led healthcare models in the UK, such as the services provided by organisations like GenderGP, represents a radical reimagining of care. These models operate on a principle of informed consent, trusting individuals to know their minds and bodies. They prioritise the patient’s wellbeing and autonomy over bureaucratic gatekeeping and psychiatric evaluation. This is a direct challenge to the paternalistic structures that dominate mainstream healthcare and a practical example of collective resistance through bodily autonomy.
This fight is fundamentally about who gets to be the expert on our own lives. For decades, the medical and legal systems have positioned themselves as the arbiters of identity, particularly for women and trans people. Building solidarity for bodily autonomy means challenging this hierarchy and affirming that we are the ultimate authorities on our own experiences. It is a demand to be trusted, to be heard, and to be given the power to make our own decisions.
The struggle is also deeply connected to mental health and systemic oppression. The psychological toll of having your identity constantly questioned, debated, and denied is immense. The fight for bodily autonomy is therefore also a fight for mental well-being, a refusal to internalise the shame and doubt that oppressive systems generate. It is a collective effort to create a world where our sense of self is not a source of distress, but of strength.
This requires us to look beyond the individual and toward collective solutions. The principles of mutual aid and community wellbeing are central to this effort. When communities create their support networks—whether it’s providing transport to appointments, sharing information about friendly doctors, or offering emotional support—they are building the infrastructure of autonomy from the ground up. These networks demonstrate that we can rely on each other when institutions fail us.
The legal battles are, of course, significant. Securing and defending our rights in law provides a crucial shield against discrimination and violence. Yet, the work of reclaiming bodily autonomy cannot end in the courtroom or parliament. It must be lived and practised in our communities, in our relationships, and in our interactions with the systems that govern our lives.
This means fostering a culture of consent and respect that extends into all areas of life. It means teaching the next generation that their bodies are their own and that they have the right to set boundaries. It involves creating spaces where people feel safe to be vulnerable and to ask for what they need. This is the slow, patient work of building a different kind of world, one conversation at a time.
The conversation in the UK is also shaped by its relationship with the United States, where the overturning of Roe v. Wade sent shockwaves across the globe. This event served as a stark reminder that hard-won rights are never permanently secure (Guttmacher Institute, 2022). It galvanised activists in Britain, reinforcing the need for constant vigilance and proactive organising to protect and expand bodily autonomy in the UK.
Finally, the fight for bodily autonomy is a fight for a more just and humane society for everyone. It asserts that our bodies are not property of the state, the family, or the market, but belong to us alone. It is a declaration of self-ownership that is profoundly political, challenging the very foundations of patriarchal and capitalist control. This is the future we are fighting for.
The Commodification of Self: Identity Under Late Capitalism
I remember finding a box of my teenage diaries, each one filled with collages cut from magazines, crafting an image of the person I wanted to be. This is the logic of late capitalism, a system that excels at turning our innate human need for identity into a commodity. It teaches us that the self is something to be purchased, curated, and displayed, a project of consumption rather than a process of discovery. This logic pressures us to become entrepreneurs of ourselves, constantly performing to increase our market value.
This process is a core feature of neoliberalism and identity, a source of profound anxiety that disconnects us from authentic feeling. The wellness industry is in its most sophisticated iteration, packaging wellbeing as a luxury good accessible only to a privileged few. This provides a vital identity and capitalist critique, as it frames health not as a human right but as a status symbol. It deepens the divide between the well and the unwell, the worthy and the unworthy.
Anti-capitalist approaches to mental health argue that much of what we label as individual pathology—anxiety, depression, and burnout are rational responses to an irrational system. Capitalism profits from our insecurity, creating problems that it then sells us the “solutions” for. Politicising mental health is therefore a critical act of resistance. It means rejecting the idea that our distress is a private, medical issue and instead framing it as a political one, asking what is wrong with the world, not what is wrong with us.
This pressure to commodify the self is also deeply gendered, a cornerstone of anti-patriarchy activism. Women and femme-presenting people are taught that their value is tied to their ability to be desirable objects of consumption. This logic also permeates gender and body politics, where even acts of rebellion can be quickly co-opted and sold back to us. A feminist slogan on a t-shirt made in a sweatshop allows us to feel like we are participating in activism through consumerism, a phenomenon known as “commodity feminism” (Goldman, Heath, & Smith, 1991), which distracts from challenging the system itself.
True resistance requires us to find ways of being that exist outside the market. It means cultivating a sense of self-worth that is not dependent on our productivity or appearance. This is a difficult and ongoing process, a form of intersectional resistance against a culture that tells us we are never enough. We must actively disengage our values from our economic output.
We find examples in communities that prioritise cooperation over competition. Community mutual aid networks operate on the principle of solidarity, not charity, building systems of support that bypass the cold logic of the market. The act of creating art for its own sake is another form of resistance. It reclaims creativity as a fundamental human need, not just a tool for generating content.
This is not a call for a complete withdrawal from the capitalist system, which is impossible for most. Rather, it is an invitation to be more conscious of how the market shapes our identity. It is about finding pockets of freedom and connection wherever we can. It is about remembering that our true selves cannot be bought or sold.
Yet, the most radical act in a commodified world is to insist on our own inherent worth, independent of any external validation. It is believed that we are enough, just as we are. This is the foundation of collective liberation strategies, a starting point for building a world where everyone is valued for who they are, not what they can produce or consume.
Intersectional Wellbeing as Collective Resistance
In the community garden I volunteer at, a small patch of land tucked between council estates, a group of older Caribbean women taught me how to grow callaloo. They shared stories of their childhoods in Jamaica, weaving tales of hardship and joy as they worked the soil. This, for me, is the essence of intersectional wellbeing: a practice rooted in community, culture, and shared history, standing in stark contrast to the individualised, consumerist models of self-care that dominate the mainstream.
Well-being is not a one-size-fits-all concept; it is profoundly shaped by our social locations. The concept of intersectionality and self-determination, pioneered by scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw, is essential here. It helps us understand how intersecting identities—race, class, gender, sexuality, disability—create unique experiences of both oppression and resilience (Crenshaw, 1989). A queer asylum seeker’s path to wellbeing will look very different from that of a cisgender, middle-class white woman, and our strategies must reflect this reality.
This is why mainstream “wellness” culture so often fails marginalised communities‘ wellbeing. It promotes practices that are often inaccessible, unaffordable, or culturally irrelevant. A call to “just go for a run” ignores the reality that not all neighbourhoods are safe, especially for women and people of colour. A suggestion to “eat clean” overlooks food deserts and the economic realities of poverty, highlighting the need for a more nuanced approach.
A truly inclusive framework for wellbeing must be grounded in social determinants of health. It must acknowledge that our health is shaped less by individual lifestyle choices and more by factors like housing security, access to education, and freedom from discrimination. This shifts the focus from blaming individuals for their poor health to holding systems accountable. It is a political act that demands social justice as a prerequisite for health equity.
This is where the power of mutual aid and community wellbeing becomes so apparent. These networks are a living embodiment of intersectional resistance. They are often led by and for marginalised communities, creating systems of care that are responsive to their specific needs in ways that state institutions often are not. They provide not just material support, but also a sense of belonging and solidarity that is crucial for mental and emotional health.
Consider the work of groups providing support for queer and trans people of colour. These organisations create spaces that are not just “safe” but affirming, where individuals can see their whole selves reflected and celebrated. They offer a powerful antidote to the isolation and alienation that come from navigating a world that is often hostile to their existence. This is a form of empowerment through community-based support that is life-sustaining.
These practices can be understood as a form of activist self-care. The term “self-care” has been co-opted by capitalism, but in its original conception by Black feminists like Audre Lorde, it was a political act. Lorde (1988) famously stated, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” This reframes well-being not as a retreat from the struggle, but as a necessary strategy to sustain it.
This approach requires us to move beyond individual solutions and toward collective liberation strategies. It means understanding that my well-being is inextricably linked to yours. We cannot be truly well while others in our community are suffering. This creates a powerful incentive for solidarity, for fighting not just for our rights but for the rights of all.
This is a direct challenge to the neoliberal emphasis on individualism and competition. It fosters a culture of interdependence, where we recognise our reliance on one another. This is not a sign of weakness, but of strength. It is the foundation of any resilient and sustainable movement for social change.
Building these inclusive wellbeing frameworks also involves challenging identity-based discrimination wherever we find it, including within our movements. It requires us to listen to the experiences of those most marginalised and to centre their leadership. It means being willing to have difficult conversations and to hold ourselves and our communities accountable. This is the ongoing work of building truly intersectional solidarity.
The garden where I learned to grow callaloo is a microcosm of this vision. It is a place where people from different backgrounds come together to share knowledge, labour, and food. It is a space that nourishes the body, the mind, and the community. It is a testament to the fact that well-being is not something you can buy, but something you create together.
In the end, intersectional wellbeing is a radical act of defiance. It rejects the idea that we must struggle alone and instead invites us into a practice of collective care. It is a recognition that our liberation is bound together, and that our greatest source of strength is each other. This is how we build a world where everyone has the chance not just to survive, but to thrive.
Building a Future: Solidarity and the Politics of Being
An archivist I once knew told me that every act of preservation is also an act of prophecy. By choosing what to keep, we are making a statement about what matters for the future. I believe the same is true of our political work; every act of resistance, no matter how small, is a vote for a different kind of world, a blueprint for a future we are trying to build in the present. This forward-looking perspective is essential for sustaining our movements and ourselves.
The foundation of this future is solidarity. Building solidarity for bodily autonomy is not just about forming alliances based on shared interests; it is about cultivating a deep, empathetic understanding of each other’s struggles. It means a cisgender woman showing up for a trans rights rally, or an able-bodied person fighting for disability justice. It is the recognition that our freedoms are intertwined and that no one is free until everyone is free.
This requires us to actively dismantle the “divide and conquer” tactics that are so often used to weaken social movements. Capitalism and patriarchy thrive on pitting us against each other, creating false scarcities and hierarchies of oppression. A key part of gender identity and political liberation is to reject these divisions and to recognise our common enemy in the systems that seek to control all of us, albeit in different ways.
This work is not easy. It involves confronting our privileges and prejudices and being willing to be uncomfortable. It means learning to listen more than we speak, especially when engaging with communities whose experiences are different from our own. But this is the necessary work of building trust and creating movements that are strong enough to win.
The goal is not simply to be included in the existing system, but to create entirely new collective liberation strategies. We are not fighting for a bigger piece of a poisoned pie; we are fighting to bake a different pie altogether. This means imagining and building alternatives to the institutions that are failing us, from trans-led healthcare models to community-based food systems and restorative justice practices.
These alternatives are not utopian fantasies; they are being built right now, in pockets of resistance all over the country. They are a testament to our creativity, our resilience, and our capacity for cooperation. Every community garden, every housing co-op, every mutual aid network is a piece of the future being assembled in the shell of the old world. This is the politics of prefigurative action, of living the world we want to create.
This is also where the politics of self-care and resistance find their truest expression. Sustaining ourselves for the long haul is not a selfish act; it is a strategic necessity. Burnout is a feature, not a bug, of a system that wants to exhaust us into submission. By prioritising rest, joy, and connection, we are ensuring that our movements remain vibrant and sustainable.
This vision of the future must be grounded in an intersectional resistance framework. It must centre the needs and voices of those who have been most marginalised by the current system. A future that does not actively dismantle white supremacy, patriarchy, ableism, and transphobia is not liberated at all. Our vision must be expansive enough to include everyone.
This also means rethinking our relationship with the planet. The same logic of extraction and domination that underpins the oppression of human bodies is also responsible for the climate crisis. A truly holistic vision of liberation must include environmental justice, recognising that the health of our communities is dependent on the health of our ecosystems. This connects the fight for bodily autonomy to the fight for a liveable planet.
This is a politics of hope, but not a naive or passive hope. It is a hope that is earned through action, through the daily work of building solidarity and creating alternatives. It is a hope that is rooted in the knowledge that we are not alone in this struggle. It is the hope I see in the eyes of the young activists I meet, who are reimagining the world with a clarity and courage that is breathtaking.
We must hold this vision of the future in our minds, even as we fight the battles of the present. It is our north star, the thing that guides us when we feel lost or discouraged. It reminds us what we are fighting for: not just the absence of oppression, but the presence of justice, joy, and genuine human connection.
In the end, the politics of being is a declaration that our lives, our bodies, and our identities are not problems to be solved, but the very source of our power to change the world. It is an invitation to see ourselves not as isolated individuals, but as part of a vast, interconnected movement stretching across generations. It is a promise to future generations that we did not stand idly by, but fought to build a world worthy of them.
From Body to Blueprint
To view the self through a political lens is to fundamentally alter our understanding of the world and our place within it. It transforms personal struggles into sites of collective power, reframing the act of living authentically as a vital form of resistance. The journey towards reclaiming bodily autonomy, affirming our identities, and nurturing our wellbeing is not a solitary path but a shared one, paved with the courage of those who came before us and built alongside those who struggle with us now.
The principles of reproductive justice in the UK and the fight for trans liberation show us that our freedoms are deeply interconnected. By building solidarity and centring the most marginalised, we move beyond individual survival and towards a future where everyone can flourish. This is not merely a guide to the self; it is a call to action, a reminder that in our bodies, in our communities, and in our collective dreams, we find the power to build a more just world.
References
Crenshaw, K. (1989). Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: A black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine, feminist theory and antiracist politics. University of Chicago Legal Forum, 1989(1), Article 8.
Goldman, R., Heath, D., & Smith, S. L. (1991). Commodity feminism. Critical Studies in Media Communication, 8(3), 333–351.
Guttmacher Institute. (2022). Roe v. Wade overturned: Our work continues. Retrieved from https://www.guttmacher.org/article/2022/06/roe-v-wade-overturned-our-work-continues
Lorde, A. (1988). A burst of light: Essays. Firebrand Books.
Ross, L. J., & Solinger, R. (2017). Reproductive justice: An introduction. University of California Press.
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