I used to think in order to be worthy, I had to be “good.”
And for a little girl who dreamed big dreams,
And had wild hair,
And an untamed mouth,
The idea of being 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 felt stifling.
𝘉𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭.
𝘚𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩.
Better yet— 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.
And as a college student who lost her dad,
Had a habit of binge drinking,
And a love of self loathing,
The fact that I couldn’t be 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 felt shameful.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘴.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘺𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘺,
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘦.
Better yet— 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
I carried shame around like a heavy coat—
An armor from intimacy,
A cloak of my brilliance.
For years, I believed it was me that was broken,
And not the system that sold us our insignificance.
In my adult years, the disapproval was subtle,
Disguised as concern,
Or just inconvenient truths.
𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘫𝘰𝘣.
𝘐𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶?
𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴.
It wasn’t until I chose to claim all of myself,
To share my story,
And declare my truth,
That I felt free to be unapologetically me,
And I want that freedom for you, too.
If you want to be great,
Don’t strive to be 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥.
Instead — push the limits,
And your limitations you’ll lose.
I’m dedicating this to the divine feminine,
To the wild woman,
So join me, in our reclamation.
Let’s rewrite the narrative,
Let’s reclaim our wisdom,
And let’s watch the paradigms burn.