May 3, 2016

She is Not Crazy.


Flickr/Sarah Zucca

For more, read Jessie Wright’s similar and wonderful article, which was published first on elephant!


She is not crazy for crying three times a day, tears flooding down her apple cheeks like a cherry blossom rain.

She isn’t crazy because she’s a walking, wild ocean of swirling, ever-changing emotion—combustible smiles, sweet serenity, fierce pain, love, anger and fear all dancing across her face, like shadow puppets, seemingly all at the same time.

She isn’t crazy for wanting more than small town life, empty nights out at boring bars and slingin’ back bright pink cosmopolitans ’til she can’t feel the pain of those stupid stiletto high heels on her exhausted feet.

She isn’t crazy for feeling more in her pinky finger than some do in their entire bodies.

She isn’t crazy for thinking that small talk sucks balls.

She isn’t crazy for spending hours upon hours alone, sobbing into the soft seams of the blue velvet midnight sky, chasing butterflies as she prays to tall spruce trees, weaves moonbeams into stardust poetry and meditates in wide-open wheat fields with no one in sight but her own naked, shivering heart.

She isn’t crazy for speaking the ugly, beautiful truth you’re too scared to say.

She isn’t crazy for being so unapologetically human, messy, cracked and fractured in spots, unarguably flawed—yet showing all of that raw glory to the world, vulnerably, with shaky knees—every damn day, rain or shine.

She is not crazy for her euphoric emotional highs and rollercoaster despair dip down-lows.

She is not crazy at all—she’s stunningly alive.

She’s a goddess, a mystic, an electric woman, a dancing breath of fresh, wild air.

She doesn’t fit into any glossy definitions or expected, preconceived notions.

That’s no accident.

She lives outside the box, she breathes to bend the rules, her spirit colors outside the lines—with crayons in luscious colors you’ve never even heard of.

She’s born to break the mold, crack expectations like stale eggs and from the chaotic muck of it all—create a brand spankin’ new, freedom-soaked paradigm that speaks to the timeless truth of soul, rather than the cheap, glossy billboard blush*t of what society thinks she “should” be.

She’s a woman on a mission, a glowing soul with a juicy purpose—and she knows it. She can’t un-know it.

‘Cause she sure as hell doesn’t belong in cute little half-hearted relationships as a perfect, polite wife or working long hours in lackluster office jobs with white paper and white walls and white, blank paper souls, coming home to a perfectly painted white picket fence and mixing her husband a martini as he talks about sh*t that bore her spirit senseless.

Oh no.

She belongs to truth, to vividness, to budding willow trees and paint-splattered, tear-stained poetry.

She belongs to buzzing neon-colored, gritty, grimy secrets, thunderclaps, sudden rainstorms, wild tornadoes and wet, muddy mint-green grass.

She belongs to healing—to alchemy, to magic—to moments of sudden lightning-like realizations.

Yes, she often doubts it, but she does belong. She belongs more deeply than she’ll ever know.

But all too often, the world takes one look at her walking down the street, with her flowing hair and flowing skirts, her wild eyes, her tender heart blooming wide open like a stargazer lily, as she sings aloud and dances to the drum of the earth’s heartbeat, tender tears spilling down her cheeks—

And the world shakes in it knees.

It laughs at her, loudly.

Between its cruel giggles, the world says she’s crazy, that she needs medication—

But she is the cure.

She’s the soft, electric medicine for numbed apathy and exhausted, withering souls and closed, boarded-up hearts surrounded by brick walls—hell, she is the cure to her own bruised, battered heart.

She is a goddess, a mystic, an electric woman, a dancing breath of fresh air—meant to shock others awake, meant to shock herself awake, first, above all.

If she believes in herself for one split-second, she can create vines of ripe beauty beyond her wildest dreams—she can become a blistering well of love and stand proudly, firmly in the deepest of truths and use her thundering, honeyed voice to be of benefit.

She isn’t destined for a numb, safe, staged little  life—and she knows it. She can’t un-know it.

She is not destined for anything ordinary at all.

She is being called now to write her own inky stardust story, spread her wings, make beautiful sh*t happen, howl with the wolves and run with the cheetahs of her wildest inspiration.

She is being reminded to tend gently to her own heart. To not hold back at all.

For she is born to weave dreams, to hurt, to love, to suffer, to cry, to laugh—to heal—and rise proudly in flickering tangerine flames above the petty “he-said, she-said” gossip mud and sh*t of it all.

She is meant to stand tall in her soul’s misty breath.

And make art out of every goddamn inhale.

And emboss magic into the most unexpected exhale chaos.

And share her hard-won wisdom with the parched hearts who thirst for it.

And yes, the world might tell her to shut up, it might tell her she’s nuts

But she will never shut up—not anymore.

Because she knows she’s not crazy, no—

She’s stunningly alive.

Exactly as she’s meant to be.


“Not even they can stop me now…their heavy words can’t bring me down. Boy, I’ve been raised from the dead…” ~ Lana Del Ray, “Radio”



Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Flickr/Sarah Zucca

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