I’m not as wild as I once thought.

I don’t need to restlessly wander to every corner of this expansive earth in search of an ineffable something that I’ll never actually find.

I don’t need to break free from every ill-fated societal structure and never, ever belong to anyone.

I don’t need to be Miss. Independent just to prove that I can be.

I don’t need to like the rebellious burn of whiskey better than the soothing sweetness of herbal tea.

I don’t need to travel solo to exotic, faraway places for the next 20 years just so I can say I did.

I don’t need to say that I don’t give a f*ck, because I very well know that I do.

Yowza—mostly, what I need isn’t what I expected at all. But isn’t it downright juicy when we surprise ourselves? As we learn, as we grow, as our hearts break open and soften—we see the truth.

My truth gleams before my eyes now, like a succulent ruby. I bite right in. The bittersweet juice of undiluted honesty drips down my chin—and I see what I really need…

I need closeness and connection. I need simple, non-fancy, intimate moments shared with the people I love. Those are the things that matter most to me.

Being a wild woman? It’s overrated; it’s not always authentic at all.

Wildness can be nothin’ but a mask. For me, it was a great and glorious mask—it was an epic stardust rope of spinning bullsh*t chaos to hold onto, ever-allowing me a free pass to avoid getting close to others. I could hide, but pretend I was being free-spirited. I could run away, but pretend it was my restless, gossamer wings calling me to a new, exotic place. I could go numb, and say I was practicing being “unattached.”

But I don’t need to hide anymore; I don’t want to keep my distance anymore. And I don’t want glossy excuses for isolating myself and not feeling with my whole, succulently sensitive heart. I’d rather risk it all—I’d rather be myself and be gut-wrenchingly vulnerable and get close and get hurt—than hide behind some strange concept that means nothing in the end.

Wouldn’t you?

Being a wild woman is overrated.

Now don’t get me wrong, because hell yes, I do love feeling wild and free. I love dancing under beams of tender moonlight in my bare feet. I love feeling mountain winds comb through my hair with unparalleled fierceness as I write poetry and stick out my tongue and sing at the top of my lungs to the swaying pine trees.

But a life woven only of these things is cold and empty. It’s no life at all.

Wildness has to be grounded in feeling. It needs to be connected to our hearts. It needs to be connected to other people.

Because being wild doesn’t necessarily mean wandering alone forever and never committing too much or connecting too deeply to anyone, anywhere, or anything.

That just sounds like living in fear. It sounds lonely and sad and nebulous and not remotely okay—like a weird, slightly narcissistic hell. It sounds cool—but we’re human beings, we need warmth—we need softness, connection and comfort.

And maybe those things don’t sound risqué or rebellious or sexy, but you know what? They’re real. Isn’t real what we’re really after?

And in reality, I thrive in structure, routine, and stability. F*ck, I love those things most of all!

I love coming home to the same person every night. I love sitting in my same booth at my favorite coffee house with the same jasmine green tea I always get. I love the sweet predictability of routine. I love quiet evenings at home.

I love variety, too, and sure—breakin’ the rules feels damn delicious sometimes—but I thrive in stability. I think most of us do.

We thrive—not in always flying and floating away, but in staying—in having our feet firmly planted on the grassy ground.

So here’s to all the sh*t we maybe deemed “boring,” which I’m finding out, is actually the best sh*t of all—

Being dependable.

Being responsible.

Caring.

Being honest.

Being loyal.

Commiting.

Loving.

Having our sh*t together.

Consistency.

Vulnerability.

Sharing genuinely from our tear-stained hearts.

I don’t need to search all over the world for anything.

I have my heart, right here.

And my heart lights up my skin in a sea of goosebumps as I type these words, as a shy tear spills, as I let go of the idea of this strange, erratic creature I thought I needed to be, as I begin to settle deeply into who I really am.

The only thing I want—the only thing I need—is to curl up with this cup of tea and sit down next to someone I love.

And ask them about their day.

And tell them about mine.

Being a wild woman is overrated.

Because really—what’s more radical—what’s more wild—in this strange, at-times cruel world—than living from the vulnerable gorgeousness of our hearts?

 

Author: Sarah Harvey

Image: Flickr/ martinak15 

Editor: Emily Bartran