*Warning: naughty language ahead!
I dreamed about a white wolf last night—a wolf the color of snow—climbing up curvy mountain paths to get to the cabin where I was staying.
The wolf attacked me.
It was vivid and visceral. I tried to choke the wolf, to shoot at it with a gun filled with purple paint.
The dream felt like anger, wild and raw, pulsing in my veins.
I could feel the wolf’s breath whispering into my ear, nudging me into darkness.
The good kind of darkness I feel at this time of the year—as Autumn drapes herself upon us, as leaves are painted with red and rusty orange, crinkling and dancing to the ground.
The air changes. It smells musky and mysterious, a perfume that tells me it is time to dive deep.
And I love the depths. I love the Scorpionic, passionate, wild, honest-as-hell depths.
And as all mermaids know, when we dive into these deep places within us—we must do so gently.
Because it can be hard and just plain painful to sift through the muck—to see the parts of ourselves that make us shake and quake and want to run the fuck away.
You know, the parts of ourselves we don’t particularly like.
As a woman, my anger is still a source of so much fear for me.
Oftentimes, I avoid it at all costs, preferring to be serene like the smooth top of a lake.
But that’s exactly why I liked the intensity of this dream. That’s why I love thinking about running with wolves, bare feet and bare ass against the soaking wet emerald forest floor.
There is a part of me that longs to howl. To be sharp. To get out my claws when I need to.
Yes, I am tender and sweet—but there is more to me.
There is a fierceness people don’t always expect—because I’m blonde, bubbly, 5’3″, and wear flowery dresses a lot.
I kinda like that it takes folks by surprise.
‘Cause they don’t know I’m a goddamn phoenix.
Sometimes, it takes me by surprise too.
That brings me to this week.
I voiced something to my man. Before the words escaped my mouth…cue the fear, for I was so scared to speak up that I paced outside the bathroom for a good 30 seconds before that inner wildness nudged me forward.
It was something I feel mildly ashamed about: fears about him and his ex working together, a text she sent him, jealousy, and also just wanting to assert myself, to make sure good boundaries were in place.
It’s interesting, just as wise as anger can be—it can also feel destructive in moments. Self-destructive—especially when we stifle things down, down, down, until a volcano erupts.
So I decided to speak up rather than silently simmer. It’s always a profound moment of courage when we do that. It’s a moment of profound self-reverence: believing that our needs and feelings do matter.
The conversation with my man went well, although I probably was more assertive than I needed to be. But there is this built-up, pent-up bonfire of expression inside of me.
So I let it warm me. I let it bring me to tears. I let it inform me. I let it pulse through me like the birth of a star.
For once, I wasn’t really calm and collected. I wasn’t a “perfect, cool girlfriend.”
I was me. Upset, protective, real.
In a way, maybe I was testing this man to see how he’d feel about that—the shades of my heart that aren’t pink or pretty.
He embraced it.
It felt good. It felt powerful.
But it’s most powerful to embrace this within myself.
Can I meet myself here? Can I look into my eyes and own this feral, raw part? Can I explore her as she bares her teeth at me?
I won’t lie, it’s a bit scary sometimes.
But this is a revolutionary act of self-knowing. Of all that is found in rising to the challenge to continually befriend every aspect of ourselves and—gasp!—share this beauty with the world. Because there is such beauty to be found in our depths—especially the parts we aren’t sure we like.
So honestly, I kinda love getting in touch with this untamed part—she is the opposite of the shiny, billboard femininity we are sold that tells us to count calories, smile at all costs, and restrict ourselves. What bullshit!
She is messy and real; her love is fierce, and she doesn’t care about being a size zero, banishing all traces of cellulite, or attaining some imaginary state of flawlessness.
As women, getting in touch with our wildness, our full-bodied fleshiness, and our anger is especially potent because there are still so many times where we are not encouraged—or able—to express ourselves fully.
Where we do not feel heard or seen.
Where there simply is not room for our intuition, feelings, needs, or opinions.
Where our wise, witchy ways are cast aside.
And I am mad about that. Aren’t you?
So let us harness this as feisty fuel for transformation, for shedding our skin yet again. For speaking up, feeling our truth, listening, holding space, and becoming more…who we truly are.
The growth never ends, my friends.
Autumn speaks in shades and scrolls of all of the ways we are called to change—mostly by deeply accepting ourselves.
The smoky Autumn air dances in my hair as night falls like a velveteen cape, and I think how I really like feeling my fire and strength—juxtaposed with my watery, tender heart.
The two are not mutually exclusive.
They need each other.
We can be compassionate and kind—and complete badasses.
May we dive deep as Autumn embraces us—into the darkness, the mystery, the sexiness, the parts of ourselves we have hidden away.
My god, they are exquisite.
They are weird and wild and wonderful.
I am excited for the glorious gems we shall find.