**Warning: a bit of impassioned, naughty language below! 

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“Though her soul requires seeing, the culture around her requires sightlessness. Though her soul wishes to speak its truth, she is pressured to be silent.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women who Run with the Wolves.

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There is a wild beast, a gritty goddess, a fierce force of nature hiding inside the rib cage of every woman.

Tucked away, chained up, curled politely in the darkest corners of her heart’s musty basement.

This wolf, this falcon, this winged huntress, this messy, untamed lioness—she’s been violated, stepped on, silenced, burned, bruised and humiliated.

She has been hated, degraded, pushed down and told to shut the fuck up.

So, this magnificent, powerful beast—she hides.

She shakes and starves, shriveling up, shrinking away like a wrinkled flower, embodying only a tiny fraction of her wild, flowing, feminine beauty.

Her wise, thundering voice has been dialed down to a fragile, uncertain whisper—her hungry bones are weak, hunched over, filled with a fierce, unfulfilled longing for something magical, for something more.

Her fur is dull, matted with tears, and shame is written all over her body, a masterpiece of the suppression and silence that has infected her entire life—

But don’t think for a second that this is her ending—

Oh, no—

It is her most delicious beginning.

It is our beginning.

Sisters, our hearts are still wild as the whipping winter winds. Our spirits are still fiery and nimble, ready to soar, ready to blossom, ready to kick some unapologetic ass.

Our teeth are still sharp, ready to cut into the meatiest truths and taste life fully as it lands like budding raindrops on our thirsty tongues. Our claws stand at the ready to rip through ripe bullshit, to hunt for truth, to pray madly for love.

The wildness inside us always survives—

No matter the terrible things we have experienced.

No matter how many times we have been violated, silenced or abused.

No matter how long we have forsaken Her.

The gritty goddess inside us—our phoenix, our falcon, our fucking fire-breathing dragon—survives.

Oh, she survives—

She survives darkness and pain, grief and loss, heart-shattering trauma, mind-bending beauty, terror and juicy joy,

She thrives.

We thrive.

Because our flames, our spark, our fire—it will not be snuffed out before we take our final breath.

We won’t let it, will we?

Sisters, I feel your hot tears pouring through me like salty lava, landing on my toes, as they water this earth with proud, fiery blessings.

And I know—

I know our pain. It is your pain—it is my pain. It has been my shame and tear-soaked silence, too.

Not anymore.

Sisters, let us rise—

Let us reach across roaring turquoise oceans and electric city skylines, across crowded sidewalks and winding country roads, across small, charming towns and chilly, snowcapped mountaintops—and take each others hands.

Let us gather together, fingers weaved like gritty spider web threads—

And let us breathe. Let us be.

Sisters, wise and wild sisters, sweet and courageous sisters,

Listen—

Listen to the sacred stirring whispers, the ancient growling in your bones calling you home.

Dance in the pouring rain, be guided by the whipping winds and majestic swaying pine trees, and find peace in the ecstatic wolf cries of your ancestors.

Feel throbbing surges of liquid lightning spill into you and split your bones open, as you morph into the fierce, powerful woman you are.

Yes.

And remember now, your place as a woman—

Your place to break free, to shatter squelching expectations, to eradicate silence, to heal, to speak, to soar, to expand, to encase the entire world in an exquisite, red-hot roarin’ rose petal flame of wisdom, of beauty, of fierce, unyielding love.

Let us stand together, let us howl, let us cry, let us sing, let us scream—

Sisters, unleash your wild beast, your gritty goddess—

Your phoenix, your falcon, your wolf, your lioness, your huntress, your fire-breathing dragon—

Release her from your heart’s musty basement, stroke her fur lovingly, lead her up the creaky wooden stairs, and fling open the front door—

Let her fly, let her soar into strawberry dipped sunsets and fire-kissed morning skies, let her thirsty feet run free on the wet, moonlight-soaked mossy forest floor.

Let her roar, just as she is meant to.

Unleash your shame

Unleash your silence

Unleash your beautiful voice

And stand up.

Sisters, do whatever it takes to stand up.

Even if you’re scared and shaking—struggling, hurting or aching

Even if there are massive tears blooming like bright blue wildflowers in your eyes

Stand up, dear sister.

Rise, rise, and keep rising—

Let apricot-kissed flames singe your hair as shooting stars etch wisdom on your heart

Let the unshakeable truths of your heart consume you like a torrid lover.

Let your soul lead the way.

Let your luscious, starving spirit show you the path you’re meant to take.

Stand up, dear sister—

Honor yourself gently.

Love yourself madly.

Nourish the gritty goddess shakti power that is rightfully yours.

Feel the fiery light of the sun blossom through your stomach and bless your entire body with a sea of citrus-scented kisses.

Let the winds dry your remaining tears.

And stand up—

Claim this life as your own.

Paint this moment, this day, this second, with the wild, unbridled tornado of raw energy pouring through your soul like a thousand juicy tangerines dripping and funneling through your naked fingertips, landing on the emerald grass with a soft, satisfied splash.

Oh yes—

Paint the entire world, the vast universe, coat the entire solar system with your soul’s emblazoned, one-of-a-kind magic.

Sisters,

Let us stand now,

Together.

And speak.

And soar.

And be exactly who we are.

There is no time to be silent anymore.

Let us stand

Together

So proudly together

And speak.

And be

Free.

Finally free.

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More from Sarah:

For the Women who are Meant for More.

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Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Flickr/Katia Romanova