I do not trust a woman who speaks only in the language of light, easy breezy, optimistic platitudes and "live, laugh, love" BS.

This woman who offers platitudes instead of presence. Who hides the truth. Who polishes her pain until it gleams like glass—sanitised, silent, sterile. The kind of woman who smiles with clenched teeth and whispers, “Everything happens for a reason,” while her rage boils beneath lavender oils and sacral incense.

No. I trust the woman with dirt under her nails and blood on her thighs. I trust the one who doesn’t flinch when I cry too hard, rage too long, fuck too fiercely. I trust the woman whose demons are not hidden in closets, but leashed at her feet like loyal wolves.

She’s not falsely claiming to be healed. She is holy.

Because she is whole.

The woman I trust does not walk above it all. She is in it. She's going through it. She owns it.

Her shit is a mess, but she turns it into gold. She just keeps walking through flames and rising above. Walking through it.

Give me the woman closing funding rounds in boardrooms by day and lighting candles for her ancestors at night. Give me the woman who leads a team of twenty and still takes sacred pause to bleed in ritual.

Give me the woman with a Chanel bag in one hand and a burning journal in the other. The one who mediates multi-million-dollar deals while carrying a heartbreak she alchemised into poetry.

Give me the woman who’s navigating IVF, holding space for her friends, managing a team, and still whispering affirmations to her belly like ancient prayers.

Give me the woman with a wellness empire and a wild past, who wears her story not as shame, but as a sacred textile. The one whose success includes shadow, whose luxury includes lineage, and whose pleasure is no longer performed—but embodied.

Give me the woman who’s in family court by day and reading tarot by night. Give me the woman who’s raising three kids on benefits and still makes love like a storm goddess. Give me the woman with chronic pain and an altar by her bed, who screams in agony one hour and writes spellwork in the next.

Give me the woman with matted hair, wild dreams, a broken phone screen and a heart too big to stay silent. Give me the woman in debt, in grief, in menopause, in *it*—but still pouring honey on her toast like it’s a sacred rite.

That woman? That’s the future.

She is menstrual blood and moonlight. She is screams that shake soil. She is tears turned salt turned spell. She is orgasm and ovulation and obliteration all at once.

She is not a goddess of the stars. She is the goddess of the dirt, the sex, the blood. The woman who roars. Who weeps when her roots are seen. Who laughs at her own madness and makes poetry of her pain.

She is not performative. She is primordial.

We have been sold the myth of the pure woman.

As if purity is power. As if cleanliness is currency. As if the only woman worthy of love is the one who has not yet howled. 

Fuck that.

Purity was a lie created by patriarchy to keep you from knowing your power. They sold you the dream of the Housewife while severing your connection to who you actually are. For decades she has served all but herself, learned to smile while doing it, while slowly dying inside. But she is not her grandmother. She is not her mother. 

She is the woman who has faced her darkness and licked her wounds clean. She is the woman you should follow into the fire.

Because she has already burned. And she survived.

She is fully claiming her dirty, divine, delicious self in all its chaos.

She knows you were never meant to be palatable.

She knows you were meant to be powerful.

She knows you were not made to be pretty when you cry, or quiet when you bleed, or tame when you love. She knows you were made to embody a body that remembers war and worship. A cunt that carries cosmic wisdom. A mouth that spits spells and moans in tongues.

The sacred feminine is not the good girl. The good girl is made up for cowardly men to feel big, brave and important. She was crafted in back rooms and boardrooms—an obedient muse, a curated doll, a sterilised archetype so fragile it can’t hold a single drop of blood. The good girl is the chain dressed as a charm, the cage sold as security. She is the fantasy of the fearful, made to be small so someone else could feel grand.

The sacred feminine does not shrink. She spills. She breaks rules. She refuses the social norms that have kept women small, quiet, obedient. She rewrites the script handed to her. She breaks beds. She claims her body and her lust as sacred, not shameful. She makes love from power, not permission.

She breaks generational curses. She heals what her mother could not. What no one before her could do. She ends cycles—of silence, of suffering, of survival mode—and births new ways of being for those who come after.

She breaks silences. She speaks what was unspeakable. She tells the truth, even when her voice shakes. Even when the world tries to mute her. She breaks the cycle of apology. She no longer shrinks herself to fit into others’ comfort. She doesn’t apologise for existing, succeeding, bleeding, desiring, raging, or shining.

She breaks open what has been too long hidden—then builds altars from the rubble. Her pain becomes her ritual. Her healing becomes her offering. What was once buried becomes holy. 

Every fracture in her life becomes a fault line for power. Every wound is now a source of insight, magnetism, strength. Her brokenness doesn’t diminish her—it activates her.

 She arrives with a voice too loud for polite company and a body too alive to be boxed in. She is not here to make you comfortable. She is here to make you do anything. But she remembers who she is. She lives in accordance to the waters of her being.

She is the walking rebellion to a world that tried to tame her. She isn’t just surviving—she’s transfiguring everything she touches. She is the witch, the wild one, the woman too much.

We don't need neat and pretty, we need a manual for the unapologetically free. This manual would have to include some pretty heady chapters:

Bleed Boldly: Let your menstrual blood be war paint. Offer it to the earth. Smear it in ritual. Don’t just hide it—honour it.

Fuck Shame: Name it. Scream it. Dance it naked in your room. Shame is not yours. It was gifted by a world that fears your power. Return it.

Burn the Mask: Stop smiling when you want to spit. Stop saying yes when your womb shrieks no. Burn the mask. Bare the teeth.

Make Art of the Madness: Write your rage. Paint your grief. Make orgasmic offerings of your fury. Make your pain sing.

Be Wild on Purpose: Not for rebellion, but for remembrance. The wild was always your natural state. Return to it.

I am just so sick of perfect instagram stories and curated walls of endless drudgery all pretending to be the same thing. Aren't they bored of the surface they "life" in? Don't they dream and yearn for living? For existing out of 2D? The world doesn't need more influencers in rental cars and hotel lobby videos. It needs your sacred fury. It needs you to fucking do something original like embodying your true self and living on your own terms according to your own deeper urges.

The world does not need more agreeable women. Fuck agreeable women - leave that to the AI. (Oh, don't get me started on the AI...)

It needs women who cannot be controlled. Women who no longer apologise for being too loud, too wet, too wild, too wise. Women who know that softness is sacred—but only when chosen, not enforced.

The world needs women who do not flinch from the dark. Who own it. Who have crowned their chaos and made it queen.

You do not have to be good to be powerful.

You only have to be true.

To the woman still hiding behind light—

Let them tremble when you speak your full name.

Let them squirm when you dance with your shadows.

Let them try to shame you, and let their attempts fall like ash at your feet.

You are not meant to be understood by everyone.

You are meant to be unmissable.

You are fire. You are feral. You are free.

And they will never know what to do with you.

Except follow.