Women like you and me, we don’t get angry. We ruminate.
We ask ourselves questions like:
Why did he do that to me? Why did she hurt me?
When what we really mean is:
Why do I always compel people to hurt me? Why am I so darn flawed?
Sometimes, my dear, we’ve got to admit that he/she…
…Is an asshole. A jerk. aka someone who in that particular instance did not (could not?) manage their own shadow.
Sometimes, it has nothing to do with us.
We have permission to let ourselves get angry. With a capital “A.” Righteous Anger is our Spirit’s gift to us. It’s a visceral reminder of where our boundaries are, even when our people-pleasing selves would like to forget that such things exist.
Women like you and me, we learn to yell. We learn to break things. We learn to let blood-red fire run fast through our flesh until we throw our hands up and dance. We let our anger rise and let our tears fall. We move in firm-footed, curvy-feminine, anciently choreographed steps until we meet Her. That Bad Ass Woman inside of us who remembers our power, knows who we are and who we aren’t. We dance until She becomes us, We becomes I, and me becomes you.
Hello Bad Ass Mama. Welcome home.