A Letter to Wild Women Everywhere

Dear fellow badass,

You don’t need to adventure to impress a man; you are just as ruthless and rugged as they are. Your supreme beauty is matched only by your raw ferocity in the wild. You lick blood off your scabs and snot rocket while trail running. You peel dead skin off your feet and forget to shave your legs. You are a walking contradiction; one minute, astute and poised in heels at an office, the next, you’re tearing up your Civic on a backcountry dirt road, praying that it doesn’t get stuck in the mud. You are the glorious master of choosing conscious dichotomy. You are a fireball.

In an increasingly digital world, you choose romantic escapism. You sprint to the hills, and you do it alone if you have to. Tradition is a dress that fits poorly on your capable, athletic frame, so you marvel at words like “family” and “fixed interest” because of their foreign nature. They are like ancient Latin scrawled across the back of your skull, forming the roots of everything you spit out in garbled verse. Blood ties feel heavy and incomprehensible. Rather than planning for children of your own, you’d rather lean into the wild mystery of where we all came from. You feel the stir of the infinite in your bones.

You are a sexual cherry bomb. You embrace words like minx and slut. You refuse to let the patriarchy shove your nose into what you’ve done like a terrier, because true feminism means we get the same freedoms as the boys. Shame is history. You choose brash confidence, and on bad days, you spoon-feed it to yourself in the form of Sid Vicious and Kathleen Hannah. You know that fierce sexuality should not equal alienation, and joy is a drug we cannot afford to lose.

You are wise and weary of capitalism. You have shrunk your belongings into a human-sized box so that money has less bearing on your decision-making. Minimalism has become a constant companion, and it feels unbelievably healthy to live untethered and well within your means. No one can own you when the paper tying your name to the machine disappears. Do not believe in loans or lawyers. Write your signature in the wind.

I am sure that romanticism beckons and tugs at your innermost parts. Take care not to lose its tether. My sleeves are bloody from wearing my heart for so long, and I am certain that you’ve also felt like an alien in your loose-haired, fire-hearted stride. Stand tall and do not waver. Plant your feet firmly in both worlds, and dig your toes into the mud.

You are stronger than you’ve been led to believe. Your thighs carry an ocean of metaphors across the landscape so that your mind is free to roam. Their thick, muscular roots are the burning birthplace of movement itself, and your pride swells as they grow and become more able. It is wise to reject the commodification of femininity and the stick figures it has buried in the minds of our fellow women. Your foundation is built in sinew and ancient bristlecone, with rough skin and savage hair.

You feel suffocated by the tight grip of compromise that city life has placed upon you. The pressure to specify a purpose feels maddeningly dull in its permanence. Do not allow your life in the metropolis to discourage. Instead, strive become a Swiss army knife of a woman. A nurturer who swears and cries and bakes the best chocolate chip cookies on the block. It is worth it to crave everything in a swirling halo of life surrounding you. Messy, but worth it. The silence of the ordinary will undo your soul. Instead, crave the crescendo.

Wild woman, we need you now, more than ever. Your golden flame will light the tunnel to our next phase of revolution. Burn the candle at both ends. Strive to create a star in the center.



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