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For the Gritty, Truth Seeing Goddesses in ALL of Us.

Tomorrow is International Day of the Woman. This felt right to celebrate women everywhere.

Here’s to the gritty, truth-seeking goddesses who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.

Here’s to the brave, badass females who have blasted through a nightmare of shit to be standing here today.

The luscious ladies who love feeling the raw earth beneath their bare feet, and bow down proudly to the supple, winding curves of their thick, fleshy hips.

Here’s to the creative vixens who breathe their sun-soaked, moonlit, windswept, star-dusted dreams to life, every damn day—rain or shine.

Here’s to the wise women who, time and time again, have chosen their own hearts.

I applaud you, with every fibre of my being. I honour you.

I am you.

We are strong and confusing, complicated and powerful, magical and maddening—we are meant for so much more.

We will never be happy stuffed in a sparkling white kitchen with a floral apron, a sleek bun, and carefully applied pink liquid lipstick to complete the wax mask of our fake smiles, playing the role of perfect wife or perfect girlfriend or perfect mother.

Our hearts will choke. Our spirits will scream.

We will never be happy sitting in a grey office working 9 to 5, watching the clock tick slowly, while our souls shrivel to the buzzing sound of fluorescent lights, unable to breathe in the fresh, muddy scent of gusty winds and the frantic, jewelled sweetness of budding cherry blossoms.

We will never be okay sipping champagne, trying on haute couture, and talking about ways to make our asses skinny and recipes for dinner parties and how to get a man to love us.

We don’t really give a damn about any of that—

We want to talk about soul. About dripping truth. About magic. About death. About struggle. About the world’s heart-breaking pain.

We wanna stand in the billowing breeze and decipher wise whispers of the wind as it roars through each singing strand of our thirsty, messy hair.


But, for a painfully long time, we have denied who we really are.

We have tried and tried and tried to squeeze our wild wings and paint-splattered hearts into the cramped plastic moulds of what we “should” be.

How miraculously we have failed.

Why do we rip ourselves up into sad, feathery pieces, trying so hard to slide into pretty little lives that, quite frankly, don’t even appeal to us?

Normal won’t cut it—extraordinary is what we’re here for.

We are meant to merge with the moon, cry with the rain, rise with the tides, and shine with every goddamn slice of shimmering yellow sun.

We are meant to run through crowded streets, with love in our hearts and tangerine scarves streaming through our fingertips as we dance to the sobbing drum of the world’s crying tears.

We are meant to make art that grows gritty wings and inspires sad, closed hearts to break the fuck open.

We are meant to stick out our tongues in a fierce lion’s breath in the most unexpected moments—


Our dreams and visions and destinies must come first.


Because we aren’t here to play small; to be polite, people-pleasing pretty plastic barbie dolls with empty, lifeless hearts—we are here to make waves, to chase dreams, to stand in the blazing fires of truth—and we know it.

We are here to live from the harrowing depths of our souls.

Why deny it anymore?

Let’s reach inside our supple skin and taste the thick river of bubbling magic that pulses through our veins like rubies.

Let’s shed the suffocating lives that were never meant to be ours—the lives we’ve brainwashed ourselves into tolerating, but are slowing killing our souls.

It’s time to burn, baby, burn!

Let’s make a pact with our hearts—a vow to listen that inner spark of magic, of truth, of delicious fire that cannot be denied for a minute more.

Let us promise now—

To honour who we really are.

To be forces of light, of love, of sacred power.

To let our star-dust spirits rise—and soar and soar and soar!

Extraordinary flows through our veins. Normal won’t cut it.

We are meant for so much more.

Badass, truth-lovin’, dream-weaving sisters, let’s stop smacking our spirits down and squeezing ourselves into suffocating roles that will never satisfy our thirsty, roaring souls—

We won’t fit.

We aren’t meant to.

Our wings won’t slide through small doors. We are meant for so much more—

Our dreams and visions and destinies must come first.


Please, answer the rain-drenched, whispering wolf calls of your wild soul.

Do not let your wings lie sticky and suffocated, in a sad clump on the floor.

Do not let your vibrant spirit wither into a colourless grey existence.

Do not let your jewelled destiny lie dormant and dead.

Do not live the life you think you “should.”

Fuck should—

Live the life that makes your heart beat louder, the life that sets your bones sweetly on fire, the life you can’t stand not living—

Answer the blossoming calls of your wild soul!

Go, now—

Into the lush, emerald forest of who you really are.

Find yourself.

Discover your gifts.

Share your gritty magic with the world.

Follow the promising path of your courageous destiny.



Do not settle for an empty half-life.

Do not settle for good enough.

Do not settle for anything less than exquisite or extraordinary.

Oh, sweet wise, wild woman—do not settle—

At all.

~ Sarah Harvey ~

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