I’ve been writing for a while about the idea of being unleashed. How the word unleashed has sunk its fangs into me and the truth of it is swirling around in my blood and nerves.
The idea of needing or wanting to be unleashed. Because we have been tamed. Domesticated. Trained.
How we are taught that being unleashed equates to being out of control and very, very, very dangerous.
How fighting tooth and nail to become unleashed is an act of rebellion.
Which then leads me down the path of thinking about rebellion. How on the one hand many of us were taught to stand up for ourselves, to go against the grain, to be our own person. And then in those moments when we do we are told how we are wrong and bad.
The shame involved in not-so-simply speaking our truth, using our voice, being our own person. It runs deep and is fed to us over and over and over again, both intentionally and unintentionally, by our family, our “authority figures,” our culture.
We live in a culture that glorifies rebellion in may ways. Or really, only in a fashion sense.
Rebellion isn’t about fashion. Though, it certainly can be.
Rebellion is more complicated than our clothing or hairstyle choices though. It is messy. It’s dirty. It’s about dragging ourselves through the mud and shit and remaining unapologetically ourselves. It is standing firm and bending but not breaking.
It is being self-reflective and self-aware.
Rebellion is about being unleashed. Breaking the rules. Saying fuck you to the status quo. Shaking shit up and burning it the hell down.
Rebellion brings about change. Transformation. Destruction and then creation.
Rebellion is dangerous. To the status quo. To the patriarchy. To white supremacy. To misogyny. To getting on to get along. To silence. To shame.
Being unleashed is dangerous to all those players too. Because once we have torn off that leash, they can no longer control us. Because we don’t believe their lies any more. Because we now know our power, we feel it coursing through our blood and we’ll be damned if we are going to let the world continue on as if everything is just fine.
Shit is not just fine.
Rapists are not serving full jail time because it might be too damaging to them.
Teenagers are spreading racial hatred and calling for a return of slavery.
Women and children are being murdered. Every. damn. day. For speaking up. For having the “wrong” color skin. For wearing the “wrong” clothes. For daring to breathe.
And we are on our leashes and watching it all happen.
To me, the first part, perhaps the only part, of becoming unleashed, is allowing all we have tied, stuffed, pushed down, and tried to ignore to come up to the surface. To be acknowledged. To be seen. To be heard.
There is a lot of rage that is being stuffed. A lot of grief too.
We have a lot to be angry about. Our rage is very, very, valid.
We have a lot to grieve. So much has been lost and stolen.
I see the pockets and corners where rage and grief are bubbling up and out. I see the power coming to the surface. I watch women stand taller. Find their voice. See with new eyes. Know, in their marrow, their worth, their value, their truth.
So yes, perhaps being unleashed is dangerous.
Because once we know our worth, our power; once we trust our selves and use our voice… all hell breaks loose.
And it is a glorious and gorgeous rebellion to be a part of.
Let’s do this. Let’s let our our fury. Our rage. Let’s acknowledge our grief. Let’s open our throats and let out our wails, our howls and our roars.
Let’s burn this shit down and create something gorgeous from the rubble and ashes.
In rebellious solidarity, always.