Get comfortable with the discrepancies. Drink in the dissonance. Learn to love the freedom in the floundering. Don’t stop the story short.
I find it darkly ironic that the very terminology that symbolizes epic female persecution now might be used against a movement for women.
Still I spoke. As one by one my whānau, my family, turned away. The old story. I was supposed to drown. The truth was stained and shamed them.
I reached my threshold of silent witnessing. I could feel my voice open up. Instinctively came my roaring defender and protector, saying: Fuck you for not acting with integrity. Fuck you for not taking responsibility. Fuck you for hurting me. Fuck you for manipulating me. Fuck you for not being ...
My pain cleansed out the wounds in the landscape of my being, and healing full of grace and honey began its slow slide into the cracks. And oh, this sacred concoction, it burns.