Sometimes that wound looks something like this: shine brightly, be clever, funny, big, take up space, express your true self, go for it, and then have men, and other women say, “Who do you think you are? You’re getting a little too big for your britches!” And then shrink back down, feel paralyzing fear when speaking out, accept abuse, accept inequality, feel shame, seethe with impotent anger…
I saw women I know and love be squelched, quieted, shushed, made small, made ashamed. I also saw women rise the fuck up anyway. I’ve seen them awake and aware and not taking it. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes loudly and shrilly.
Hillary Clinton was, to me, a symbol of evolving past that Wound. Fact is, if she’d been a man?
And so the profound grief I feel today is tied to that. Because ultimately the Mother Wound also looks like the expression of hatred, fear, racism, sexism, bigotry, and intolerance.
I am taking responsibility for my grief by acknowledging that I am creating it on purpose. I do not blame the other candidate or those who voted for him for my grief…they are not creating it, I am. My grief is clean and healthy. It purifies and cleanses and burns away that which is not needed. It galvanizes me to fierce action that I am proud of…that I respect.
There’s a part of me – the Mother Wounded part – that worries, what if some women reading this voted for him and are offended by what I have to say? Or what if some women reading this think I am silly and shallow and don’t really know what I am talking about?
And then the Grown-Ass-Woman part knows she can hold it all. Grief and hope and curiosity and a desire to truly understand.
First shock, then grief. It is so important to choose it and to feel it. Anger too. Clean mature fierce anger. And then we rise. We love. We go high…and then even higher. I will choose grace. I will choose equanimity. I will choose dignity. But for now I choose grief.