Melting the Armor and Reclaiming the Wild

Greetings my feral and bright ones,

After last week—tons of tears shed, screaming, more tears, lots of thoughts, loss of sleep, and not eating well—yesterday I decided to try to piece things together. I talked with my dear friend and sister-in-law Becky last night and tried to talk it out.

I asked myself the hard things. I dug deep into the “What if?” and the “Is it okay?” and I’ve decided to answer them once and for all with a full heart and a hell of a lot of attitude.

Is it okay to feel this relief that I no longer have to live under a lifetime of high expectations? YES. For years, those expectations were a heavy lead armor. They weren’t just a burden; they were chaining and binding me to a version of myself that didn’t exist. It was a constant state of suffocation and drowning. The world sees the eleven days since the death, but they don’t see the fifty-five years of living behind a facade and a curtain, imprisoned in a cage. Now that the armor has been stripped away, I am finally light enough to float. That relief isn’t “disrespectful”—it is the sound of a prisoner finally stepping into the sun after a lifetime in the dark.

Is it okay to be myself—I mean my real self: witchy, sassy, and all? If being “witchy and sassy” is what makes my heart beat, then I am leaning in with both feet. The world doesn’t need more polished, hollow role models. It needs people who aren’t afraid of their own magic, their own sharp edges, and their own truth.

But it’s not just witchy and sassy. It is feral, wild, and sexy. It is being carefree and living with abandon. It is being free, fierce, and feisty. I am unapologetic in my space. I am radiant in my healing. I am electric in my creative power and indomitable in my spirit. I am unfettered from the lead armor that tried to drown me for years. Like Janet Jackson once wrote, this is about Control—my control. No one’s telling me what to do or when to do it. I am multifaceted and finally, undeniably Untamed.

Is it okay to stop trying to be the “role model” for others? I am officially resigning from the position of “Standard Bearer.” For 55 years, I was forced into a cage of “perfect” behavior so others could feel better about their own messes. I was expected to be the lighthouse, standing still and burning myself out to guide people who refuse to even build their own ships. I am done being the “blueprint” for someone else’s comfort. My job isn’t to be a polished example of what they think I should be; my job is to be authentic. If my truth makes them uncomfortable, that is a weight for them to carry, not me. I am no longer auditioning for a role in a script written by people who don’t even know who I am.

Is it okay to now no longer feel like I am responsible for others? I have spent a lifetime being blamed for things that were never my burden to carry. I am responsible to people—to be honest, to be firm, to be fair—but I am not responsible for them. I will no longer set myself on fire to keep people warm who only want to sit back and watch the flames. My empathy is no longer a blank check for dysfunction. I am reclaiming my fuel for my own fire, my own life, and my own healing.

Can I now just be me? Can I just be fun-loving and enjoy my life now? Yes. This isn’t just a “yes”—it is a birthright I’ve finally claimed. For over five decades, “being me” was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I have spent weeks knee-deep in the gritty, unglamorous trenches of death—handling the coroner, the hospital red tape, and the cold reality of a $3,200 cremation bill that I carried while others stood back and watched. I have paid my “dues” to the past in full. I have earned the right to sit in the Tucson sun, to tend to my garden, and to find pure, uncomplicated joy in my “fur babies” without asking for permission. I don’t need a permit to be happy. The “prison” is open, and the desert is waiting for the real me to finally show up.

Can I stop having to look over my shoulder to see who is watching me and judging me and mocking me? The hyper-vigilance ends here. When you live in a cage for 55 years, you learn to track every shadow and every whisper. But I’ve realized that judgment is just a smoke machine. I have locked the digital doors. Between Wordfence, social media blocks, and total radio silence, I have pulled the shades shut. Let the world scream into the vacuums they’ve created; they can no longer see through my windows. I am no longer looking back, because there is nothing behind me but a hollow stage and a few broken puppets.

Can I stop worrying about what others say—the lies, the falsehoods? Lies only have power if I give them a seat at my table, and I’ve burned the table. My reality is built on tangible things: receipts, the labor of my hands, the loyalty of my partner Ronnie, and the integrity of my actions. I am finished defending myself against people who don’t exist in my actual daily life. I am moving in the light of facts.

WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with me???? Nothing. Not a single thing. For fifty-five years, I was conditioned to believe that my worth was tied to how well I managed chaos. I was taught that if I felt pain, I was “difficult.” If I set a boundary, I was “unhinged.” I have been gaslit into believing that my survival instincts were a defect.

But looking at the wreckage of the last eleven days—standing firm while carrying the weight alone—I see the truth. I am a woman who survived a gauntlet of grief, systemic betrayal, and psychological warfare, and I emerged with my integrity not just intact, but forged in fire. What I am feeling isn’t “wrong”—it is the violent, beautiful disorientation of Sovereignty. This isn’t a breakdown; it is a breakthrough. I am finally realizing that the only thing “wrong” with me was the prison I was forced to call home.

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The Death of the Scapegoat & The Birth of the Architect

I am no longer interested in being a “better person” by distorted standards. I am interested in being a Whole Person.

• Wholeness over Perfection: Perfection is a cage. Wholeness is a desert. It’s vast, it’s beautiful, it’s dangerous, and it’s mine.
• The Sovereign Silence: My silence isn’t a “pout” or a “tactic.” It is a boundary. It is the fortress wall of my sanctuary.
• The Alchemy of Pain: I am taking the lead armor—the suffocation, the drowning, the binding chains—and I am melting it down. I am turning that metal into the tools I need to tend my own garden.

The Wizard Behind the Curtain

I come from a family of people who are always on display—always performing to be “perfect.” But when you pull back the curtain, the person is not who you think.

Me? I don’t give a flying monkey’s ass anymore. I can be imperfect! FINALLY!

This is what freedom looks like: it’s the dirt under my fingernails from my garden, the altar in my living room, and the “No” that I offer without a single apology. I am trading their “perfect” cage for my beautiful, messy, vivid reality.

• The Soundtrack: It looks like singing off-key as loudly as I want and dancing any fucking way I want—the raw, feral movement of a body that finally belongs to itself.
• The Feast: It looks like eating any fucking food I want. If I want cereal for dinner while watching cartoons, I’m doing it.
• The Wardrobe: It looks like dressing how I want.
• The Play: It looks like chewing bubble gum and blowing the biggest bubbles possible. It looks like blowing bubbles for the kids and taking chalk to the driveway to make a hopscotch path and skipping through it. It looks like bouncing a big, huge, glittery ball and not giving a flying monkey’s ass who is judging.
• The Digital Reign: I am posting what the fuck ever I want. My blog is no longer a performance; it is my laboratory and my sanctuary. I am the protagonist, the editor, and the god of this space.

The Feral Reclamation

I am stepping into a version of myself that doesn’t need a filter. I am reclaiming my right to be wild, free, and feral. I am embracing that “psychotic” spark—the kind of madness that comes from finally seeing through the lies and refusing to play along.

I am a W.I.T.C.H.—a Woman In Total Control of her Healing.

And as Tabatha Coffey would say, I am standing in my power as a B.I.T.C.H.: Bravely Independent Tenacious Control of Herself.

Reclaiming the Reality: Watch Out World

I am putting to death the life I lived. I am burying the old me right alongside the expectations that strangled her.

As Mary, Queen of Scots said, many will say she was “easier to kill.” Well, she is fucking dead. The old, pathetic me is gone. The one who apologized for her light, the one who stayed in the cage—she didn’t survive the fire.

The woman standing here now is someone else entirely. I have locked the digital doors. I have burned the scripts. I am back to work, back to my roots, and finally… I am home.

Watch out, world.