My Sacred Rage

Happy New Year, beautiful peeps!

I am big on numerology (and astrology, Human Design, etc.) and this year is the year of 8 (2+0+2+4): abundance, balance, and success. Astrologically, the number 8 is ruled by Saturn, the lord of time and karma. It’s also the first full year of Pluto in Aquarius. Simply put: it’s time to reap what you have sown— so what have you sown? Personally, my Aquarius stellium and I have been waiting for this one! My compound investments at the Bank of Good Karma are ready to be cashed out, hehe.

In December, as we were closing out the universal year of 7, a year of introspection and solitude, I felt myself closing out major cycles of my decades of people-pleasing or having my boundaries violated, which then ultimately led to my exploration of my Sacred Rage.

When I was a child, I learned the best way to stay “safe” aka survive was to do what others wanted and to keep giving, often past the point of my threshold. I understand now why, as an adult, I am so keen on spending time alone and find myself to be so hyper-self-reliant. Everyone hurt me, and I had no protection as a child to overrule or escape this in my household. I also didn’t have the option to be angry: I was abused or hit more if I was.

It took me many years in therapy to even access my anger. Eventually, I began boxing as an outlet for my newfound rage. But I realized, once I had found it, I had tons of it, and how, most importantly, that rage is sacred. Because it symbolized a growing self-respect within as well as the validation that I have, and always had, a right to be extremely angry.

So for this month’s newsletter, instead of one final piece, I decided to make it a hodgepodge of pieces that I’ve collected expressing my sacred rage. It seemed rather fitting, too, since my rage is scattered between so many places and people.

I hope you enjoy and please email me back to share any thoughts!! I love to hear from you.

Mucho love & hugs,
Amy

Word count: 1,683

Premium subscribers, please find the full pieces below:

Hand over my swollen belly. Retching over the porcelain toilet. Sweat beads dropping. The close echoes of psychic purging moans. It took me puking profusely in the Costa Rican jungle to finally acknowledge the dagger you had stabbed my thigh with, many years ago. Unbeknownst to me, this chronic pain, I’d been walking around with— heavy and silent, infected, puss-filled, scabby yet still miraculously fresh. It was also in that balmy jungle where I reunited with you after almost a decade. In the dead of night, as you walked slowly towards me, you leaned in for the warmest embrace and I simply smiled. With all the deranged strength I could muster from my ailing body, I screamed so loudly we heard the flocks of birds scatter from the trees, as I yanked the mighty dagger out from my leg. Just for a moment, I held it up high— to let us marvel at the glory of all the blood my holy vessel could produce, and then politely returned your instrument to you by slashing and stabbing out your eyes.

— What’s Rightfully Yours: An Ayahuasca Fever Dream

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