The Sacred Rage Underneath Your Exhaustion

This is for the woman who's always tired, and starting to wonder if it's not just the to-do list.

You say you're tired. But I see more than tired.

I see a woman who's been holding her breath for years. One eye on the calendar. One hand on the steering wheel. One hundred tabs open in her mind. Trying to do it all. Trying not to lose herself in the process.

And if I'm honest, you've probably already lost pieces.

You've handed them out like offerings. Your body to motherhood. Your energy to your family and friends. Your creativity to a job that forgot you were human. Your dreams to the endless monotony of responsibility.

You manage. You produce. You show up. You make it look easy. You've become a master of efficiency, a virtuoso of multitasking. But underneath the fatigue there's something else.

There's rage.

Not the loud, wild kind. Not the one that explodes. This one simmers. Stays quiet. Because there's never time for it. Because "what would they think?" Because if you ever let it out, you're scared you might never stop.

But this rage, it's not wrong. It's not dangerous. It's sacred. It is your truth rising to the surface. The part of you that remembers. The part that's done being small. The part that knows your worth isn't measured in tasks completed.

This is the rage of a woman who has swallowed herself for too long. The rage of a body that's only been seen as useful. The rage of a soul that knows she's here for more than survival. The rage that whispers: enough.

And if you listen closely this rage isn't asking you to burn your life down.

She's asking you to come back to it.

To your sensuality. To your softness. To your wildness. To your power that never actually left, it just got quiet beneath the noise of everyone else's needs.

This isn't about rebellion. This is about reclamation. This is about remembering that before you were everything to everyone else, you were something magnificent to yourself.

When women come to the studio, they often whisper, "I don't even know who I am anymore." Their voices tremble with the admission, as if confessing a terrible secret.

But when they leave, they don't whisper. They walk differently. Their shoulders drop. Their breath deepens. They look in the mirror like it's an altar. Because for the first time in a long time they saw her.

The one underneath the exhaustion. The one who was never gone. Just waiting. The one whose eyes still hold fire.

This is a return to yourself. To the woman who exists beyond the roles and the responsibilities. You don't have to be ready. You don't have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to listen to that sacred rage.

I'll meet you there. In that sacred space between who you've become and who you've always been.