A couple of weeks ago, I woke up feeling rebellious. Like I’d been granted the infamous title of master. The Master of my own universe.
“Universe” being my home.
My eyes bounced around the walls of my home and suddenly, I was motivated to move mountains (of laundry).
Really, I felt a spark of liberation taking root in me, almost to full bloom. The freedom that demands acknowledgment and craves sunlight, urging you to take personal risks.
“Buy an ugly chair and give upholstery a go. Paint a dresser…until you remember that time you painted your entry-way the most hideous color of ninja turtle green and then did a crap job re-painting it sunflower yellow, only to end up hiring a painter to repaint the entire house because you now know you suck at painting. Do not paint the dresser, but buy that chair…”
That same liberation urged me on… Color your hair grey and wear that lilac lipstick you see those girls flawlessly daunting on Insta. Do it and do not succumb to one ounce of worry. Do not slide into thoughts of what others think. Now the husband—he might get the benefit.
“Do you like this lipstick, babe? Because even if you don’t, you’re going to have to love me through it. Our papers say so.”
I felt grit in my bones. Adult abandon…a desire to test my limits.
This is where I tell you that I did buy that chair and worked like a mad-hatter reupholstering it. Never. Again. And also, I didn’t jump into the chair and dye my hair grey or wear purple lipstick…(that’s for next week)
But most days, I’m certain there is a fierce rebel, dressed in skin-tight leather with fire red hair and black matte lipstick, living inside of me. Her name is Sarah Jane. (Yes, I watch too much RHOBH. Judge Me.)
Sarah Jane swallows brownies whole and laughs at the thought of where that saturated fat will end up. She only makes direct eye contact and never silences her opinion. She has the voice of Celine Dion and survives off Rose. And she can assemble Ikea furniture without losing her ever loving mind. She is a rule breaker.
Of course in real life, I’m more of a rule following cookie cutter who cannot sing.
Falsies, a few tattoos and red lipstick is as far as I’m putting myself out there. Also, leather pants are not my friend. Mostly because I left my thigh gap back in my mother’s womb. Nobody wants to listen to your pants having their own conversation every time your thighs pass one another. (think squeaaagy, squeaaagy)
“Sarah, real leather doesn’t make a squeaaagy sound.”
“Did I say leather? I meant pleather.”
The truth is…I’ve spent most of my adult life fighting against this inner rebellious persona, strictly because she scares me. Sarah Jane does not fit the mold I’ve cast as a “Responsible Mother of Four.”
When I woke up that day, my curiosity demanded that I expand on why breaking molds terrifies me. I already knew part of my fear lives in my most important obligation—being a Mama.
I have a four-part audience, my beauties, who are front and center to my actions. I want to lead by example. I want to raise strong women, who go out and own themselves against this world—who aren’t afraid to express themselves how they see fit, not how this world sees fit.
If I become stagnant, ceasing to take personal risks than what am I teaching them? To fall in line and be an aimless sheep?
No, I want my girls to be wolves.
Kind wolves, who are vegetarians. See, that’s Mama Sarah strangling Sarah Jane. Mama Sarah lives for political correctness. Sarah Jane stomps on political correctness with her six-inch heel.
My truth is…
I can love Jesus and have tattoos. I can have purple hair AND be a responsible mother. I can have an opinion AND it be different than yours and we CAN STILL be friends.
When I say I want my girls to be wolves, it means I want them to remain passionate about this life. For their belief in self to be the amber that never flickers, or gets smudged out.
I want them to innovate.
I want my girls to color their hair purple if they feel they need violet hair, because it makes their freckles stand out. I want them to wear orange lipstick because someone they know wore it and they were completely smitten by the look.
“Perm your hair and shave the back of your head…and then walk into the sixth grade and not fall apart because clearly not everyone thought the ‘undercut’ was a good look and now everyone thinks you’re strange. Let them…you’ll survive and be more accepting of others who take a risk.”
Face painted or completely free, I want them to believe in their beauty…because no one on this Earth is the official judge on their ‘beauty.’ Ever.
I want them to embrace being the nerd, or the diva. I want them to not apologize for their emotions. Or that they don’t meet some guys expectation of who he thinks they should be, or how they should look. I want them to feel free to carry that extra 15 pounds because they love ice cream and charcoaled hamburgers.
I want them to be authentic.
Self-expression comes in so many forms. It can be appearance, artwork, writing, or even careers. You don’t have to dress in leather and dye your hair all the colors of the rainbow to be expressive.
This life is not limited.
I want my beauties to stand upon the ground of liberation knowing no one can change you or steal your value. Ever. It’s not a fight against others, because you’ve already won. You own you.
Take a risk, break a mold, chase a dream…paddle out in search of positive self-discovery, or better get out the paintbrush of positive self-creation.
We all are writing our life, our human diary.
Let yours be filled with pages of messy brilliance, make it the most incandescent read.