Slightly Unruly, Entirely Myself

So, there's this book I haven't read yet, but it's already messing with my head. Women Who Run with the Wolves.

Apparently, it's all about how women lose touch with their wild, instinctual nature over time, through culture, through life. That raw, untamed part of themselves. The part that doesn't care what other people think.

I haven't read the book yet, but something about it feels familiar. Like I already know what it's going to tell me. Like I've known for a while, but just haven't admitted it.

Because I have been thinking about this—wildness. What it means. What it looks like for me now.

And the fact that, if I'm honest, I don't feel particularly wild these days. For me, wildness has never been about being reckless. Or loud. Or making a scene.

It's about freedom.

That's the word that sticks.

It's about not getting trapped in what people expect of you. It's about keeping enough distance from the group so you don't lose your own instincts.

Someone told me the other day that I live life on the fringes. And they didn't mean it in a bad way. They said, 

You're always part of things but never fully in them. 

And that's true. I like being in spaces where I'm respected and where people listen to what I have to say. But the second itstarts to feel too much like a collective, like groupthink, like everyone is agreeing just to agree. I'm out.

Like the other day. I saw these leopard print Adidas Sambas and thought, Yes. Those. They're perfect. I went down a little rabbit hole, trying to find my size. And then suddenly—bam. Trend.

Everyone wants them. They're selling out. They're all over my feed. Instantly, I didn't want them anymore. Couldn't explain it. I just knew: Nope. Not for me. And it's not about being different for the sake of it.

It's just… I don't want to move like that. I don't want to be swept up in what everyone else is doing. I don't want to wake up one day and realise I've stopped thinking for myself.

But here's the thing. I've been playing it safe. Too safe. By the end of last year, my world had shrunk to the size of my routine. I was just… holding things together. Not rocking the boat. Keeping things steady.

Survival mode.

And I don't want to live like that. I want to feel lighter. Braver. More mischievous. I want to do things, not just think about them.

I want to push myself out of my comfort zone—not in some big dramatic way, but in small, everyday ways that remind me I'm alive.

But how?

Honestly?

I don't know yet.

What I do know is I need to trust myself more. My instincts. My ability to know what's right for me. To take the risk. To be wrong sometimes. To lean into courage, even when it's uncomfortable.

And I love the idea of small acts of rebellion. Not huge, life-altering, burn-it-all-down decisions. Just little things. Tiny, delicious moments of nope, I'm doing this my way.

What does that look like?

Maybe it's wearing something outrageous just because it makes me feel good.

Maybe it's booking a flight with no real plan.

Maybe it's saying no to something I'd normally say yes to.

Maybe it's dancing more.

Maybe it's laughing more.

Maybe it's taking myself less seriously.

I think about death a lot. Not in a dark way. Just… as a check-in. If I only had a year left, would I be happy with how I've lived? If I only had six months? Would I be proud? And right now, I don't think I can say yes. Not fully. Because I've been keeping things too safe. Too steady. And life's too short for that.

So. I think it's time to shake things up a bit. I think I want to be the badly behaved woman in her mid-forties.

The one who surprises herself.

Who follows a whim.

Who doesn't second-guess so much.

Who wears the ridiculous outfit.

Who laughs too loudly.

Who lets herself be free. 

Because what's the alternative?

So yeah. Maybe this is my year of small rebellions. Maybe this is my year of choosing wild.