I just hung up from a four hour phone call with an old friend. While I would have detested that long conversation with most people this call was whole heartedly welcomed. 

It’s funny how time froze and began again, right where it left off all those years ago the moment I answered the phone. Seven year old me had excellent taste in friends. If you had asked that version, I wouldn’t have been surprised that we had talked for so long, I would’ve been more shocked as to why we had let so much time pass. 

Even with all of those years and all those miles apart, talking to her felt like coming home. There is something special about sharing your current life with someone who was so interwoven with its formation. 

I walked circles in my bedroom as we excitedly discussed books we’ve recently read the same way we sat on my bed discussing different books over a decade ago. Girls with wings now changed to hunky bat boys, so much stays the same. 

After a while I sat on the floor, phone charging, as we discussed the state of the world and it felt like our late night sleepover conversations. If I closed my eyes I could see the 14 year old version of her across from me, that laugh exactly the same. Years of memorizing those mannerisms I can practically see her expressions through the phone. 

There were no long pauses to wade through, no awkward silences or long explanations. No backstories or understanding to navigate, we jumped right in. The conversations ran into each other, topics changing and effortlessly flowing into the next then coming back again. 

The phrase “do you remember when…” vollying back and forth as we reminisced. It moved on from childish crushes into forever loves. Our lives; planted, blossomed, and grown from the same soil. 

All those years ago we met at play practice and bonding over performing.  Today we still continue those passions however slightly altered. Hers with self tapes and days on sets and mine with crowns and social media content. 

We laughed, we shared, we gasped, we laughed to mask the fear of the future and we talked about everything. Four hours flew by in what felt like four minutes. 

I wish I could pick up the phone and call the younger versions of us and let them know that not that much has changed. 

 “Then say they didn’t do it to hurt me”

“Female rage” a phrase so universally known any woman could close her eyes and feel the hot red rising. Female rage however is unique to each of us and made up of years of lived experiences. Mine, I know, comes from a privileged body and peaceful encounters. Mine is not like others; theirs is not like mine, but yet all are still fiery. 

My female rage comes from deep in my gut. A gut that’s been weighed and measured and sucked in and withheld from for the hopes of being a forever unattainable “perfect”. 

It’s held in my tight lip smile that doesn’t reach my eyes when a comment disguised as a compliment slithers and crawls under my skin. 

It nags at me when I see my lines in the sand have been so quietly crossed, ever so slightly but not so innocently toed by the perpetrator. Leaving me questioning if the step was big enough to warrant a reaction.

It runs up my spine and prickles my skin like a cold chill when I have to ask myself, “Was that enough to say something about?”, self doubt choking me into silence. 

It comes in flashes of videos of men on stages preaching about bodies they’ve never lived in yet still casting the blame on those bodies and all the while making inappropriate innuendos to their congregations every Sunday. 

“Is it a wonder I broke? Let’s hear one more joke”

It tries to escape in conversations when my sentences are cut short by masculine voices who feel as if their voice is more important. When subjects are changed, opinions are not wanted, thoughts are not validated and ideas are never able to grow. 

It boils when a hobby or enjoyment is belittled because it isn’t understood. When they say joy is only validated when it’s packaged in violence or on fields. 

It’s in my eyes as I scan rooms looking for exits. Looking at others trying to see the soul within, trying to determine if there is safety or harm. 

It’s in the rigidity of my body going stiff and straight as unwanted hands touch and arms wrap around. 

Female rage sits quietly in my chest pressing hard against my ribs. It is often locked inside to keep me from burning bridges and setting wildfire to situations. It’s tamped down by laughs of “overreaction” hurled like bullets blowing holes into my intuition. 

But at some point the key gets turned and the match strikes and the lava flows. 

Female rage is in my fingers as I hold the pen and vote for a presidential candidate who sees me for more than a body, a wife, a breeding machine. It’s in the desperate cries to anyone who will hear me. To understand that my life and the lives of all women teeter on a tightrope. 

My female rage is so loud it won’t let me be silent any longer. 

“Who’s afraid of little old me?”

You should be.