A Letter to the Woman I Silenced

I’ve been searching for wilderness. Not just in forests or mountains, but in gazes, in gestures, in forgotten corners of everyday life. I’ve been trying to define her—this wild woman—from the reflections in others’ eyes.

Who is she? Where does she dwell? Do I find her in a painted mask, in a scream that echoes the voice of wild animals, in bare feet brushing against soft soil? Is she in the riot? Is she moving without apology? Is she running naked through the threshold of forest and sky?

Faces and Stories of Wilderness

I used to think wilderness had one face. Now I know—it wears many. It is not always loud. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers through subtle movements, silent defiance, soft refusals.

It arrives in a look, a breath held, a truth spoken with a brave heart.

It is the fire inside, whether it burns or smolders quietly beneath.

But why does it matter, this wilderness? Because it liberates. Because it unchains us from the expectations of who we were told to be. It allows us to say no—to what no longer serves. And oh, it teaches us to say yes—to what makes our soul dance. It encourages us to release the inherited scripts: Of perfect mothers, obedient daughters, tireless career women. It supports us to walk away from expired friendships, outdated beliefs, inherited fears. It teaches us to dismantle the cages built by patriarchy and polished by politeness. And then… then wilderness returns in full bloom. But how do we crawl back to her—this inner wild?

In Search of My Stories

I searched my own stories. I unearthed the moments where I had hidden her away. At 14, during a time of war, I buried her out of desperation to belong. Later, as a migrant woman, I silenced her, hoping not to stand out, needing safety more than self. In male-dominated spaces, I wrapped her in layers of professionalism, afraid she’d cost me respect—or even survival.

I realized: the only way back is through her. To invite her home. To let her emerge—unguarded, untamed, unapologetically alive.

She returned first through my hands—paint-streaked and raw. When I surrendered to color and creation with no map or meaning. She appeared while I danced with my camera in early spring, chasing sunlight across wildflower petals. She spoke to me in dreams—fierce, unrelenting, full of monsters. I called her in those dark nights. I asked her to return—to lend me the courage to face those shadows.

She came in moments of brave unraveling. In leaving the old behind. In trusting the pull of the unknown. She was there as I dug into the soil of my stories, the ones I buried deep, long ago. She held my hand through heartbreak and healing, through tears and triumph.

We Can Find Her Anywhere

And now, I know: She lives in us all—our original pulse, our sacred power. She is the rhythm of our truest voice, the fire of our becoming. She is the quiet in the temple and the hum of a marketplace. She is there when we write, when we dance, when we create and destroy and start again. She is in our dreams, in our desires, in the wild edges of our joy and grief.

She is in sunlight. And she is in the storm. She is you. She is me. And she is waiting to be remembered.