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A Chorus of Her

Dear Wild Woman, If no one has said it today—take up space, darling.

Let me remind you who the hell you are. You’ve always known there was more—not louder, not harder, just more you. To the one holding it all together (and maybe falling apart a little too) in the name of love, truth, and healing—I see you.



A patchwork of one-liners, whispers, roars, and truths from many women. Anonymous. Raw. Fragmented. And still whole.

This post isn’t a single story—it’s a collective voice rising. Each line its own truth. Together, they form the first imprint of Femme Bold.



Picture this:


A woman is handed a microphone. And what she does with that mic is entirely up to her. She might speak into it. Cry into it. Scream or rage.

She might curl up in child’s pose, the mic resting beside her—her silence still speaking loudly.

She might run with it, never bring it back, feeling freedom for the very first time.

She might throw it on the ground, stomp on it, and smash it to pieces.


Maybe being handed that mic is the first time she’s ever felt permission to express.

To be loud.

To be still.

To ask.

To move.

To rest.

To moan.

To grieve.

To laugh.

To name a desire out loud for the very first time—maybe with a partner, maybe with herself.


And maybe that permission feels terrifying. Maybe it feels wrong. Or selfish. Especially if she’s never felt safe to express before.

Especially if she’s experienced others expressing in unsafe ways around or towards her.

Especially if she’s been told she was too much. Or not enough.

Especially if her voice has been shamed or ignored or weaponized.


So, as this woman is handed that mic and the entire universe of expression opens before her, she is not alone.


All around her, the Femme Bold women move—not watching, not waiting, not pressing her to perform.They move quietly. Softly. Powerfully.


One places fresh flowers around her. Another pours her tea. One chills the wine for later. One makes up a cozy bed, just in case. Another brings food. Nourishment. One puts on music. Another offers a journal. Someone brings a pillow she can scream into if she needs to.


This is what holding space looks like here.

Not sitting awkwardly. Not judging the silence. But creating beauty. Meeting needs. Showing her that voice takes many forms—and every single one is valid. And when the time comes, if she asks for a stage, a spotlight, a silent crowd—we give it. She gets to decide. In her own way. In her own time.


Femme Bold isn’t about performance. It’s about permission. It’s about being. And this… is just the beginning.


A Chorus of Her: Vol. 1

“I stopped saying sorry, and the world didn’t end.”

“I whispered my truth to the night sky. It was the first time I felt heard.”

“They told me to smile more. I stopped smiling.”

“He said I was too much—so I became more.”

“I gave myself the closure I was waiting for.”

“This body is not a battleground.”

“I dressed myself in softness and they mistook it for weakness. So I roared in silk.”

“I found myself in the fire. Not the ashes.”

“It wasn’t a breakdown. It was a breakthrough.”

“I’m not angry. I’m just not quiet anymore.”

“Some days I still hear his voice in my head. But mine is louder now.”

“Healing doesn’t look like yoga and green juice. It looks like boundaries and rage and choosing myself over and over again.”

“Not everyone deserves access to your truth.”

“She rose. Not gracefully. Not with permission. But she rose.”

“Maybe the real rebellion is rest.”

“I asked for what I wanted. Out loud. And it didn’t kill me.”

“I thought I was being dramatic. Turns out, I was being abused.”

“I’m not starting over—I’m starting true.”

“My softness is not for sale.”

“He didn’t break me. He revealed the cracks I needed to fill with gold.”

“I left. That was the loudest thing I’d ever said.”


Maybe one of the quotes above is yours.

Maybe you didn't write it, but it's still yours.

If it speaks to you on a soul level, it's yours.

Often, before speaking or even before writing our own stories down, we resonate with someone else's words. So we continue to seek them out, to take them in and let them marinate in our souls and inspire us. And as we sit with them, over and over again, maybe we find the courage to put the words of our own stories on paper, even just within our private journals. Maybe we don't. Either way, what matters is we were inspired. Just allowing the inspiration to come will take us far.


See, even when we read someone else's words that speak to us, it is their speaking to us that allows them to be ours. It reminds us that we are not alone in our stories. There is a collective energy of struggle, ease, growth, pain, joy, grief, laughter. The details of each story may differ, but the emotions are shared. So when one person finds the words to speak it, she speaks for each of us.


Claim it. Thank her. And let it inspire others.



You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to rise.

Until next time—rebel gently, love deeply, and don’t forget to breathe.


Mic dropped. Truth spoken.

From the desk of Femme Bold.

With tenderness and truth,

—Femme Bold



The blog is just the beginning.

Meet us on Instagram @femme.bold—where the revolution continues in real time.


If this stirred something in you, don’t just sit with it—move with it.

Share your stories, thoughts, words anonymously by sending them to femmeboldvoices@gmail.com.

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