Wild Terms
"To be wild is to be free. It feels good to let the wind tangle your hair, to abandon bras and underwear, to feel the earth beneath your feet and the sun on your skin."
This morning, at 36 weeks pregnant, I find myself reflecting.
I’ve passed the safety threshold established by millions of years of reproduction, innate maternal knowledge, and the understanding offered by birth workers, midwives, and even the medical system. It’s safe for my baby to come now.
Baby isn’t due for four more weeks, but I feel him moving, wriggling in the ever-shrinking space. Inside, he’s still warm, cozy, comfortable—safe. And yet, I know, outside, he will be safe… in my arms, in the arms of his father, his sisters, his grandmothers and grandfathers, his aunts, uncles, cousins, our friends, and our community. I know he will be so deeply loved and held gently whenever he chooses to meet us.
This morning, I woke up knowing—anytime now. I also know it could be four more weeks… or possibly five, six, seven… maybe even eight.
The world of natural, free, wild pregnancy and birth is so beautifully unknown. I crave this wonder and curiosity. I love not thinking I have all the answers. I love knowing that the answers I do have are mine… born within me… bestowed upon me in utero… passed down from generation upon generation—millions of generations—of mothers made of stardust.
Last night, as I drifted into sleep, my thoughts circled around terminology—the words we use to describe pregnancy and childbirth. I don’t believe my mother tongue, or any language for that matter, can truly capture the raw, undisturbed, free, and completely wild essence of pregnancy and childbirth.
Yet we try.
My life is centered around creation. I create babies. I create moments of ecstatic pleasure and love with my beloved. I create ripples in the vast toroidal field of consciousness when I move my body and dance wildly upon the earth. I create potential in the source field of reality when I dream and breathe energy into my visions. I create magic in my kitchen.
And I create art. I take photographs… I draw… I paint… I wrap wire around crystals to hang upon strings… and I write.
I do my best to collect, organize, and untangle my alive, wild, exploding brain full of thoughts and ideas. Sometimes they tumble out in words, phrases, and even sounds—whether I’m communicating with others or, just as often, with myself.
In my sacred half-sleep state last night, my thoughts danced around the inadequacy of terms.
Terms like “implantation” attempt to capture the spark of life but fail to honor the magic of that moment—a mini Big Bang, stardust exploding into stardust, igniting life in my sacred yoni space. Terms like “pregnancy” condense the wild, cosmic transformation of stardust into a perfect, living human into a mere nine letters. And then there’s “birth”—a word that somehow tries to encompass the epic journey of breaking through primordial waters, traveling through the dark tunnel of creation into light, and experiencing the world for the first time.
These words—implantation, pregnancy, birth—are too flat to hold the magic. Worse, they’ve been stolen, medicalized, and stripped of their sacredness.
I want the magic back.
I want every moment of baby-making, baby-growing, and baby-bringing to shimmer with awe and wonder. And I know I’m not alone. Women crave this magic. Many don’t even realize they need it, but they do.
We deserve it. It is our birthright—and the birthright of our babies.
Enter the term “wild.”
Wild. It feels good. It feels alive. It feels unbridled.
To be wild is to be free. It feels good to let the wind tangle your hair, to abandon bras and underwear, to feel the earth beneath your feet and the sun on your skin.
Wild love. Wild sex. Wild bursts of starlight in my yoni. Wild pregnancy. Wild birth. Wild motherhood.
Join me… Ohhhhh, I promise you… it feels good over here… to be so fucking wild.
In the coastal climate with sand in every crevice, naked on the beach in the moonlight… In the jungle, sweat streaming from every pore, birds singing in every direction… Hell, even in the crowded cities, head spinning from all the EMFs, pollutants, and the inexplicable mingling of energy from so many people crammed within a 111-mile radius.
In the mineral-rich waters of any hot spring, skinny dipping and soaking in the essential salts that make us human, I marvel at the reality: I am bathing in the same waters as my brothers and sisters of Earth. Some of whom may not have showered in weeks—or worse, they bathe in chemical-laden soaps and lotions that now mingle with my bare, wild skin. Yet… I sit. I soak. I absorb it all… wildly
Or here, in my current home… the ever-expansive desert, where I can raise my eyes to the horizon stretching miles upon miles away in every direction. Nothing stands between it and me except canyons, plateaus, and great washes beaming with crystals and petrified wood. I lift my gaze to the heavens, where the sky, dark and endless, bursts with millions of stars—millions of memories, and quite possibly the very atoms of stardust growing inside me now.
Maybe even inside you.
So, what is a wild pregnancy? A wild birth?
Not that I’m the authority (except of course, for myself), but this is what I know: A wild pregnancy and a wild birth are unbridled, intuitive, sacred. They are yours, just as they are mine.
A wild pregnancy is one in which a mother has complete control of her body and chooses what feels right for her and her baby during these magical nine moons. She doesn’t comply with the medical system (modern midwifery included). She grows her baby like the panther in the jungle, the dolphin in the sea, the bear in the mountains—undisturbed, trusting her body and her baby to do exactly as they should.
A wild birth is sacred, primal, and her own. It happens without interference or interruption. It’s curated entirely by her for her baby. Perhaps her husband, children, mother or sisters (either by blood or by bond) are there—only people she has chosen, with intention and with a burning desire to have them witness her wild magic. She is unhindered, unobstructed, flowing free, peaceful, natural, pristine, perfect…
Who would dare disturb a bear birthing her cubs? Who would interrupt a lioness roaring forth life? Who would meddle with any wild mother?
A wild pregnancy. A wild birth. It’s so fucking beautiful.
Join me.
Join me in this wildness.
Join me in reclaiming our birthright.
Join me in howling at the moon with our sisters as we bring forth the next generation of wild stargazers, earth dancers, and baby makers into existence.
I’m over the moon to share this sneak peek from my upcoming book, Birthright! This raw and empowering excerpt dives deep into the magic of wild pregnancy and birth—an unfiltered glimpse into the heart of what’s to come.
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