We all have an inner bitch.
You try to deny it.
In the name of being loving.
In the name of spirituality.
I’ve heard you.
I tried to deny it once too.
But…
I have a secret.
A secret your body knows.
A secret that doesn’t have to stay hidden anymore.
What if bitch wasn’t an insult?
What if it was a doorway.
A doorway into a deeper part of you.
A truer part of you.
A sacred part of you.
For centuries we’ve narrowed ourselves to the choreography of what’s acceptable. We learned the steps early, how to be pleasant, be agreeable, be accommodating. How to soften ourselves so the room stayed comfortable.
We’ve become emotionally soothing to everyone around us.
Easy to love.
Hard to feel.
And above all —
Never be too much.
Too loud.
Too direct.
Too angry.
Too alive.
Otherwise that five-letter word is waiting.
Bitch.
But words change when the body wakes up.
What was once an accusation becomes a recognition.
A reclamation.
Power.
Life force.
Instinct.
Intelligence.
Sacred.
The word sounds like bitch but feels like spine rising from the womb.
Instinct is older than culture.
But we’ve been living as though culture is the authority.
They say instinct is unreliable, primitive — the lower part of ourselves.
They are right about one thing.
It is the lower part of us.
Not in hierarchy but in location.
Instinct lives in the pelvic bowl.
Where life begins.
But we’ve forgotten how to trust the body.
How to trust the animal within it.
Once you learn to listen,
the body is unmistakably clear.
And the more you listen,
the more you trust,
the louder it becomes.
The mind relaxes from a job it was never meant to do.
And you begin to move from the pelvis.
The word was never the problem.
Rejecting the body was.
Rejecting the intelligence of the animal.
The word became the cage.
When something within us is exiled, it does not disappear. It waits. It distorts. And it morphs into something that can rise to the surface — hardened in shape, bruised by exile.
It moves in the shadow —
Contempt.
Superiority.
Weaponized criticism.
Emotional cruelty.
Passive aggression.
This is not the sacred bitch — this is the armored heart.
A sovereign woman without her inner bitch is like a rose without thorns.
Beautiful but defenseless.
She might have clarity.
But clarity alone does not always penetrate.
It does not always move life.
It does not always protect what is sacred.
The sacred bitch is not cruel.
She is instinctual.
She knows when to soften.
And she knows when to bare her teeth.
She guards what is holy.
Every temple has a guardian.
Every rose carries thorns.
And every woman who remembers her body
eventually learns
how to bare her teeth
at the gates of her own altar.
