**Author’s note: This is for every woman who is waking up to her magnificence.  

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Her beauty was not in her lips, the generous curves of her sultry hips or the wild strands of her messy hair.

No—her beauty, her power, her juiciness—it was deeper than that, miles deeper.

It was constantly exploding in her heart, like a bright orange tiger lily—it was etched, a vibrant henna tattoo, in her soul.

It was the raw truth that bled through the surface,

When she ripped glossy pages of people-pleasing bullsh*t away,

And stepped into her own luscious skin, without any goddamn apology.

It was the sublime, wild gentleness of her most authentic presence.

 

Her beauty was not plastic, it was real, so very real—stitched of flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, etched in blood and pain, tears, love and gritty chaos.

Her beauty was earthy, raw—describable only under a rippled raspberry sunset, with the scent of sugared lilacs, musky spruce trees and mud hanging like nature’s perfume in the air.

It was the way her hot breath kissed the entire universe.

It was the way spirit surged through her body, like fiery stars, when she danced.

It was the way she passionately unfurled life’s most complicated mysterious with the wild tenderness of her tongue,

The way she spoke fearlessly of sex, death, failure and pain.

It was way she swam courageously in the most brutal darkness,

With only the light of her heart

And the trembling nakedness of hope in her fingertips.

 

Her beauty was not in her ability to get done up, it was how magnificently she could come undone.

It was the badass way she could break open, face pain with tenderness,

Sit in puddles of fear with messy grace,

Let transformation take her like a torrid lover

And fall apart—unravelling, unfolding like an ancient scroll, with the tenderest elegance.

It was her unstoppable will to live, to fight, to love fiercely,

To rise—

A proud feathered phoenix

Through even the sh*ttiest of times.

 

Her beauty was not written on her face, it was not painted on her skin, it could not be accurately described in a photograph,

It was ever-changing—encapsulated only by the breeze, sudden thunderstorms and the ripe, purple wildflowers that bloomed like an early Spring behind her eyes.

It was her ability to sit in tears, in silence—and hear the things that other people could not.

It was the sweet, joyous song of her laughter—how she could find poetry in pain and hope in heartbreak.

It was the thread of soul woven through every square inch of her skin.

It was the way she got naked with her own heart.

 

Her beauty was not plastic, it was real, so very real—stitched of flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, etched in blood and pain, tears, love and gritty chaos.

It was the way she walked through life, wearing her heart on her sleeve like the vividest wildflower embroidery.

It was the way she spoke her truth.

It was the way she loved so intensely; it was the way she cared so deeply; it was the way she would never let the harshness of the world harden her.

Her beauty was her beating heart.

Her fierce courage to face

Every day

No matter how hard, how cruel, how heartbreaking, how bitter, how tough

With

A

Brilliantly,

Breathtakingly

Wide.

Open.

Heart.

.

Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Author’s own.