A Window into Our Wild

I know the realest real is right here in this room.

I’ve always been blessed to have at least one great friend during every period of my life, but I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed as hard or felt as secure as I do here. Magic happens when women gather.

But not just any women—the real happens only when the women are real: with our soft, squishy hearts and razor-sharp teeth; with our frustrated, angry, and lonely tears and our gleeful cackles; with our broken bones and our stretch marks and our wrinkles and our love handles and saddle bags; with our broad shoulders and heroic backs; our honest words and flaws and failings and hopes and dreams.

You have to dump all that out in the center of the circle, take turns stirring up the shit and the trouble and the past—and our shitty troubled pasts. You have to be brave enough to sit there until it swirls down the drain.

THAT is when there is magic, the kind that can’t be explained by science or religion. Women are goddesses, alchemists, witches, angels, and gardeners. Making the magic, tending it, protecting it.

Passing it on.

—Lauren