The Wild Priestess Within: A Sacred Untaming

Dear Wild One,

There is a woman buried beneath every silenced sigh and sacrificed dream—

And she remembers.

She is not a whisper. She is a howl.

She is not a question. She is the answer wrapped in thorns, in thunder, in grace.

This is the woman they tried to civilize. The one they called too much—

too loud, too soft, too fierce, too sensual, too wild.

But she is not here for their comfort.

She is not a domesticated vision of femininity.

She is not waiting for permission.

She is the wild priestess.

Her pulse is the drumbeat of her foremothers, her bloodline humming with incantations whispered under moonlight and mango trees, in temples and trenches, in kitchens and caves. She knows that true power does not shrink for applause, nor dilute itself for comfort. Her voice is not an echo of anyone else's story. It is ancestral thunder. It is sacred disruption. It is love in its rawest, most undiluted form.

This woman—this force—cannot be colonized.

She does not belong in cages of cultural convenience or on pedestals of palatable grace. She belongs to the wind, the fire, the water, and the bone. She is a vessel of remembering. A keeper of secrets too ancient for textbooks. She is the prayer before language. She is the womb of what will never be erased.

We do not heal by becoming more manageable.

We heal by becoming more ourselves.

And the wild priestess knows—her liberation is not just hers alone. It is cosmic. It is contagious. Every time she speaks the truth, she cracks open a cage somewhere else. Every time she dances, the earth sways with her. Every time she chooses herself, an ancestor exhales in relief.

She is not a trend. She is a return.

To reverence.

To rhythm.

To the sacred inheritance of the untamed.

Let this be your reminder:

You are not here to fit in—you are here to awaken.

You are not here to be liked—you are here to remember.

You are not here to dim—you are here to ignite.

And in that ignition, we rise—

As priestesses who do not apologize,

As vessels of holy rage and holy grace,

As daughters of wild women who survived the fire and still dance inside it.

May we revere what cannot be owned.

May we honor the ones who refused to shrink.

May we become the living altar of all that was once buried.

Because this world does not need another nice woman.

It needs the wild priestess—untamed, unapologetic, and fully, fiercely free.

In reverence and revolution,

Sherley Delia

Founder of Healing Majestically Consultancy

Where Sovereignty is Sacred and the Untamed is Divine