My Bitch Renaissance

Pt. I: Feels Good in My Mouth

I’ve always liked the word bitch.

Not in s reclaimed, feminist thesis kind of way. Just how it feels in my mouth.

It was the first word that gave me claws before I even had anything to scratch.

Before I knew about the mean girl footnotes, the dickheads, or the centuries of patriarchal damage control.

It didn’t need polish. It needed presence.

Not theory. Just tone.

And I thought that was cool.

The woman who cut me off in traffic? Bitch.

My friend who walks into a bar and has a guy buy her a drink before I’ve even taken off my coat? Bad bitch.

The girl who got a six-figure job right out of college and still has time to shave her legs, rescue dogs, side hustle, and call her grandma? Boss bitch.

My husband when the lake’s too cold and refuses to get in unless I also jump holding his hand? Adorable bitch.

Me, still bringing up that time I got the trivia question right but we went with Billy’s answer instead? Salty bitch.

Intense. Versatile. Clean. And efficient.

Bitch is a good word.

It gives me edge when my lines blur. Punctuation for moments I don’t feel like explaining.

But of course people ask.

Why that word?

Why so much?

It’s loaded.

And I understand. It’s not super on brand for me.

Like it is but it isn’t.

Which, regrettably, makes me like it more

I don’t have a well-researched rationale.

No vetted, peer-reviewed permission slip.

And I’m not saying it to ride some fourth-wave feminism clause that says I can but he can’t.

I say it because sometimes I forget I have teeth. And when I say it, I remember.

Honestly, I’m tired of everything needing to be radical just to be allowed.

It’s not a concept I care to litigate anymore.

What I’ve come to realize is that bitch for me isn’t really about language at all.

It’s a frequency.

A signal I tune into. A version of myself I can’t always access, but always recognize.

Not because she’s loud. Or mean. Or trying to make a point.

But because when she shows up, I feel certain. Unfiltered. Brazen in a way that doesn’t ask to be liked.

I like myself best that way.

When I don’t soften my opinions with disclaimers. Or bending into a likability Rubik’s cube.

It’s the frequency of not waiting to be chosen because I’ve already chose myself.

Is it really that bad?

It’s not some reclaimed manifesto. I’m not here to scrub it clean and hand it a halo.

It’s a mirror.

Whenever I’ve envied a woman, it’s never about what she has.

It’s about how free she feels having it. The permission she gives herself to just… be.

The freedom to laugh without checking the room.

To dress like a man repeller and still know she’s hot shit.

To speak without flinching because your concerns are not her business.

That’s what I’ve always wanted. Not the object.

The audacity.

Bitch is the frequency.

It’s just the shorthand I use for that kind of woman.

The one who doesn’t explain her instincts.

The one who refuses to be edited into something easier to swallow.

And the truth is, I’ve spent years trying to earn my goodness.

Choosing compromise and calling it grace.

Trying to be gentle enough to be liked, but strong enough to be useful.

And still, I go to bed wondering what prize I think I’m waiting for.

The other night I cried to my mom, because #life, and she said, “Bec, you write all this stuff about not being digestible anymore. Remember to actually live like it, too.”

I hate it when she’s right…

So, welcome to my summer series:

The Bitch Renaissance.

Over the next four months I’ll be spending time in a few different places.

Europe, Montana, Hawaii, and NYC.

Each one pulls out a different version of me. Different clothes, different walk, different playlists.

But my goal isn’t to reinvent myself in each city.

It’s to hold the same frequency across all of them.

The same clarity. The same pulse. The same bitch.

Not the word. Though, yes, I’ll still use it recklessly and often.

The internal click.

The woman I feel myself to be when I drop the theatrics and speak from the gut.

That’s who I’m chasing this summer.

And I need to make it a point to write it down as I go. Weekly. Religiously.

Because left to my own devices, I live entirely in my head… crafting whole lives I never actually step into. And I’m done with that.

Come November, we move to Hawaii for real.

Which is just the start.

For the next eight years we’ll be moving wherever Billy’s job tells us to. And because I love him and it’s what’s best for our life plan, I’m cool with it.

So long as I don’t lose myself in the things that I can’t control.

I refuse to disappear into wallpaper. The woman stuck in the background of everyone else’s schedule but her own.

And the truth is, no one else is responsible for preventing that but me.

Which sucks. Because I’m lazy. Lol.

So, I’ll write as I go. Little by little.

A way to keep the thread taut without turning it into a self-assigned memoir.

I’ve always been good at living multiple lives.

In this next one, I want a job that lights me up.

Friends who feel like human sunshine.

To build a life and home with Billy that isn’t a reaction to the one I grew up with.

And a version of me who doesn’t keep hitting backspace on her own instincts.

‘Cause that’s hot.

Anyway, I’m gonna go shave my legs and lay on warm clean sheets.

Maybe eat some fruit with a fork.

That’s all for now!!!!

See you next week from GERMANY BITCH X0xOXoX0xOxo!!!

♡ ♡ ♡