Wailing Woman

Last week, we talked about burning bridges and toasting marshmallows, about setting boundaries and choosing which relationships deserve our energy. But as I've been reflecting on boundaries and deserving, an old piece of writing resurfaced - one that speaks to a grief as ancient as storytelling itself.

In Latin American folklore, there's a figure known as La Llorona, the Wailing Woman. She's said to wander eternally near bodies of water, crying for her lost children. For centuries, her story has carried different meanings through generations: a cautionary tale, a mother's grief, an expression of trauma that refuses to be silenced.

As a mother who has lost a child, I've come to know my own wailing woman - not by the waters, but in unexpected moments, like during a 5 am workout when my body decides it's time for a conversation I wasn't ready to have.

I've been writing about deserving joy, dreams, and whole beautiful days. But today, we need to talk about a different kind of deserving - about how we hold space for grief while still claiming our right to joy.

Whether grieving children lost too soon, mourning dreams that had to be reimagined, or navigating the complex emotions of raising children whose journeys look different than expected, we are all learning to balance our right to grieve with our right to pursue joy. Fair warning, this piece is raw.

In those windows of time when I develop the resolve to drag myself to the gym on a consistent basis, I've noticed there is a threshold I cannot push beyond. A place my body arrives at where it naturally slows me down.

If I try to push too far, my heart races, and my throat feels like it's closing. I know with confidence I'm not experiencing an allergic reaction to exercise—I've unsuccessfully floated this excuse past doctors before, so save yourself the time (you're welcome). You still have to exercise!

Making the decision to tell my body what time it is, I decided I was going to crush my cardio this fateful morning at 5 am. Beyoncé's Coachella live queued up on Spotify and I was off to the races. Somewhere around 'Bow Down Bitches', when the fever of making bitches bow the F down took over, I felt it—the heartbeat stuttering, my breaths uneasy. And I pushed. I found my body eventually did submit.

The bitch bowed and my heart calmed; my breathing became deeper, and tears started to flow. I realized what was squeezing my throat and cutting off the air was buried deep. Hoping nobody noticed, I ended the workout and now I'm in my car trying not to come undone.

There is a wailing woman living inside of me and she is inconsolable.

She tries to swallow me whole, though I have buried her under as many layers as I can because it's the only way to move forward. I asked my body to hide her and so it does. But it can't contain her and let me run marathons at the same time.

I cannot undo this damage or unsee what I have witnessed. The wailing woman in my soul is a permanent part of me. She's destructive, angry, and seeking resolution where there is none. Her screaming always 'I can't believe he's gone' from the bellyache in her soul.

Tomorrow, I will try again. Try to tame her. Try to console her. But I will not let her out from the cage. Nobody I love would survive it.

There's something powerful about recognizing our wailing women, these parts of ourselves we've tried to contain for survival. We cage them because we must—because bills need paying, children need raising, and life demands we keep moving. But perhaps there's wisdom in these moments when they break free, when our bodies refuse to maintain the careful walls we've built.

The last week I've been sitting with my grief alongside shame and guilt. Rather than trying to push past them or find ways to get over them, I chose to listen. These aren't visitors to be rushed out the door. They're parts of my story that deserve to be witnessed. Like the wailing woman at the gym, they surface with their own timing.

So, I've stopped trying to force them out (this week). Instead, I'm learning to offer them safe shelter, to say: I see you. I hear you.

I'm sorry for all the times I tried to make you smaller, quieter, more manageable. I'm sorry for carrying you like a burden when you were trying to teach me how to love deeper, live fuller, deserve more completely.

Maybe this is what Deservitude looks like in practice—not just claiming the spaces we want to inhabit, but honoring the spaces grief has already carved within us. Not just deserving joy, but deserving the full depth of our humanity, including the parts that wail.

Weekly Deservitude Prompt:

Think about your own wailing woman (or man)—that part of yourself you've had to cage to keep moving forward. What does she sound like? What truths does she carry? Write this to yourself: "I deserve to acknowledge all parts of my story, even the parts that scream."

When was the last time you gave yourself permission to hear her voice? What would it mean to create space for both your need to function and your need to wail? Write about the careful walls you've built and what lies behind them. How might embracing Deservitude change your relationship with these contained parts of yourself?

Share your story of learning to deserve your whole truth or keep it private in your journal. Either way, you deserve to hold space for every part of your journey—even the parts that others may never see.

-Leenadria