rage recovery for moms

Dear Tribe: Just Fucking Dance

coaching for moms, help for moms

Dear Tribe,

Dance. Your butt off. To that bitches and hoes music if you want. I know you’re a progressive thinker, but this is no time for political correctness. Just fucking dance. Shake it all over your kitchen or living room, the grocery store, your Subaru in the carpool line. Whatever.

You’re stuck in your head. No surprise with all that college and maybe even grad school you’ve put yourself through. You’re not broken though. Just stalled. No need to make a mountain out of a molehill. Dance your fucking way out of that well-educated mind and into the corporeal.

Which you’re so detached from. Of course. What with that kid latched on like a lamprey. All night long. Leaving you feeling used and second-rate and like your body is on someone else’s payroll. Get yourself up in the morning, grab that kid—or not—and dance. Dance your fucking way to the coffee. Or ginger pear white tea.

Step away from your precious work-at-home hours and groove. Your 30-something, 40-something, droopy-boobed, stretch-marked, vagina-you-could-park-a-car-in self.

Loosen the worry, regret, boredom, not-good-enough-ness and let it slither on off.

Focus on your power. Your freedom. Your unstoppability.

Or don’t focus at all. Just be with the music in your singular dwelling. Your body.

And dance. Just fucking dance.

Trust me on this.

With love and zero moves,

Ashley

P.S. Listen to this letter here.

P.P.S. The Epic Throwback Dance Party playlist on Spotify is responsible for this message.

 

 

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