The Infinite Starr

Before they called her dangerous, they called her divine.

That is the part of the story they tend to leave out.

Before there were warnings whispered about women who knew too much, there were women people traveled miles to find.

Women who understood the moon before anyone bothered naming its phases.

Women who knew which roots healed and which ones killed.

Women who delivered babies beneath candlelight, washed the dead, interpreted dreams, watched the sky, remembered the seasons, tended the fires, and somehow knew when something was wrong before anyone else had noticed the room had gone quiet.

They called it wisdom then.

Until wisdom became inconvenient.

Funny how quickly a gift becomes a character flaw when the wrong person possesses it.

Somewhere along the way, the goddess became the oracle.

The oracle became the healer.

The healer became the witch.

And the witch became something they needed everyone to fear.

Perhaps nothing about her changed at all.

Perhaps only the story did.

Because language has always been one of humanity’s favorite weapons.

You don’t have to destroy something powerful if you can convince everyone it is dangerous.

You don’t have to silence a woman if you can make people suspicious of everything she says.

Call her difficult.

Call her unstable.

Call her dramatic.

Call her bitter.

Call her selfish.

Call her intimidating.

Call her crazy.

Call her whatever you need to call her so nobody asks the much more uncomfortable question:

What happened right before she became this way?

There is usually a chapter missing.

Sometimes several.

People love telling the story beginning with the woman’s reaction.

They rarely begin with what caused it.

They show you the fire but conveniently forget who carried the match.

And history has always preferred its women quiet enough to narrate.

A woman who forgives endlessly is kind.

A woman who finally stops forgiving is cold.

A woman who sacrifices herself is loving.

A woman who chooses herself is selfish.

A woman who remains silent is graceful.

A woman who speaks plainly is aggressive.

A woman who doubts herself is humble.

A woman who knows exactly who she is becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous.

There it is.

That little word.

It has followed certain women through centuries like a black dog walking several steps behind them.

Dangerous women ask questions.

Dangerous women notice patterns.

Dangerous women remember conversations exactly as they happened.

Dangerous women survive disappointment without becoming obedient to it.

Dangerous women eventually stop confusing suffering with loyalty.

Worst of all, dangerous women compare notes.

Perhaps that has always been the real problem.

One woman noticing something can be dismissed.

Two women noticing it becomes a conversation.

A room full of women noticing it becomes history.

So keep them suspicious of one another.

Tell one she is prettier.

Tell another she is younger.

Tell one she is more desirable.

Tell another she is more respectable.

Give them categories.

Good woman.

Bad woman.

Wife.

Mistress.

Mother.

Whore.

Saint.

Witch.

Make them compete for a crown nobody actually needs.

Then sit comfortably while they guard the gates themselves.

It is a clever system.

Ancient, too.

Because eventually nobody has to tell women how to behave.

Other women will do it for them.

She shouldn’t dress like that.

She shouldn’t say that.

She shouldn’t leave.

She shouldn’t stay.

She shouldn’t want so much.

She shouldn’t expect so much.

She shouldn’t be alone.

She shouldn’t need anyone.

She should smile.

She should soften.

She should forgive.

She should understand.

She should give him another chance.

She should be grateful.

She should be quieter.

She should be easier.

She should be less.

Less complicated.

Less sexual.

Less ambitious.

Less angry.

Less intelligent about the wrong things.

Less aware of her own value.

Less likely to look around the room and realize she doesn’t actually need permission to leave it.

Because there is something terrifying about a woman who discovers the door was never locked.

She simply believed it was.

And once she walks through it, there is usually no convincing her to crawl back inside.

That is when the names begin.

But names only have power while you are afraid of becoming them.

There comes an age when a woman stops defending herself against every accusation.

Call her difficult.

Fine.

Perhaps she became difficult because being agreeable was costing too much.

Call her selfish.

Maybe she finally realized everyone demanding her selflessness seemed suspiciously comfortable benefiting from it.

Call her intimidating.

Perhaps intimidation is simply what confidence looks like to someone who expected submission.

Call her a witch.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Because the witch was never truly frightening because of her herbs, her candles, her black dresses, or whatever mythology was built around her.

The frightening part was that she belonged to herself.

She could survive outside the village.

She could live without being chosen.

She could know things without being taught them by the people claiming authority.

She could sit alone beneath the moon without mistaking solitude for abandonment.

And maybe that is why she had to become the monster in the story.

Not because she worshiped darkness.

Because she stopped being afraid of it.

There is an enormous difference.

Darkness hides things.

But it also reveals what daylight distracts us from seeing.

You learn things in the dark.

Your eyes adjust.

Your hearing sharpens.

You begin recognizing footsteps.

You learn which voices belong to people coming to save you and which belong to people who simply want you to believe you need saving.

Eventually you stop screaming when the lights go out.

Eventually you know your way around.

That is when you become dangerous.

Not when you become cruel.

Not when you become heartless.

Not when you become the villain.

When you become unafraid.

There are women walking around today carrying generations of lessons they were never formally taught.

Something inside them recoils at certain rooms.

Certain people.

Certain promises.

They can feel when something isn’t right long before evidence arrives.

We call it intuition because instinct sounds too animal and knowing sounds too powerful.

But perhaps women have always known.

Perhaps the knowledge simply changed names.

Just like she did.

Goddess.

Oracle.

Healer.

Witch.

Hysterical.

Difficult.

Intimidating.

Dangerous.

Different centuries.

Same woman.

And perhaps the greatest trick was convincing her that each new name meant she had moved farther away from what she originally was.

When maybe she was walking directly back toward it.

Back toward the woman who trusted herself.

Back toward the woman who didn’t require witnesses to know what she had seen.

Back toward the woman who didn’t explain every boundary as though appearing before a jury.

Back toward the woman who understood that no is already a complete sentence, even when someone dislikes the ending.

Back toward the woman who could stand alone without feeling abandoned.

Back toward the first version of herself.

Before the world introduced her to all the things she was supposed to be.

Before someone handed her the script.

Before someone explained which parts of herself were acceptable.

Before they called her dangerous.

They called her divine.

Maybe they were right the first time.

They spent centuries warning their daughters about witches.

They should have warned them about becoming one.

Because somewhere between obedience and exile, she remembered something they had worked very hard to make her forget.

The fire was never meant to kill her.

It was meant to make the other women afraid of burning.

It didn’t work.

Some of them were watching.

And they remembered where the matches were kept.