Sacred Rage and The Death of Feminism: Why the Sacred Feminine is Rising Now

by a Woman Who Remembers

I used to believe in feminism. Feminism once represented sisterhood, freedom, and the promise of equality. But now, that illusion is crumbling, and something deeper is rising within me.

A rage that I remember.

It rattles in my bones when I recall standing in the doorway of a sterile ICU room, the monitor flatlining, the family crying alongside the bed. Machines everywhere. Another death where the dignity of human life and the cycles of life and death were not honored. The voice inside of me whispered to me, “This isn’t what healing is.”

The rage rattled again recently, when I was excluded from a collaborative healing space for something I shared in sacred and trusted "safe space." This time, it shook me deeper, and something ancient in me screamed, “This is not what healing looks like!”

The scream of my bones was followed by a dream. I stood up from the table and refused to be silenced. Where I claimed my sovereignty and spiritual authority. Deciding to express my holy rage, refusing to trade my soul for a seat at the table. I chose myself, burned the table down, and I am building a temple instead. Coming home to the altar that is my being.

Feminism as it stands is dead to me

It promised us power, but at what cost? Has feminism truly liberated us, or has it merely reshaped the chains we wear? It promised to set us free, but it didn't teach us how to be free in our bodies. It didn't promise us wholeness. It taught us to “stand up and resist,” but it didn’t show us how to feel, be, receive, or repair. It told us to achieve, to fight, to prove. What began as a call for equality has become a culture of erasure.

It drew us into persistent outrage, pushing us to demand visibility for the marginalized—but at what cost? And to what end? The result is a culture of anger that performs for recognition, as if our value lies in how loud we can be. Feminism now looks like performance to me. This was not the liberation our sisters had in mind. Feminism was not the rise of the holy and sacred feminine. This is the end of a movement that lost its soul.

Sacred Feminine Rising

The feminine is not something to be weaponized. Sacred feminism doesn’t need a megaphone. It is a magnetic field, pulling us toward it—not through force, but through the quiet power of presence and embodied truth. It doesn't live in outrage and anger, but embodiment.

It remembers the holy rage that rattles in the bones, the wisdom of the womb, the power of gentleness and clarity of intuition.

She is not an ideology.

She is a presence.

A rhythm.

A pulse in the Earth.

She births.

She bleeds.

She breaks open.

She knows.

And sacred feminism? It doesn’t scream to be heard. It sits in circle, in the soft, sacred space where all voices are held, listened to, and honored. It doesn't demand power. It embodies it - through quiet presence, intuition, creation, and beauty grounded in self-truth and alignment. This is the true power of the feminine: not the needs to be validated by the external, but the ability to stand unshaken in one's own truth and divine authority. We don't have to earn our place at the table. We are the altar.

Sacred feminism is the return to the self, the reclaiming of the inner authority that can never be taken away. The sacred feminine is not here to be liked. She’s here to rebirth the world. And she is longing inside each of us.

Anger vs Holy Rage

They are different from one another.

Anger is a fire that burns brightly, often without direction, consuming everything in its path. It isolates, pushes others away, and keeps us trapped in cycles of division. Anger performs for the world—demanding acknowledgment, seeking validation through outrage. It often feeds the very structures that it seeks to destroy, by turning our attention outward.

Holy rage, on the other hand, is a force of transformation. It is not about being seen—it is about seeing clearly. It is the fire that burns away the old, dismantling systems that no longer serve us, making space for the new to rise. Holy rage does not scream or shout—it speaks in the language of the Earth, of creation itself. It is a force that builds, that births. It does not destroy for the sake of destruction, but for the sake of rebirth.

Sacred rage is not the outrage we perform for others. It is the divine fire that burns within us, urging us to break free from external expectations, to burn down the tables of oppressive systems, and to create something entirely new. It is the rage that has the power to dismantle everything that no longer serves us—politics, systems, structures—and to clear space for the world that is waiting to be born. Sacred rage builds temples. It does not ask for permission. It builds what needs to be built, whether the world is ready or not.

Come Home

Come home, sister.

To the altar of your own body.

To the rhythm of moon and blood and breath.

Come back to what cannot be burned by rage or silenced by politics.

Come back to the sacred.

Come back to you—

where your sovereignty lives,

where your power resides,

where the world begins again in you.