I didn’t read Untamed as a manifesto. I read it as permission.

Not permission to leave, exactly — but permission to notice. To stop gaslighting myself out of discomfort. To trust the quiet knowing that had been speaking long before I was ready to listen.

What stayed with me wasn’t the call to be fearless, but the insistence that self-abandonment is learned. That so many of us are trained to override our instincts in the name of being good, being chosen, being easy to love. This book didn’t tell me what to do — it reminded me of what I already knew and had buried for survival.

When it ended, I felt less like I had been given answers and more like I had been returned to myself. Not healed. Not finished. But no longer willing to pretend I couldn’t hear my own voice.