I feel truth, beauty, love, grief, anger, intimacy & alive in my

Host: The evening heat hung low over the courtyard café, thick with spice and music, the air shimmering in gold and red. Candles flickered on every table, their small flames swaying to the rhythm of the night. Somewhere nearby, a group of women laughed, their voices strong and unashamed, the sound cutting through the hum of traffic and faraway drums.

Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, his shirt collar loosened, the day’s weariness softened by the scent of hibiscus and cardamom. Across from him, Jeeny sat barefoot, her sandals abandoned beside the chair, her long hair swept back as if the air itself belonged to her.

Between them lay a page torn from a notebook, the edges curling slightly. Jeeny had copied a quote onto it — words that shimmered even in the candlelight, words she’d said had “weight and water in them.”

“I feel truth, beauty, love, grief, anger, intimacy & alive in my body... Women in the global south live in their bodies much more than we in the global north. Not as distracted by patriarchy's controlling images — They know power is in their bodies. I am deeply grateful for the women who showed me the way home.”
— Jodie Evans

Host: The words rested on the table like an offering — tender, wild, and entirely alive.

Jack: after a pause, his voice low “That’s… not just poetry. That’s anatomy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It’s both. She’s talking about embodiment — not as metaphor, but as revolution.”

Jack: “You mean living as if the body is truth?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve been taught to treat the body like a machine — something to discipline, display, or escape. But women like her — women she’s talking about — they live as if every emotion has flesh.”

Host: The night deepened, the sky blooming into velvet. The hum of conversation around them rose and fell, but the space between Jack and Jeeny stayed still, charged with something quieter.

Jack: “So when she says ‘they know power is in their bodies’ — you think she means physical power?”

Jeeny: “Not just physical. Spiritual. Sensual. Political. The body as memory. The body as protest. The body as prayer.”

Jack: “Sounds dangerous.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s why patriarchy’s afraid of it. When a woman knows she’s sacred in her own skin, you can’t sell her shame anymore.”

Host: The candle flickered, the flame bowing to the wind before standing tall again.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny — we talk about progress, intellect, technology… but the more we build, the more we leave the body behind. Maybe that’s why we’re so restless. We’re homesick for ourselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she means by ‘the way home.’ The return isn’t geographic — it’s cellular.”

Jack: “So the women who showed her the way — they didn’t teach ideas.”

Jeeny: “No. They taught presence. To feel everything. To stop numbing. Truth, beauty, love, grief, anger — she lists them all. The full spectrum. Because aliveness isn’t comfort — it’s completeness.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying the distant beat of drums from somewhere down the street. The rhythm was deep — primal — like a heartbeat amplified.

Jack: “You ever feel that? Like you’re living too far from your own skin?”

Jeeny: “All the time. Especially in the north. Everything’s curated — your look, your tone, your emotions. It’s all about control. But you come south, and you realize people move differently here. They breathe from deeper places.”

Jack: “Because they’ve had to survive through the body.”

Jeeny: “Yes. When systems fail you, the body becomes your first language again. Pain, joy, hunger, resistance — all expressed without apology.”

Jack: quietly “We’ve forgotten that language.”

Jeeny: “No. We’ve silenced it. Especially women. We’ve been told our bodies are threats — to order, to power, to comfort. But in truth, they’re sources.”

Host: The camera drifted, catching the dance of candlelight across Jeeny’s hands as she gestured. They were steady, deliberate, expressive — as if she was speaking with more than words.

Jack: “So when she says ‘truth, beauty, love, grief, anger, intimacy’… she’s not listing feelings. She’s listing evidence.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Evidence of being alive.”

Jack: “And gratitude — ‘for the women who showed me the way home.’ That’s the part that stays with me.”

Jeeny: “Because no one finds their way home alone. Every woman who lives unapologetically in her skin lights the path for another.”

Jack: “Like lineage.”

Jeeny: “Like revolution disguised as tenderness.”

Host: The music from the street grew louder now, a pulse of rhythm that seemed to reach through the walls. Two women passed by the café window — laughing, their bangles catching the light, their steps sure and easy. Jeeny watched them, her eyes soft.

Jeeny: “Look at them — see how they move? There’s no hesitation. No permission asked. That’s what she means — power in the body. It’s in how you walk, how you breathe, how you take space without apology.”

Jack: “You make it sound like the body itself is political.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because in every culture that fears freedom, the first thing they try to control is the body — women’s bodies, black bodies, queer bodies. The body is where liberation begins.”

Jack: after a moment “And where it’s always been.”

Host: The candle burned lower. Around them, laughter and the clinking of glasses wove through the air like a soft symphony. The night was warm, fragrant, human.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice quieter now — almost reverent.

Jeeny: “You know, when I read that quote, I felt it. In my chest. Like recognition. Because truth — real truth — doesn’t arrive as thought. It arrives as sensation.”

Jack: “So maybe truth isn’t discovered in the mind at all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s remembered through the body.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted toward her, the candlelight dancing across her face.

Jack: “You think we could ever live that way — here, in this world? Without distraction, without disembodiment?”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Maybe not fully. But we can return in moments. In breath. In touch. In silence. That’s how you begin — small acts of reclamation.”

Jack: “And gratitude for the ones who remind us.”

Jeeny: “Always gratitude.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the scene — two figures sitting close, the candle now just a small ember between them, the night alive around them. The hum of the city blended with the drumbeat, the laughter, the wind. Everything vibrated with presence.

And as the screen dimmed to the warm hue of candlelight, Jodie Evans’ words echoed — not as a manifesto, but as invocation:

That truth is not a thought,
but a pulse.

That beauty, grief, love, and anger
are not emotions to manage,
but languages the body speaks
when it remembers itself.

And that to come home
is not to return to a place,
but to reclaim the skin you live in —
to feel everything,
to carry power quietly,
and to thank those
who dared to feel first.