Confession: It's time we all start screaming
Entering my primal era and inviting you to join me.
The Scream by Edvard Munch
Until last month, I don’t think I had ever screamed on purpose. Sure, I’ve screamed in pain, or at my family members, but all of that screaming was done in reaction to something (and usually something very negative). Last month I started taking a movement class (aptly named, The Class) that doesn’t relegate screams to the realm of reactions: here, screams are welcome, and even invited, with every exhale. Friends, welcome to my revolution.
It’s hard to put into words how cathartic a deliberate scream can be. A scream that isn’t tethered to shame moments later. A scream that isn’t loaded with regret. A scream that isn’t met with judgement, a shushhhhh or a control yourself. A scream that rattles through your entire body and then out into a room where it mingles with other screams in an unrestrained, soul-stirring symphony.
A tattoo by my favorite tattoo artist, Patrick Bates.
The first time I allowed myself to let out a little yell during an exhale at The Class it got caught in my throat. “This isn’t allowed, this isn’t right, what if someone hears me?” And then I realized: no one was paying any attention to me, each too busy trying to keep up with the furious pace of jumping jacks, downward dogs and vibrational dance breaks. I let her rip. The second scream came, then the third, then for a while I let one out on every exhale. Without the screaming it feels like an exercise class. With the screaming it feels like an embodiment practice. As someone who has felt disembodied for the last ten or so years, I’ve finally found my way back into my body, one grunt, yell and exhale at a time.
The joy I feel when I scream isn’t entirely a new realization. I remember yelling at my kids one day and feeling the yell cause an expansion in my throat and lungs. It felt so good I yelled again, but louder. And then one last time for good measure. I don’t remember why I yelled — but I remember thinking, “Damn. That felt so good,” minus of course the deep shame I felt (and still feel) for yelling at my children. It wasn’t the right time or place or audience, but the scream, the yell, the activation of my throat and throat chakra was so right I felt reborn. As someone with thyroid issues due at least in part to years of stifling my voice and needs, I deeply believe that screaming has been healing for me. And I know I can’t be the only one this is true for.
The day Teddy was born.
The only other time in my life I remember screaming without abandon was during my second c-section in 2018, when my son Teddy was born. My epidural must not have been sufficient, because I have never been in that kind of pain in my life. I was completely immobile and yet could feel searing pain from the surgery. With no autonomy and thus no options, I did the only thing I could do to try to relieve myself: I screamed and howled at the top of my lungs until they finally gave me morphine. Let that sink in: the only time in my entire life I screamed without restraining myself was on an operating table while giving birth. Once you dig into the history of women being labeled hysterical, it’s no surprise that we don’t scream. We’ve literally been trained for generations not to.
A poem from the Urban Outfitters exclusive edition of The Shift.
I had my annual physical with my doctor today (go schedule yours!), and I shared my new penchant for screaming at The Class. He not only approved, he shared this tidbit with me: when he was in undergrad at Stanford, the night before finals everyone on campus let out a primal scream at 9 pm. That’s right: one big collective, campuswide release. I googled it. His story checks out — both factually (yes they scream at Stanford) and scientifically (yes it makes everyone feel better). Letting out a scream helps complete the stress cycle the Nagowski sisters talk about in Burnout, which I shared about here. Screaming in groups is also particularly cathartic because of the camaraderie it facilitates. Closing the stress cycle, while feeling less alone? Yes to this.
A poem from the Urban Outfitters exclusive edition of The Shift.
A little more research confirmed what I already knew from firsthand experience:
“The ‘rush of endorphins and peptides produced in the pituitary gland and central nervous system … act on the brain’s receptors to increase pleasure, reduce pain, and increase strength,’ says Dr Bryan Bruno from New York City-based Mid City TMS. Screaming makes your body ‘more alert’ and helps to release muscle tension caused by bottled-up emotions.” The Swaddle.
Now do what I do, and exercise while you’re screaming, and the rush of endorphins hits you doubly hard, which is probably why I’m able to make it through the rigorous cardio elements The Class requires, despite not having done any cardio in over five years. With regard to muscle tension and bottled up emotions, I have yet to make it through The Class without crying. There is so much that has been stuck in my silent body for so long that something gets released every single time, and especially when I breath deep, shake my ass and scream big.
So at least for now, self love means screaming. Tomorrow it might be silence. I invite you to join me in every iteration. Here are some epic ballads to practice using your voice loudly until you’re ready to join me for a primal scream.
As I review this post, I do want to clarify: I am not an ambassador for The Class, they don’t know I’m writing this post, and I don’t benefit by sharing about it in any way. Whether you scream using The Class (they have a digital studio) or scream into the abyss, I’m happy either way. Just let me know how you feel when you do. A big thank you to
for bringing The Class into my life.