Happy Whore’s Day

I was shocked too.

That there is an official day to celebrate sex workers filled me with a mix of delight and confusion. June 2nd no less. The precise day I’m relocating to the jungle for at least six months. Don’t you love it when timing feels so serendipitous? As if God — because God must care, oh for the very-obscure-and-ever-misunderstood whore — whispered, it’s okay, you’re guided, you’re on the right path.

If you’d like to know, Whore’s Day started — as it couldn’t be any other way — in France.

June 2nd, 1975. More than 100 sex workers occupied the Saint-Nizier church in Lyon to protest the criminalization, police brutality, and murders of women like them — women who had for too long been invisible, disposable, voiceless. They demanded protection, dignity, and human rights. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t sanctioned. But it was holy.

Imagine it: stilettos echoing in pews, rosaries tangled in fishnets, incense mixing with perfume. A sacred reclamation. Not a fall from grace — but a grace that was never recognized to begin with.

I can’t think of anything more fitting.

Because the word whore isn’t just a profession or slur. It’s an archetype. A mirror. A wound. A weapon. A portal.

And for some of us — it’s a path.

I never imagined the most sacred parts of me would be revealed in the erotic. That what I’d been taught to hide would become the place I returned to again and again for healing. For truth. For power. For self-love.