There are very few people in my life who truly know what I am walking through.

Oddly enough, I like it that way.

There is a reason for this season of quiet.

I am healing — not just from my marriage, not just from the constant tension my body has lived inside of — but from a lifetime of habits that taught me to shrink in order to be accepted.

That shrinking was safer than being disliked.

Bending kept me chosen.

Authenticity was met with resistance.

Desire was labeled “cold,” “bitchy,” or “too much.”

I spent thirty-eight years shaping myself into something palatable.

And my body finally said no.

The Body Remembers

Over the last two years, my nervous system has been waving red flags I could no longer ignore. I was exhausted. Wired. Tired and rigid. My system was asking — begging — for something softer.

More grounded.

More human.

More slow.

I began craving barefoot mornings in the grass. Journaling with the sun on my skin. Feeling dirt in my hands. Sitting in stillness. Letting joy bloom in the smallest moments.

Some people call healing a wild, reckless thing — the dopamine chasing, the parties, the numbing, the chaos disguised as freedom. I used to believe that too.

But now I recognize it for what it is:

Masking.

Regulation.

Not restoration.

True healing is quieter.

It is slow, steady, boring in the most sacred way.

It is rooted.

Rooted Is the New Radiant

This rooted healing is what I am choosing — and what I am requiring — in all future relationships, romantic or otherwise.

I need calm connections.

Safe nervous systems.

Spaces where my intellect and my magic are honored.

I need to be seen.

Not consumed.

I am not an idea in someone else’s story.

Not a fantasy.

Not a muse.

Not a mirror for someone else’s longing.

I am a living, breathing, rooted force of nature.

I carry life in my body and wisdom in my bones.

I feel truth before it is spoken.

I notice energy in rooms and in people.

I build safety with my presence.

I create beauty in chaos.

I protect my children with ferocity and tenderness.

I write from blood, breath, and memory.

I walk barefoot because I belong to the earth.

I Am Not a Performance

I am not here to be small.

I am not here to be fragile.

I am not here to be consumed.

I am here to choose.

To be witnessed — not entered.

To live slowly and deliberately.

I no longer chase, explain, negotiate, or perform.

I listen to my body.

I trust my gut.

I close doors quietly.

I honor my new season.

I move slowly and decisively.

And I remember:

My softness is not an access point.

It is sacred.

The Awakening

I am awakening to my worth and my authority.

I am no longer available for explaining myself.

I exist gently — without justification.

Slowness is healing.

Rooted is radiant.

And I am finally home inside my own body.