The Awakened Woman Remembers Herself

I Saw Her Remember Who She Was

For a long time, she forgot.
Forgot how to roar.
Forgot how to rest.
Forgot how to receive.

I watched her shapeshift into sweetness
not because it was who she was,
but because it was the safest mask she could wear.

She smiled while her soul ached to scream.
She gave when she had nothing left.
She offered love as currency, hoping it might buy her safety, presence, affection,
even when her body whispered, “This is not love.”

I saw her silence her truth to avoid abandonment.
Saw her dim her fire for those too afraid to feel its heat.
I saw her betray herself for the illusion of connection.
I saw her become everything… for everyone…
except herself.

But underneath the ache and the armor…
She was always there.

The untamed one.
The one who bleeds with the moon.
The one who births galaxies through her heart.
The one whose tears could cleanse generations
and whose laughter could awaken the dead.

And Then… She Stopped Apologizing

One day, maybe suddenly, maybe slowly,
she decided her depth was not too much.
Her wild was not dangerous.
Her truth was not negotiable.
Her no was not rude.
Her body was not to be owned.
Her voice was not to be muted.

She burned the good-girl mask in the fire of her own rebirth.

Her rage became holy.
Her sensuality became prayer.
Her love became a gift, not a plea.

I saw her stop waiting to be chosen.
Stop chasing crumbs.
Stop mothering men who had yet to father themselves.

And I’ll tell you this
when a woman stops betraying herself,
she becomes impossible to control…
and irresistible to truth.

She Reclaimed Her Body Like a Temple

She used to flinch at her own reflection.
Used to dress for protection, not expression.
Used to disconnect from sensation, because sensation once meant danger.

Now?
She moves like water and breathes like Earth.
She dances like no one is watching and hopes no one tries to define her if they are.
She makes love to herself without shame.
She takes up space.
She wears her scars like sacred scripture.

No man can own her.
No story can contain her.
No shame can stain her.

She Holds the Masculine to His Truth

She doesn’t demand perfection.
But she won’t settle for a man who hides behind his wounds.

She has no interest in rescuing.
No time for half-hearted presence.
No patience for empty promises made by lips that tremble in the face of her power.

But when a man shows up
not just with words, but with integrity,
not just with hunger, but with reverence
when he can witness the storm without flinching,
when he sees her soul, not just her skin…
She opens.

Not like a flower.
Like a portal.
She remembers him into his kingship.
Not because he needs her to—but because she can.

She Is All of It

She’s not either/or.
She is lover and mystic.
Mother and maiden.
Chaos and stillness.
Blood and starlight.
She doesn’t try to be feminine.
She is.

She doesn’t need to be tamed.
She needs to be trusted.

She doesn’t want to be saved.
She wants to be met.

And When She Is Met…

She surrenders, not from submission,
but from sovereign choice.

And when she surrenders…
She doesn’t give herself away—
She gives life.

To the room.
To the man.
To the moment.
To the world.

I’ve seen this woman.
She is not a fantasy.
She is not a dream.
She is not rare.
She is risen.

And if you ever get to love a woman like this
Don’t try to own her.
Don’t try to understand her.
Just honour her.

And above all
Meet her.