You’re not ready…

For the softness that bikes back. For the divine feminine in her rawest bloom ~ unfiltered, unashamed.

This is sensual self-love. This is a sacred cleansing of all the bad and the ugly. Goodbye and good riddance, your loss sweetheart…not mine. This is me, and no one can ever take that away.

I used to dress for the gaze. Now i dress for the girl who glittered her living room like it was a stage. This one’s for her ~ the little me who knew exactly who she was, before the world told her otherwise.

It’s late. I’m half asleep, half mad, and writing this down because i can’t stop thinking about the shit my girls are going through. If you’re in your head ~ overthinking, over-explaining, over-loving someone who keeps dropping you ~ this is your sign to stop.

You are not hard to love. They’re just not equipped. Let them go. Come back to you.

And then remind yourself:You are the main character, you don’t chase…YOU choose.

As another year turns, i find myself coming back to the home i’ve built ~ and the version of me it continues to hold. This is a seasonal reflection of softness, solitude, and the quiet power of creating a life that feels good to live in.

This is for anyone who’s ever felt the weight of the outside world and wanted to build something gentler inside. Home is more than a place ~ its not perfect, but it’s mine. And it holds me beautifully.

I used to carry them like shame ~ tucked into the corners of my heart, too embarrassed to speak them aloud. I played the blame game, ran from my choices, and tried to write the past in prettier ink. But somewhere along the way, i stopped flinching at the memories. I stopped wishing i could undo her. Because she ~ the girl who loved too wildly, trusted too easily, stayed too long ~ she was doing her best with what she knew.

This first post is a beginning — tender, true, and quietly brave. These words are stitched from heartache and hope, softness and strength. An intimate unfolding. A quiet reclamation. May you find pieces of your own heart tucked between the lines, and remember: we are allowed to begin again, as many times as it takes.

Always, in the glow of honey and moonlight