In Her Bones 🦴

✨reclamation✨

“I don’t need ego death,” she said.

“…because my ego didn’t get the luxury of a slow unraveling.

It was ripped from me—

in the silence of grief,

in the confusion of touch that wasn’t safe,

in the betrayal of being unseen

by those who were supposed to protect me.”

This isn’t about her letting go of false self.

She never got to build one.

This is about her recovering the architecture

that was never allowed to rise.

The blueprint is still in her bones.

And her anger?

It’s not a weakness.

It’s a flare sent up from her original self,

saying:

“She’s still in here. Come get her.”

“I don’t need ego death,” she said.

“I need soul retrieval.

I need to gather the bones of the girl

who never got to finish being a child—

because grief came too early,

and the world didn’t soften to meet her.”

They talk about ego death

like it’s some sacred detachment—

but hers died

in a single conversation… 

a knock at the door from a man wearing a badge.

In a closed casket.

In a room where no one asked if she was okay.

It wasn’t an awakening.

No enlightenment.

It was abandonment.

“So no—

I don’t need to ‘let go’

I need to remember who I am

before survival rewrote my name!

Before shame became my skin.

Before anger was buried alive

under the weight of ‘be nice’.”

She is not a woman in need of humbling.

She had her fair share of that.

She is a woman in need of rebuilding.

“I need blueprints made of bloodlines and truth.

I need sacred scaffolding—

anger for my hammer,

intuition for my compass,

and God, not as sky-father

but as breath inside my chest,” she said.

She doesn’t want transcendence.

She wants return.

To the garden,

to the grit,

to the girl who once knew

that her fire was holy

and her body was home.

“I don’t need ego death.

I need reclamation.”

And she will not come back empty.

Her Presence 🌸

✨questioning ✨

She doesn’t know why

he looks at her like a burden he never asked for,

like her presence is a weight he resents carrying—

even when she’s doing all she can

to make herself small, easy, gentle.

Even when she’s quiet enough to disappear.

She doesn’t know why

her joy seems to irritate him,

why the sound of her laughter

makes his jaw clench

like it’s a language he forgot how to speak.

Why every time she tries to shine

he pulls the curtains tighter.

She doesn’t know why

he can’t say something kind

without sounding like he’s doing her a favor.

Why her beauty, her fire, her depth

feels like a threat to him instead of a gift.

Why he acts like loving her

might cost him everything he’s worked for.

He says she brings nothing to the table.

But it was never his table to begin with.

She is the forest that gave the wood,

the hands that built the fire,

the sacred hush before the prayer is spoken.

She is the table,

and the meal,

and the candle burning at the center of it all.

And he’s never known hunger

like the kind that gets fed

when a woman looks at him

and truly sees him—

not for what he earns,

but for who he is

when the world isn’t watching.

He doesn’t know how to make love

without feeling like he’s losing control.

So instead, he builds walls with rules

and calls it maturity.

He places her body on a schedule,

touches her only on his terms,

then wonders why she feels so far away.

He mistakes intimacy for weakness—

because the church his father built

taught him that power lives in distance,

and that God never weeps.

She doesn’t know why

her body feels like a crime scene

and his touch feels like a courtroom.

Why she’s always defending her softness

as though it’s something shameful.

Why she feels like she has to apologize

just for needing tenderness

from a man who says he loves her.

But he knows.

Deep down,

he knows.

He knows that the god he worships

wears a suit and signs checks

and never cries.

He knows that his father’s religion

never made room for a woman

with a wild heart and a knowing gaze—

only for wives who stayed quiet

and bowed their heads

and didn’t ask for too much.

And she—

she is too much.

Too sacred.

Too honest.

Too awake.

So he calls her a leach,

a taker,

a distraction from his purpose.

When really—

she’s been trying to show him

that money will never touch the parts of him

that feel unloved.

That success will never rock him to sleep

when he’s breaking in silence.

That her love was never his enemy.

It was his doorway.

His reckoning.

His return.

But he isn’t ready.

So he punishes her wholeness

and calls it her flaw.

He shames what he cannot open.

He walks away from what he secretly craves.

She doesn’t know why.

But if he ever let himself break—

if he ever asked the real questions,

the ones that live beneath the performance—

he’d find her there,

not waiting in silence,

but standing in truth.

Not as a mother to heal him,

not as a lesson to teach him,

but as a mirror—

clear, unwavering,

reflecting back the man

he’s afraid to become.

She was never a test.

She was the threshold.

And she was always

deserving of being chosen—

not because she stayed,

but because she saw him

and still opened her hands.