I used to believe I had to choose. Soft or strong. Gentle or assertive. Nurturing or independent. But the truth is, I am all of it—soft, fierce, and entirely mine. The world often teaches women, and sensitive souls in general, to tone themselves down. If you’re soft, you’re too emotional. If you’re strong, you’re too much. If you want t
There comes a point in life when you grow tired of running—from yourself, from your past, from the aching hunger to belong. For years, I wandered outside of myself, shape-shifting to meet expectations, shrinking to fit into spaces too small for my truth. I wore masks to be loved, to be safe, to be accepted. But each time I stepped out of my own s
There are stories etched not in ink or paper, but in the lines of our bodies, in the curves we come to know as part of ourselves. They hold a quiet truth—one that defies perfection, celebrates resilience, and embraces history. Every curve, whether physical, emotional, or metaphorical, is a memory I refuse to erase. In a world obsessed with symme
For years, I lived just outside my body. Close enough to function. Far enough not to feel. Touch was something that happened to me, not something I claimed. My skin knew more silence than softness. My desire—when it spoke—was often drowned out by guilt, by fear, by someone else’s expectations. I became good at disconnection. At looking in t
I used to treat my body like a performance. A set of angles. A polished presentation. Something to be seen, not inhabited. I mastered the art of being looked at— How to pose, how to please, how to stay silent in all the right places. Because somewhere along the way, I was taught that worth lives in the eyes of others. But being looked at is not