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When women abandon their bodies, they hand them over to those unequipped to hold them as they can— as they already know how.

They do not need to learn trust again; they need only quiet the voices that tell them they are shameful, that they should be unseen, diminished.

The men who demeaned them, the women who quietly undermined them—moving through their dreams like snakes longing to shed their skin, yet clinging tightly to threads of envy, threads of longing. Longing to understand what she has.

She knows it in the way she inhabits herself, the way she touches her own body with reverence, with sensual knowing. A man does not teach this—he learns from it. He stands in awe of her.

Not only of her beauty, but of her way of living so deeply within the divine that masks fall away and dreams take shape along the paths she creates—through honesty, through surrender.

A surrender not to him, but to the life that was always hers, though it was claimed as his.