I am becoming.

Not in the gentle way that flowers bloom, but in the violent cracking of old bones being rearranged to hold something heavier; something holier. The woman I once was is gone. She was soft in the wrong places and quiet when she should’ve roared. She bent herself into shapes to be understood by men who only knew how to take, not see.

But now? I no longer belong to the men who tried to rewrite my story with their own pens. I no longer dim my fire for the comfort of the fragile. I’ve unhooked my worth from the mouths of selfish men, and I am no longer waiting to be chosen.

I’ve chosen myself.

This is what it looks like when a woman crawls out of the wreckage they left her in; blood on her knuckles, smoke in her lungs, and divinity in her spine. I am not light and airy; I am storm-born, thunder-laced. There’s a chaos in me that no longer apologizes for existing. My softness has fangs now. My love, boundaries. My silence, power.

I’m stepping into my dark divine feminine; the version of me that doesn’t flinch when she’s too much. She seduces, she destroys, she rebuilds. She is the storm and the shelter. And she’s no longer asking to be handled gently; she’s daring someone to meet her where she’s risen.

Eventually, I want love; but not the diluted kind. I want the kind of love that mirrors my power, matches my magic, and never tries to shrink it. I don’t need to be tamed; I need to be met. And the one who comes next won’t be scared of my fire; they’ll stand in it with me.

I don’t regret who I’m becoming; only that it took this long to unleash her.