Before we begin, I invite you to take a breath. This is not just something to listen to or read — this is a transmission. A remembrance. A sacred invocation for the Divine Feminine rising within you.
What follows is not a performance, but a mirror to your own becoming. It is an honouring of the holy grief, the ache of transformation, the fierce love that pulses beneath your pain.
Let these words move through your body, not just your mind. Let them stir what’s been buried, what’s been waiting — not to be fixed, but to be felt. This is medicine. This is reclamation. This… is the return to your sacred self.
There comes a moment… A moment beyond time, when the sacred Feminine within us —
no matter our gender — refuses to stay buried. She rises. Wild. Holy. Untamed. Unapologetic.
It is not gentle at first. It is fire. It is grief. Not the kind you cry over once and move on. This is soul-deep. Womb-deep. Ancestral. Cosmic. It roars through your bones, like a thousand generations weeping at once.
This is the Sacred Grief of Becoming.
It begins with a whisper: "I can’t carry this anymore." The weight of pretending.
The ache of always being strong. The ache of being unseen — while holding everyone else.
This grief doesn’t ask for permission. It surges. It trembles through the body. It roars like a wildfire through your heart. It shakes loose the masks, the survival stories, the armour that once kept us safe.
And in that holy unravelling, we are stripped bare… not broken, but opened.
We find ourselves in the void — that sacred space between who we’ve been and who we are becoming. It is raw here. Tender. Holy. And yes, it hurts.
This is where the Feminine begins to remember—not to cast blame, but to reclaim her story. She remembers so she can hold her pain with grace and transmute it into her own rising.
She remembers the unmet needs of her childhood. The heartbreaks and betrayals. The moments she was afraid, alone, and longing for protection that never came. She remembers the silent losses—miscarriages, children, loved ones, the simple dreams and joys that never came her way.
The times she had to be the strong one, when all she truly needed was to be seen, to be held. She remembers the pain of surviving abuse and injustices—how it taught her to mistrust, to shrink, to disappear in order to endure. She remembers the times she swallowed her truth because the world chose to believe the voices of others over hers, when being doubted hurt more than being silent.
She remembers why she once believed it was her job to ease everyone’s pain—because somewhere along the way, she learned that keeping others comfortable meant staying safe.
She remembers how she gave everything—her time, her love, her light—only to be used, overlooked, and torn down by those who fed off her without ever seeing her. She remembers the guilt she was never meant to carry— Passed down, projected, and etched into her bones until she mistook it for her own.
She remembers how her intuition was dismissed—how she was told she was too much, too sensitive, too dramatic —when, in reality, she was simply attuned to what others feared to face.
She remembers the ache of being misunderstood—how her depth was met with distance, how her longing for connection was often met with absence.
She remembers the shame imposed on her body—how her power was either objectified or feared, but rarely honoured as sacred.
She remembers how her boundaries were broken, tested, ignored—how every “no” she spoke was twisted into betrayal, painted as unkindness, when it was an act of self-honouring.
She remembers being celebrated for her sacrifice but punished for her needs—how love was conditional on her disappearance.
She remembers how her softness was seen as a flaw in a world that only honoured the hard and the hardened.
She remembers the times she dimmed her brilliance to soothe fragile egos—how her light was seen as a threat, not a gift.
But now, she begins to release that burden. She no longer makes herself small to soothe others. She no longer takes on the blame for their discomfort. She stops silencing her truth, her needs, her values, to keep the peace. She recognises that crumbs are not enough—she deserves to be met fully, as she so often meets others.
She remembers she doesn't need to wear strength like armour if it means sacrificing her softness, her truth, her capacity to receive. She remembers the grief of the women who came before— Silenced. Shamed. Forgotten. And she allows herself to feel it all.
Because she can. Because she must. Because she is the one who chooses to feel what others buried, to heal what others feared, to rise where others stayed quiet.
She is not weak. She is sacred ground. She is the vessel of transformation. She is the one who nurtured while starving for tenderness. The one who poured love, even as her own cup ran dry. The one who smiled while silently breaking.
But now —now she chooses herself. Not in spite. Not in anger. But in reverence.
No more shrinking. No more performing. No more apologising for her depth.
She rises — not to be chosen, but because she has chosen herself.
This is not depression. This is not failure. This is your nervous system releasing. Your lineage unravelling. Your soul remembering that you were never too much. You were always sacred.
You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not alone. You… are becoming. You are anchoring. You are returning. To your softness. To your truth. To your power.
This is the sacred becoming. This is the embodiment of the Divine Feminine. This is the portal through which you rise.
And now, beloved…
Welcome home.