It’s been a while since I last wrote here. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was writing something much bigger. A book. And now, I can say it out loud: I’m a published author.
It feels surreal. Not just because it’s a lifelong dream, but because this book feels like an extension of this space. If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll find traces of it in every chapter: the same voice, the same questions, just with a deeper descent. Writing it was like peeling back the layers of who I thought I was, only to meet the parts of me I had tucked away in silence.
In the process, I uncovered corners of myself that were heavy with darkness. Some still are. There are parts I’m still trying to make peace with, wounds I didn’t even know were still bleeding. Writing this book was not cathartic in the usual sense. It was confronting. At times, it felt like drowning in memory, only to come up gasping for breath and wondering if I’d ever feel whole again.
But here’s the thing: these memories, these unresolved knots, don’t surface until we’re ready. And I was ready, even if I didn’t feel like it.
One memory in particular has stayed with me. A pattern, really. One I’ve repeated without even realising it: getting close to men who either needed to be saved, or who saw me as a threat. Relationships where being strong meant being emasculating. Where my shine felt like their shadow. And slowly, without realising it, I kept shrinking or contorting to make them feel okay, while dimming parts of myself in the process.
Not all men in my life have been like this. But the closest ones, my father and an ex have. My father was absent in the moments I needed protection. Worse, he was the one I needed protection from. Physical harm, emotional neglect, a silence so loud it shaped how I saw myself as a girl in the world. And then came the ex. Infidelity. Emotional immaturity. A strange dependency masked as love. The kind that chips away at you until you’re left wondering how you ever tolerated that version of “care.”
Looking back, I realise I was often forced into my masculine energy, always in survival mode. I forgot what it meant to feel soft. To feel held. To simply be a woman. My divine feminine self felt like a distant memory, something I only caught glimpses of in solitude.
Last night, I woke up with a storm in my chest. Anger. Pure, raw, old anger. And for the first time, I let it be. I didn’t rationalize it, or quiet it, or sugarcoat the story. I named it for what it was: injustice. I saw clearly the ways I had been harmed. Not just physically, but in spirit. And how for so long, I was the one making excuses on behalf of those who had no business being excused. No more.
This post isn’t a travel story. But in some ways, it is. Because travel has always been my escape route. I was either running from a version of masculinity that hurt me or toward one I thought would save me, only to find more hurt. My fight-or-flight response? It was literally booking flights.
But that energy, that fire in me, I’m finally learning to channel it into something different. Something sacred. I’m building a life that honours the feminine within me. The part that feels deeply, loves fully, and doesn’t apologise for softness, stillness, or depth. It’s not about rejecting the masculine, but letting it rise only when needed. Not to dominate, but to protect and support. The feminine in me is no longer something I mute to survive. It’s something I now choose to live by. Because that energy, gentle, intuitive, nurturing is powerful too. And it deserves to take up space.
There’s power in this balance. I used to think vulnerability made me weak. That grief, fear, or sadness were emotions to hide. But recently, in conversation, someone reframed it for me. “It’s not weakness. It’s vulnerability.” And vulnerability, I’ve come to see, is courage in its truest form. To feel everything and still choose to stay. To keep loving. To keep healing.
If you’ve ever been in that space—navigating the abyss—I see you. I honour your strength.
And as for me? I know I’m not done yet. There’s more shadow to meet. More stories to unearth. But now, I don’t fear it. This isn’t a war between the broken and the healed versions of me. This is a reunion. An invitation to bring love to the parts of myself that never received it.
Because that’s what true healing is: not fixing, but integrating. Not hardening, but softening. And remembering that every version of me—past, present, becoming—is worthy of love.
fortuitouspurpose 