I hear a woman asking to be seen, longing to be loved for who she truly is. I hear her questioning her boundaries, trying to loosen the rigid ideas she once held about how she should act, behave, be.

She’s come far since then. She is not the same woman she was a year ago.

She knows her worth now. She knows where her boundaries live. She is learning how to communicate — how and when to respond, and when not to. She pauses and asks herself: does this even deserve a response?

She has changed.

And it’s interesting — almost poetic — that with that declaration, sweetness entered her life.

The one who brought colour, sensuality, resonance.

The one who made her feel seen.

Her wish was fulfilled.

Then, in December 2025, she closed the door.

She stepped back, even though it broke her heart. She chose not to chase, not to beg for a level of energy that no longer honoured who she had become. The sweetness faded. The beauty — briefly held, deeply felt — was taken away. Tears followed. Grief settled in. A wound opened where possibility once lived.

That may be the hardest part of all: the potential.

The ache of what could have been.

And with it came the lesson — the question that cuts clean and clear:

Who is actually standing in front of you?

Who is truly present?

Do you love the person, or the idea of who they might become?

This is where the slope turns slippery, where hope quietly transforms into pain. You cannot trust potential — only presence. Only consistency. And time is the only thing that ever reveals it.

Yet how do you keep your heart open while protecting it?

The truth is, you can’t keep your heart closed and still hope to feel real connection. To truly feel, the heart must remain open — wide open. And yes, that openness carries risk. It invites pain. It invites tears. It means loving deeply, giving fully, even when the outcome is uncertain.

But there is pride in that kind of love.

There is strength in loving without armour.

To love wholly, deeply, without barriers — that is a strength not many possess. Many choose comfort instead. They retreat. They avoid feeling. They mask, distract, run from the work. In doing so, they clip their own wings. They stay stagnant, looping the same narratives of shame and disappointment. What they call safety is often a cage — restrictive, suffocating, familiar.

They grow afraid because this kind of love destabilizes them.

It threatens the identity they built to survive.

And so they step back into the void, into comfort, into a life where true connection is never fully felt.

The cruel truth is that once sweetness has been tasted, there is no returning.

Once the body has expanded, it cannot shrink itself again. This isn’t elasticity — it’s transformation. The system recalibrates. A new baseline is set. From that moment on, the body knows what it will and will not accept.

The system has spoken.

And it will not go back.

Old narratives dissolve. Roots loosen. And from that unraveling, a new version emerges — cautious, tender, stepping into the unknown. Someone who hasn’t yet walked beside you. Someone learning to take those first steps with you.

It’s frightening.

It’s new.

It requires courage, curiosity, and a deep trust that when your foot lands, there will be ground beneath it.

For now, grief wraps itself around everything. And still — all these truths coexist. They do not cancel each other out. The understanding is clear. The living of it is harder.

Standing at the threshold of a door, the question remains:

do you step forward, or do you retreat into comfort?

And to those who could walk beside me —

I shine bright.

A beacon.

Come find me.