The Return of the Whole Woman
Soft, Wild, and Seen
The Return of the Whole Woman
Soft, Wild, and Seen
There is a woman inside me
who lives at the threshold
between what she feels
and what she was taught to feel,
between who she is
and who she was told to become.
She senses things before she can name them.
Her body speaks in instinct, in pulses,
while her mind holds old codes:
inherited fears,
scripts written long before she arrived.
She has learned to keep herself small,
to quiet the fire in her hips,
to soften the sharpness of her wanting,
to be palatable, pleasant,
proper.
And still,
there is something untamable within her,
a voice rising in the dark,
honest and clear,
uncompromising,
ancient.
This voice asks for no permission.
It speaks the language of eros
a presence,
a power,
a prayer.
This part of her isn’t seeking to behave.
She is seeking to return to herself.
She has known desire as intensity,
lust wrapped in danger,
pleasure tangled in pain.
For many women,
the first memory of sexual aliveness
was far from safe.
It came cloaked in dominance,
in the thrill of being taken,
rather than gently received.
So arousal became entwined
with surrender,
with being overpowered,
with vanishing just enough to feel wanted.
In the presence of real love,
something within her dims,
as if being deeply seen
might dissolve the part of her
that craves so fiercely.
The part that moans, demands, devours
feels too wild to bring into tenderness,
too intense to reveal to the one who holds her heart.
She has lived this split.
The beloved offers safety and stillness,
but the stranger is where her fire is free.
It feels easier
to bare her soul to someone
who doesn’t know her story,
to step into fantasy
where nothing is at risk,
where no past or future exists
to complicate her desire.
With one who holds no history with her,
her edges are allowed.
There is no shame,
only rawness,
only heat.
But the one who knows her,
who sees her unguarded,
who holds her weeping and whole,
that is the one she hesitates to burn.
And so,
the erotic and the holy stay separated.
The sacred and the carnal keep their distance.
What if the split is not truth
but inheritance,
passed down through silence,
through doctrine,
through centuries of severing
the divine erotic from the divine feminine?
What if the voice whispering,
“You are too much,”
was never hers at all,
but the echo of an old, inherited fear
disguised as caution?
There is a reconciliation waiting.
A return.
She is not one or the other.
She is the full expression.
She is the woman who lights candles at dawn
and begs for her hair to be pulled by night.
She is sacred and savage,
soft and untamed,
lover and priestess,
devotional and dripping with want.
The shame never belonged to her.
She’s placing it down now.
And the more she steps into her erotic fire,
the more alive she becomes—
not just in sex,
but in her voice,
her art,
her walk,
her presence in every room.
She no longer hides the parts
that once only emerged in darkness.
She opens the door.
She lets them breathe.
She lets her lover witness her whole,
no longer something to be feared,
but something to be met with open hands,
a gift of truth,
a flame offered freely.
And where love and lust once kept their distance,
they now begin to dance.
It takes courage,
and the body still trembles,
but the shaking is sacred—
a signal
that centuries of silence
are finally breaking.
This is the new erotic:
integrated.
Alive.
Holy.