There’s a woman seated in the forest, dressed in roots.
She’s not trapped.
She’s rooted.
This morning, I woke shaking.
My body remembering.
Stories in the world tapping on old doors.
“No. Not this again.”
I cried.
When will it end?
For a moment, I wanted the memories gone — erased, buried, finished once and for all.
But wanting them gone is another form of resistance.
The truth is, it happened.
The truth is, I survived.
The truth is, my body still remembers.
There’s a woman seated in the forest.
She does not collapse.
Neither do I.
Today, I am not voiceless.
Today, I am not frozen.
Today, I sit.
Grounding can feel heavy.
But it is also holy.
Some men violated.
Some men protected.
I refuse to confuse the two.
I place my hand on the frame of the little girl on my desk.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her.
I place my hand on my heart.
I feel it beat.
I widen around the tightness.
Peace is not delivered to us.
It is sovereign territory we cultivate — fiercely and lovingly — from within.
We don’t reject victim or survivor.
We don’t shame those identities.
We simply don’t freeze there.
Victim was a season.
Survivor was a bridge.
Sovereign is a becoming.
There’s a woman seated in the forest, dressed in roots.
She’s not trapped.
She’s rooted.
And so am I.
This reflection lives alongside the larger body of work I’m shaping: Coming Home to Myself, a book in progress exploring embodiment, frequency, grief, sovereignty, and the quiet courage of belonging to oneself.