Feminine Power
She didn’t mean to forget.
It happened slowly—like erosion, like a candle burning at both ends.
Every time she was told she was too much.
Every time she was asked to tone it down, be grateful, be good.
Every time her softness was mistaken for fragility,
her generosity mistaken for permission,
her silence mistaken for peace.
She gave until it became identity.
She learned that if she wasn’t needed, she wouldn’t be loved.
If she wasn’t indispensable, she’d be invisible.
And so she stayed.
In jobs that drained her.
In relationships that fed on her magic but never watered her roots.
In rooms that demanded her performance but never witnessed her truth.
This is the wound of worth.
And almost every woman carries it.
Feminine Power: The Cost of Forgetting
We were trained to forget.
Trained by mothers who were taught to survive instead of shine.
By religions that feared the holy in our hips.
By systems that rewarded obedience over intuition.
We were asked to become good girls instead of whole women.
We confused sacrifice with love.
We measured our value by how much we could carry
before breaking.
We didn’t break out loud.
We broke in whispers.
In the shower. In the bathroom stall. In the car after pretending we were fine.
We broke every time we betrayed ourselves just to be chosen.
And we stayed broken,
because no one told us that we were the temple all along.
Feminine Power: When She Remembers
And still, one day… something shifts.
It’s not rage.
It’s not a scream.
It’s not even sadness anymore.
It’s a silent earthquake.
The kind that reshapes everything without breaking a single thing.
The kind that moves puzzle pieces into sacred alignment without fanfare or force.
Most of the time, this remembering comes after a heartbreak.
A disappointment so sharp it slices through illusion.
A rejection that cracks the shell of identity wide open.
She’s cried a thousand tears already—
and this time, there are no tears left.
Only a stillness.
A sovereign reverence.
A deep, almost holy pause.
Because something ancient is stirring.
And from that silence,
She begins to remember:
Come closer, beloved.
This pain didn’t destroy you—it delivered you.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
Not harder—but deeper.
Not colder—but clearer.
You are no longer begging to be loved.
You are resting in the truth of your own presence.
You don’t need to be chosen.
You choose.
You don’t need to prove your magic.
You are the magic.
Your softness was never weakness.
Your longing was never shameful.
Your body was never the battleground—it was always the temple.
And now, you are walking with the kind of grace that only comes
from having lost yourself and found something far more sacred in return.
A woman who has remembered.
And will never again forget.
Feminine Power: Come Home, Beloved
You are not too much.
You were just raised in a world afraid of your fullness.
But that world is crumbling.
And here you are, rising—
not as a martyr, not as a savior,
but as a temple.
You are not a vessel for everyone else’s healing.
You are a sanctuary for your own becoming.
Come home, beloved.
Come back to the temple that is you.
Recommendations:
Looking for a deeper way to come home to yourself?
Download The Temple Remembers—a sacred journal with soul-stirring prompts to help you reconnect with your feminine power, worth, and truth.
Let it be your invitation back to the woman you were before the world taught you to forget.
Another beautiful companion to this work is the powerful book Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. A deep well of wild feminine wisdom, it speaks to the parts of you that were never meant to be tamed.
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