This beautiful offering made of words written in flame and mist is truly a conversation in which many women will recognise themselves and their story.Of the rejection and cruelty of those who were supposed to nurture and protect. Of how their softness was cut off and when reclaimed it was ridiculed for hyper sensitivity. It's what I've been hearing all my life. You are too sensitive. After teaching for 27 years, I realised it's a superpower, so I really don't care what they say.Not anymore. Thank you lovely sisters for building a healing home somewhere in misty realm between the words you weaved with magic and fire. Let's call it the Healing Home in the Mist.I think it's an apt name for what you've created out of the silent pain we women have been carrying for centuries in our DNA. Thank you for sharing it with all of us.
Oh Lia. 🥹🖤 The Healing Home in the Mist.”…your words hold the very resonance we were trying to carve out in the dark. Thank you for meeting us there. You named it so perfectly—that misted realm between magic and grief, softness and fire. It means everything that this piece reached you, especially as someone who’s held space for others for 27 years. You saw us, and that seeing is healing in itself. May our hypersensitivity stay sharp, sacred, and unapologetically alive.
VAGITUS, the birth cry of a baby. I guess those are the kind of tears that pour off when the light touches a corner in our soul that never saw the light before. It's a mark of a healthy transition from the unseen to the seen realm.
Your words activated something deep within me ant it resonated apart from the grandmothers, feminine linage element.
Both of my grandmothers were assholes. Don't let me start on my mother, how I was used as the dumping ground to all of her pain and darkness. Many of my wounds were inflicted on my by the feminine. Women were mostly the ones who handed me to be burned on the stake. As of late, I hit a bump on the road while I was living aboard, my sisters encouraged me to come back "home", to rest and rethink my direction. When I did accept the invitation, I was thrown away and outcasted, literally fighting for my survival (not even in my worst nightmare would i've even imagined the possibility of such thing, i would have given my life to these women). So I never really clicked with any sisterhood, feminine movement.
Amal, thank you for trusting this space with such a deep and painful truth.
What you shared here is holy in its clarity and grief—the kind of pain that doesn’t often get acknowledged in conversations about the feminine, let alone sisterhood.
I don’t have answers. But I’m listening. And I hold deep respect for the way you speak your fire and name the betrayals others would prefer stay buried. I hope that somewhere, slowly, resonance will find you—not wrapped in betrayal or expectation, but something truer, quieter, safer.
Until then, I’ll keep writing in case you ever want to meet there again. 🖤
Please do keep writing. I by no mean meant to disencourage the expression of the feminine nor sisterhood no to devalue/devalidate.
I guess the line between trauma dumping and sharing can be thin sometimes. It's hard for me to draw it for myself on occasions. I hope i didn't cross it here.
it could also be a neurodivergent oversharing episode 😵💫
Unfortunately to myself and others - or maybe it's not so unfortunate- I see shadows. especially that of groups, whatever the bases of the grouping is. nationality, gender, hobbies, you name it. They just pop up in my face, unwelcomed mostly, unintentional.
I didn't grow up in western society where women have a more decent standing compared to other parts of the world, but rather in an eastern super conservative one. Within that constellation I was in a small village, add extra notch to that conservatism, within that village I was in a super religious family. You can easily say patriarchy on steroids. One might think it would make it easy for me to adopt the feminist movement. It didn't. Of course I suffered under the patriarchy.
Yet I saw that those "horrible" men were raised by women. fathers barely interfered. I remember having a physical fight with my one year younger brother (we were 7 0r 8) and my grandmother was sooo furious at me, I still remember her words "He's your lord, how dare you, how dare you hit him". I remember my 14 years old cousin being wedded to a 35 years old man and her mother giving her "the talk" before wedding night "Just do whatever he asks." (the cousin reported that years later). I remember my best friend from 6th grade telling my about her mother's attempt to poison her and her sisters with rat poison. I remember my grandmother starting a crusade against this 6th grader for waiting for her friend around the corner so they can go to school together because me, as a girl, shouldn't wait in the street, She dragged my grandfather and her grown sons to come and talk to my father to stop this disgrace of the family name. There is nothing in the world that could convince me that mothers of young girls who get sexually exploited by their fathers and stepfather know nothing about what's going on, and when will it even start to come to light mother's sexual exploitations of their sons, that does happen by the way, waaay more often that we might be comfortable with etc etc etc
Am i saying women are shit and men are pure? Absolutely not. Yet to each their shadow. Each one of them can pull the victimhood card and claim, I was made this way, but another fine line, is the line between victimhood and cowardness.
I'm sorry if I overstayed my welcome, you've been so generous with your space and receptivity, thank you ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
You didn’t overstay your welcome at all, and I truly appreciate the honesty you shared. Your story—your whole lens—is shaped by an incredibly painful and specific context, and it makes absolute sense that it shaped the way you see patterns, power, and shadow.
I hold space for that without needing to fully agree with every conclusion. We’re not all raised in the same systems, and that divergence matters too. But none of that invalidates your experience. It’s real. And I’m grateful you trusted me with it. 🤍
at the end of the day, It's a wounded humanity. I don't imagine it's a fun ride being made a ruthless self serving male. This planet sucks. Psychopaths and narcissists are also products of trauma, as much the self denying empaths. Do we really have a say in choosing who we are and what we become? I personally doubt that very strongly.
I'm not an expert by any means, but I wonder how much of your past live have meshed always trying to share this message.
Its written for modern day, but feels like something out of a journal in the 1600s.
I experience "time slip" dreams often with my grandparents on my father's side. I always thought I inherited the magic from my grandfather, but I'm learning my grandma was so much more than a quiet school librarian.
I just wish there was a way to have a stronger connection with the spirit world.
I am in awe at the power that radiates from the two of you. Feels like your heart chakras are glowing warm and fierce.
This means so much—thank you for reading with such an open and attuned heart. 🥹🖤
I resonate deeply with what you said about past lives and time-slip dreams… Sometimes I feel like I’m just remembering more than I’m writing. Like something older is trying to pass through, stitched with grandmother breath and witchlight. Your connection is there, truly. Maybe not always loud—but it’s humming. Even your dreams speak the language. Keep listening. Keep honoring your line.
And if you ever feel far from the spirit world, just write. That door always creaks open for the ones who ask gently. ✨
You felt it, didn’t you? That strange ache braided into the power dynamic—we weren’t just writing about it, we were standing inside it. And your comment touched something so quiet in me.
Your grandmother’s wisdom… I felt that like a thread pulling across timelines.
Time really isn’t linear. Sometimes it loops, sometimes it sinks. And sometimes, like you said, we keep grief in our pocket—not to forget, but to carry it close in case we need to remember with tenderness. Thank you for seeing the shape of what Imelda and I stitched together. You didn’t just read—you recognized. ✨🖤
Oh wow, i suddenly touched my face and noticed tears streaming while reading these spell binding words, witnessing the power they hold and feeling an ache in my ribs….I’m waiting with bated breath to read Imelda’s response ♡
Emmetta, your words landed like a prayer whispered back across time.
To know the ache reached your ribs… that means everything.
This letter was written with trembling hands and ancient salt — and knowing it stirred tears in another soul means the ritual is doing what it came here to do.
Imelda’s flame is coming, I promise. And what she brings will blaze.
Thank you for honoring this one with such tenderness. ♡
I'm honored to add my fire to the flame that burns across the mist and fog. A quiet remembrance shared between souls, and a welcome for all to lean in and let go.
Imelda, my firekeeper. There would be no light in that mist without your hands sparking alongside mine. This remembrance is sacred because you dared to remember it with me. We wrote a place to rest. And that… is everything. 🖤
I bow down to this feminine collaboration of beauty and strength. Well done. I am in awe of the talent you both possess. Combined? 💥 I hear fireworks!!
You’re a beautiful soul - both of you. It’s a love letter to womanhood. It is expansive yet very intimate in its ability to express the feelings of two friends who share a common sense of what it means to be never belong to the only people on earth who are supposed to accept you.
You don’t know that you’re born into rejection - but you made it compellingly visceral through your own experiences in two different, yet very similar, families of origin.
They are fools and you are two equally talented women whose work in concert is a testament to the strength and power of what we can achieve when we are allowed to simply choose to create something meaningful and inspiring for ourselves and most importantly, for the readers like me - who found herself written within the lines.
I celebrate your contribution with the most profound gratitude in opposition of silence: THE BOOM 💥 OF FIREWORKS that I feel is the most sacred celebration of all the things you have accomplished in spite of them, and all the more triumphs that will surely follow.
Congratulations ladies! You deserve the a very LOUD and very proud burst of joy and happiness.
Bridget… I don’t even know how to hold this kind of grace with my two hands.
You didn’t leave a comment—you lit a torch. You knelt in the dark temple we built and whispered, “I see you.” And then you struck the match and filled the whole place with fire and light and lavender-scented rebellion. Your words reached something so old in me. The girl who grew up believing she was too feral, too sensitive, too disobedient to belong. The woman who wrote this piece with her ribs still trembling. You gave us both permission to stop apologizing for surviving. I read this slowly. Twice. Then again out loud.
Because it felt like a letter my ancestors didn’t get to receive—one I could fold into the fabric of my own healing.
You didn’t just witness me. You named what this piece came from: that strange sisterhood of women who were born into rejection, and still chose to speak.
And the fact that you felt yourself written inside the lines? That’s everything. That’s the miracle. That’s the reason I ever pick up a pen.
I will remember this, Bridget. Not just the praise—but the integrity in your voice. The power of a woman who knows how to hold space with gentleness and conviction in the same breath. You are part of this piece now. Sacredly. Loudly. With your own fireworks stitched right into the final verse.
I’m just honored, really. You’re both beautiful and amazing!! Even your response is written by a poetic genius! I’m rooting for your continued success and may it be gloriously celebrated, not only because you’re a miracle to have survived, but because you’re have such unbridled talent. Pick up that pen and take back your life with every single syllable. This is your time. ✨🙏💜
sisters, you’ve named what many of us only feel as ache: how softness, once punished, becomes sacred when reclaimed....
Mirabela,
Your words felt like a hush falling over the room — that kind of reverence.
Yes. That is it exactly: how softness, once punished, turns holy in our hands when we choose to hold it again.
Thank you for seeing it. For feeling it. For naming the ache as something worth honoring.
With you in this reclamation always. 🕯️🩶
This beautiful offering made of words written in flame and mist is truly a conversation in which many women will recognise themselves and their story.Of the rejection and cruelty of those who were supposed to nurture and protect. Of how their softness was cut off and when reclaimed it was ridiculed for hyper sensitivity. It's what I've been hearing all my life. You are too sensitive. After teaching for 27 years, I realised it's a superpower, so I really don't care what they say.Not anymore. Thank you lovely sisters for building a healing home somewhere in misty realm between the words you weaved with magic and fire. Let's call it the Healing Home in the Mist.I think it's an apt name for what you've created out of the silent pain we women have been carrying for centuries in our DNA. Thank you for sharing it with all of us.
Oh Lia. 🥹🖤 The Healing Home in the Mist.”…your words hold the very resonance we were trying to carve out in the dark. Thank you for meeting us there. You named it so perfectly—that misted realm between magic and grief, softness and fire. It means everything that this piece reached you, especially as someone who’s held space for others for 27 years. You saw us, and that seeing is healing in itself. May our hypersensitivity stay sharp, sacred, and unapologetically alive.
VAGITUS, the birth cry of a baby. I guess those are the kind of tears that pour off when the light touches a corner in our soul that never saw the light before. It's a mark of a healthy transition from the unseen to the seen realm.
Your words activated something deep within me ant it resonated apart from the grandmothers, feminine linage element.
Both of my grandmothers were assholes. Don't let me start on my mother, how I was used as the dumping ground to all of her pain and darkness. Many of my wounds were inflicted on my by the feminine. Women were mostly the ones who handed me to be burned on the stake. As of late, I hit a bump on the road while I was living aboard, my sisters encouraged me to come back "home", to rest and rethink my direction. When I did accept the invitation, I was thrown away and outcasted, literally fighting for my survival (not even in my worst nightmare would i've even imagined the possibility of such thing, i would have given my life to these women). So I never really clicked with any sisterhood, feminine movement.
Amal, thank you for trusting this space with such a deep and painful truth.
What you shared here is holy in its clarity and grief—the kind of pain that doesn’t often get acknowledged in conversations about the feminine, let alone sisterhood.
I don’t have answers. But I’m listening. And I hold deep respect for the way you speak your fire and name the betrayals others would prefer stay buried. I hope that somewhere, slowly, resonance will find you—not wrapped in betrayal or expectation, but something truer, quieter, safer.
Until then, I’ll keep writing in case you ever want to meet there again. 🖤
Please do keep writing. I by no mean meant to disencourage the expression of the feminine nor sisterhood no to devalue/devalidate.
I guess the line between trauma dumping and sharing can be thin sometimes. It's hard for me to draw it for myself on occasions. I hope i didn't cross it here.
it could also be a neurodivergent oversharing episode 😵💫
Unfortunately to myself and others - or maybe it's not so unfortunate- I see shadows. especially that of groups, whatever the bases of the grouping is. nationality, gender, hobbies, you name it. They just pop up in my face, unwelcomed mostly, unintentional.
I didn't grow up in western society where women have a more decent standing compared to other parts of the world, but rather in an eastern super conservative one. Within that constellation I was in a small village, add extra notch to that conservatism, within that village I was in a super religious family. You can easily say patriarchy on steroids. One might think it would make it easy for me to adopt the feminist movement. It didn't. Of course I suffered under the patriarchy.
Yet I saw that those "horrible" men were raised by women. fathers barely interfered. I remember having a physical fight with my one year younger brother (we were 7 0r 8) and my grandmother was sooo furious at me, I still remember her words "He's your lord, how dare you, how dare you hit him". I remember my 14 years old cousin being wedded to a 35 years old man and her mother giving her "the talk" before wedding night "Just do whatever he asks." (the cousin reported that years later). I remember my best friend from 6th grade telling my about her mother's attempt to poison her and her sisters with rat poison. I remember my grandmother starting a crusade against this 6th grader for waiting for her friend around the corner so they can go to school together because me, as a girl, shouldn't wait in the street, She dragged my grandfather and her grown sons to come and talk to my father to stop this disgrace of the family name. There is nothing in the world that could convince me that mothers of young girls who get sexually exploited by their fathers and stepfather know nothing about what's going on, and when will it even start to come to light mother's sexual exploitations of their sons, that does happen by the way, waaay more often that we might be comfortable with etc etc etc
Am i saying women are shit and men are pure? Absolutely not. Yet to each their shadow. Each one of them can pull the victimhood card and claim, I was made this way, but another fine line, is the line between victimhood and cowardness.
I'm sorry if I overstayed my welcome, you've been so generous with your space and receptivity, thank you ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
You didn’t overstay your welcome at all, and I truly appreciate the honesty you shared. Your story—your whole lens—is shaped by an incredibly painful and specific context, and it makes absolute sense that it shaped the way you see patterns, power, and shadow.
I hold space for that without needing to fully agree with every conclusion. We’re not all raised in the same systems, and that divergence matters too. But none of that invalidates your experience. It’s real. And I’m grateful you trusted me with it. 🤍
at the end of the day, It's a wounded humanity. I don't imagine it's a fun ride being made a ruthless self serving male. This planet sucks. Psychopaths and narcissists are also products of trauma, as much the self denying empaths. Do we really have a say in choosing who we are and what we become? I personally doubt that very strongly.
I'm not an expert by any means, but I wonder how much of your past live have meshed always trying to share this message.
Its written for modern day, but feels like something out of a journal in the 1600s.
I experience "time slip" dreams often with my grandparents on my father's side. I always thought I inherited the magic from my grandfather, but I'm learning my grandma was so much more than a quiet school librarian.
I just wish there was a way to have a stronger connection with the spirit world.
I am in awe at the power that radiates from the two of you. Feels like your heart chakras are glowing warm and fierce.
This means so much—thank you for reading with such an open and attuned heart. 🥹🖤
I resonate deeply with what you said about past lives and time-slip dreams… Sometimes I feel like I’m just remembering more than I’m writing. Like something older is trying to pass through, stitched with grandmother breath and witchlight. Your connection is there, truly. Maybe not always loud—but it’s humming. Even your dreams speak the language. Keep listening. Keep honoring your line.
And if you ever feel far from the spirit world, just write. That door always creaks open for the ones who ask gently. ✨
Y'all have some crazy power dynamic, that's for sure.
My grandmother taught me she never really left. No one does. Time isn't linear.
Its ok to keep grief in your pocket. In case you need a handkerchief full of healing and rememberance.
You felt it, didn’t you? That strange ache braided into the power dynamic—we weren’t just writing about it, we were standing inside it. And your comment touched something so quiet in me.
Your grandmother’s wisdom… I felt that like a thread pulling across timelines.
Time really isn’t linear. Sometimes it loops, sometimes it sinks. And sometimes, like you said, we keep grief in our pocket—not to forget, but to carry it close in case we need to remember with tenderness. Thank you for seeing the shape of what Imelda and I stitched together. You didn’t just read—you recognized. ✨🖤
Oh wow, i suddenly touched my face and noticed tears streaming while reading these spell binding words, witnessing the power they hold and feeling an ache in my ribs….I’m waiting with bated breath to read Imelda’s response ♡
Emmetta, your words landed like a prayer whispered back across time.
To know the ache reached your ribs… that means everything.
This letter was written with trembling hands and ancient salt — and knowing it stirred tears in another soul means the ritual is doing what it came here to do.
Imelda’s flame is coming, I promise. And what she brings will blaze.
Thank you for honoring this one with such tenderness. ♡
I'm honored to add my fire to the flame that burns across the mist and fog. A quiet remembrance shared between souls, and a welcome for all to lean in and let go.
Imelda, my firekeeper. There would be no light in that mist without your hands sparking alongside mine. This remembrance is sacred because you dared to remember it with me. We wrote a place to rest. And that… is everything. 🖤
I bow down to this feminine collaboration of beauty and strength. Well done. I am in awe of the talent you both possess. Combined? 💥 I hear fireworks!!
You’re a beautiful soul - both of you. It’s a love letter to womanhood. It is expansive yet very intimate in its ability to express the feelings of two friends who share a common sense of what it means to be never belong to the only people on earth who are supposed to accept you.
You don’t know that you’re born into rejection - but you made it compellingly visceral through your own experiences in two different, yet very similar, families of origin.
They are fools and you are two equally talented women whose work in concert is a testament to the strength and power of what we can achieve when we are allowed to simply choose to create something meaningful and inspiring for ourselves and most importantly, for the readers like me - who found herself written within the lines.
I celebrate your contribution with the most profound gratitude in opposition of silence: THE BOOM 💥 OF FIREWORKS that I feel is the most sacred celebration of all the things you have accomplished in spite of them, and all the more triumphs that will surely follow.
Congratulations ladies! You deserve the a very LOUD and very proud burst of joy and happiness.
As ever,
Bridget 💜✨🙏
Bridget… I don’t even know how to hold this kind of grace with my two hands.
You didn’t leave a comment—you lit a torch. You knelt in the dark temple we built and whispered, “I see you.” And then you struck the match and filled the whole place with fire and light and lavender-scented rebellion. Your words reached something so old in me. The girl who grew up believing she was too feral, too sensitive, too disobedient to belong. The woman who wrote this piece with her ribs still trembling. You gave us both permission to stop apologizing for surviving. I read this slowly. Twice. Then again out loud.
Because it felt like a letter my ancestors didn’t get to receive—one I could fold into the fabric of my own healing.
You didn’t just witness me. You named what this piece came from: that strange sisterhood of women who were born into rejection, and still chose to speak.
And the fact that you felt yourself written inside the lines? That’s everything. That’s the miracle. That’s the reason I ever pick up a pen.
I will remember this, Bridget. Not just the praise—but the integrity in your voice. The power of a woman who knows how to hold space with gentleness and conviction in the same breath. You are part of this piece now. Sacredly. Loudly. With your own fireworks stitched right into the final verse.
With my whole being—thank you.
💜🔥🕯️
I’m just honored, really. You’re both beautiful and amazing!! Even your response is written by a poetic genius! I’m rooting for your continued success and may it be gloriously celebrated, not only because you’re a miracle to have survived, but because you’re have such unbridled talent. Pick up that pen and take back your life with every single syllable. This is your time. ✨🙏💜
Bridget, what a radiant thing to say — thank you.
Writing that piece with Imelda felt like opening a portal together: ancestral, intimate, and a little bit unhinged in all the right ways.
To have that met with fireworks on your end? That’s soul alchemy. I’m so grateful it landed that powerfully.
Here’s to more feminine myth, more softness that refuses to apologize — and more spells disguised as letters. 🩶✨