Under The Whip

There is a misconception that has followed submission for as long as I have been in the lifestyle. People assume that submissives kneel because they cannot stand.

As if the act of surrender somehow erases intelligence, competence, ambition, or life experience. As if submission is something that simply happens to us rather than something we consciously choose.

I have never found that to be true.
 

Some of the most submissive people I know are also the people running households, leading teams, raising children, teaching classes, managing businesses, and holding entire communities together with little more than caffeine, stubbornness, and sheer force of will. We pay bills. We make difficult decisions. We advocate for ourselves. We survive things that should have broken us.

And then, at the end of the day, we kneel. Not because we must. Because we choose to.

Submission is not a personality trait. It is not being soft spoken, agreeable, or incapable of independent thought. It is not a factory setting that gets installed at birth. It is a choice, one that is made over and over again, sometimes daily, sometimes moment by moment.

There is an incredible difference between saying, "I have no choice but to follow," and saying, "I could lead myself, but I trust you enough to place myself in your hands." One is dependence. The other is surrender.

People often speak about Dominance as though it carries all the weight in a power exchange dynamic, but I would argue that submission carries its own gravity. There is a tremendous amount of strength required to look another person in the eye and say, "I am capable of walking this path alone, and I am choosing to walk it beside you instead." That is not weakness. That is courage.

It also means that obedience and blind compliance are not the same thing, something I wish more people understood. Blind compliance asks us to turn our brains off. It demands silence in the face of discomfort and praises unquestioning loyalty. Healthy obedience, however, is informed. It is intentional. It understands the difference between trust and worship.

I do not stop being intelligent because I kneel. I do not stop having opinions because I wear a collar. And I certainly do not surrender my ability to say, "Excuse me, but I think we should revisit this decision." (Respectfully, of course. Usually. Depending on how much coffee I've had.) Experience has taught me that submission is not about becoming less. It is about becoming more honest.

The older I get, the more intentional my surrender becomes. Experience has not made submission harder, it has made it heavier. Every lesson learned, every relationship survived, every scar earned adds weight to the choice.

When I was younger, I thought submission was simply giving. I never took it seriously. Now I understand it is discerning. It is asking difficult questions. It is evaluating character. It is recognizing that trust is built in inches and maintained through consistency. It is understanding that authority should be earned, not assumed.

After all, if I am going to hand someone the metaphorical keys to my kingdom, they should probably know where the front door is. Submission means more when it comes from someone who is fully capable of withholding it. That, I think, is the part people miss.

The kneeling matters because standing was always an option.

So no, being capable does not make me less submissive. If anything, it makes my submission infinitely more meaningful. Because every time I kneel, I do so carrying my experience, my strength, my voice, and my autonomy with me. And perhaps that is the true weight of the kneeling.

Knowing that I could stand. And choosing, with open eyes and an open heart, not to.
 

Okay, I have a little happy announcement to make, and I am absolutely bouncing over here! 🖤

My music has been growing, spreading, and finding its way into so many amazing videos, and I honestly cannot even explain how incredible that feels. Watching something that started as a little spark of creativity turn into something that other people connect with has been absolutely magical.

One of my songs has now been used in over 2,000 videos! Two thousand! That number still feels unreal when I say it out loud. Every single video, every share, every person who stopped for a moment and said, “Hey, I like this song,” has helped breathe life into something I created.

Music has always been a way for me to tell stories, share emotions, and create little pieces of my heart that people can carry with them. Seeing those pieces show up in your art, your moments, your adventures, and your expressions means more than you know.

So from the bottom of my little creative heart!

THANK YOU.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for using my songs in your videos. Thank you for helping my little musical universe grow.

I am so incredibly grateful for every person who has supported me, encouraged me, and joined me on this wild ride.

Now excuse me while I go do a tiny happy dance because apparently my songs have escaped into the world and are making friends without me.

Keep creating. Keep sharing. Keep being wonderfully you. With love, music, and a whole lot of sass!

There are certain classes that you walk away from feeling entertained. There are others that leave you with a notebook full of ideas and a to do list a mile long. And then, every once in a while, there is a class that quietly reaches into your chest, places something forgotten back into your hands, and whispers, "This has always belonged to you."

That was Writing the Sacred for me at the Holy Fire Conference. I have always loved writing. It is where I find peace when my mind is loud. It is where I process the world around me. It is where I get to be creative, philosophical, vulnerable, and honest. Writing has been my companion during some of the most beautiful moments of my life and some of the hardest ones too. It has always been there patiently waiting for me to sit down and simply begin.

What I realized during this class, however, was something I had somehow missed for years. My writing is service. That sounds so simple now that I've said it out loud, but it was something I struggled to truly understand. When we think of service, especially in service oriented communities, we often imagine tangible acts. We think of hands that prepare meals, bodies that labor, or tasks completed throughout the day. Writing rarely feels glamorous or worthy enough to be included in that conversation. And yet, it absolutely belongs there.

Every time I sit down to write a contract, I am serving. Every rule I have written for a Zoom meeting, every calendar I've organized, every schedule I've created, every ledger I've maintained, every handbook, every letter, every poem, every class I've taught, every blog post I've shared, and every resource I've painstakingly put together for my House or my community has been an act of service.

Service doesn't become less meaningful simply because it isn't performed standing in a kitchen or kneeling at someone's feet. Sometimes service looks like ink on paper. Sometimes service looks like words carefully chosen because you wanted someone else to feel seen, understood, educated, or inspired. There was something profoundly healing about realizing that the things I have spent years doing, the things that bring me genuine joy, are not separate from my service oriented heart. They are my service oriented heart.

For the longest time, I struggled with purpose. Disability has a way of changing the conversations you have with yourself. When you spend enough time grieving the things you used to do easily, it becomes difficult not to measure your worth against what your body can no longer accomplish. I have spent years asking myself where I fit when so much of my identity was wrapped up in serving others in very physical ways. A broken back changed what service looks like for me. Blindness changed what service looks like for me. Physical limitations changed what service looks like for me.

For a while, I convinced myself that meant I had somehow become less useful. I was wrong. Service is not diminished because it changes its shape. I may not be able to stand in the kitchen for hours preparing a meal the way I once could, but I can still share the recipes people love. I can preserve traditions. I can create resources that help others learn. I can write words that encourage someone to keep going on a difficult day. I can teach. I can document. I can organize chaos into something meaningful and beautiful. That is service too.

There is something sacred about creating something that will continue to help others long after you've finished writing it. Words have an incredible way of outliving us. They become traditions, teachings, memories, and legacies. They become the thing someone stumbles across at two o'clock in the morning when they desperately needed to know they weren't alone. That thought brings me more joy than I can properly put into words.

I have always joked that if I could spend my days wrapped in blankets with a cup of tea and a keyboard, I would be perfectly content. What I didn't realize is that perhaps that has always been my path. Perhaps writing has never simply been a hobby or a way for me to relax. Perhaps it has always been sacred.

Holy Fire reminded me that purpose isn't lost simply because it evolves. It isn't gone because it looks different than it did five years ago. Service isn't confined to one shape, one role, or one expression. Sometimes it is loud and visible. Sometimes it is a spreadsheet. Sometimes it is a handbook that welcomes new members into a community. Sometimes it is a poem that makes someone cry because they finally felt understood. Sometimes it is a blog post written late at night by someone who is slowly learning that she was never without purpose to begin with.

So, I suppose this is my reminder, to myself more than anyone else, that I do not need to become someone different in order to serve. I simply need to recognize the skills I have been carrying all along. Writing is where my heart rests. Writing is where I find peace. Writing is where I serve. And perhaps, after all these years, I am finally learning that writing has always been sacred.

This is just my personal opinion, and I'm not calling anyone out by name because I have absolutely no interest in doxxing anyone. If this doesn't apply to you, then keep scrolling.

What I do find fascinating,is when someone slides into my DMs ranting about how much they hate immigrants or undocumented immigrants because they're supposedly "taking jobs," "refusing to speak English," or "ruining the country", and then, almost in the same breath, they're posting **"FUCK ICE."**

# To me, that isn't standing on principle. That's hypocrisy.

You can't spend your time blaming immigrants for everything that's wrong and then suddenly pretend you're standing in solidarity with them when it is convenient, fashionable, or gets you attention. Pick a lane. If your beliefs change, that's one thing. Growth is a good thing. But if your opinions simply change depending on who is watching, that's not integrity, that's performance.

Personally, I value consistency. I don't expect everyone to agree with me politically, socially, or philosophically. That's life. Healthy disagreement exists. But I do expect people to have enough integrity to stand behind what they actually believe instead of wearing whatever opinion happens to earn them the loudest applause.

You know who you are. I'm not interested in exposing you because, frankly, I don't need to. Your own words speak loudly enough.

One thing I *am* grateful for, though, I have a block button. It makes curating my own space wonderfully simple.

The other night, I was curled up on the couch with my Masters, half paying attention to the show, half just enjoying being close. It was one of those quiet, comfortable moments where nothing feels heavy. And then the scene happened.

Someone on the show needed a code phrase, something subtle, something that would let their partner know they were in danger without tipping off the person right in front of them. I remember laughing at first. Because somehow, we didn’t have one.

And that felt ironic in the most ridiculous way. I am such a true crime junkie. I’ve watched the documentaries, listened to the podcasts, gone down the rabbit holes, and my college degrees are right in this field. You would think this is one of those conversations I would’ve had at the very beginning of our relationship.

But we hadn’t.

And the more we laughed about it, the quieter it got. Because then it hit us, this actually matters. Not in a dramatic, paranoid way. Not in a “the world is always dangerous” way. But in a grounded, real life kind of way. The kind where you acknowledge that life is unpredictable, and having a plan doesn’t mean you expect the worst, it just means you care enough to be prepared.

So we talked about it. Really talked about it. What it would sound like. How it would work. What would feel natural enough to say in front of someone else without raising suspicion, but still clear enough that it would immediately set off alarms for the person hearing it.

I’m not going to share what we chose. That part stays ours. But I will say this, if you don’t have something like this set up with your partner, you might want to think about it. Because you never know. And creating it is more intentional than you might think.

Code Words Aren’t About Fear, They’re About Trust

The biggest thing I learned in that conversation is that a code phrase isn’t just about danger. It’s about understanding each other deeply enough to recognize when something is off.

The best phrases aren’t dramatic. They’re subtle. They blend into normal conversation, but they carry a weight that only your person would recognize.

For example:
“Hey, can you check on the blue folder when you get home?”
“I think I left the stove on, can you go check?”
“Did you feed the hamster yet?” (this works if you don't own a hamster.)
The key is choosing something that feels just slightly out of place. Not enough to raise suspicion for anyone else, but enough to make your partner pause and think, wait, something’s wrong.

When Subtle Isn’t Enough

We also realized there’s a difference between uneasy and urgent. And that matters. Sometimes you don’t just need someone to check in, you need them to act.

That’s where a stronger phrase comes in. Something that still sounds natural, but signals immediate danger:

“I need you to come home right now, please.”
“Can you bring me my red sweater?” (especially if you don’t even own one)
“I locked myself out again.”
Can you bring me med medication, I forgot it. (Use a medication you are allergic to.)
It’s not about being clever. It is about being clear, without being obvious.

Layers Matter More Than You Think

One of the smartest things we talked about was creating levels. Because not every situation is the same.

A softer phrase can mean: Something feels wrong, check in with me.
A more urgent one can mean: Call me immediately.
And then there’s the one that means: Don’t call me. Call for help.
That layering creates clarity in chaos. And when you’re under stress, clarity is everything.

What I Hope You Take From This

If nothing else, take this. Have the conversation. Don’t assume you’ll “figure it out” in the moment. Stress doesn’t make us more creative, it makes us simpler, quieter, smaller. Plan for that version of yourself.

Pick something easy to remember. Something you could actually say naturally. Something your partner will recognize instantly without needing to second guess. And maybe even test it. Not in a scary way, just enough that you both know it works.

You can even build in small signals, like a specific missed call pattern or an emoji you’d never normally send. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It just has to be understood. We never know what the future holds. And I don’t live my life expecting something bad to happen. But I do live my life loving the people I trust enough to protect, and to be protected by.

And sometimes, that protection starts with something as simple as a sentence that means more than it sounds.

I want to begin by sharing my personal understanding of humility and the way I experience it.

Humility is the quality of having a modest view of your own importance. It means recognizing your strengths without exaggerating them, accepting your flaws without denial, and not placing yourself above others.

At its core, humility is about balance, being confident but not arrogant, self aware but not self degrading. A humble person is open to learning, willing to admit mistakes, and respectful of others’ value and perspectives.

It’s not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself accurately, without needing to be the center of everything.

I've recently heard someone say the statement, “Humility makes us forget who we are for the sake of our Masters.” And every time I read it, something in me resists it deeply, because that has never been my experience, and more importantly, it is not what humility means to me.

My humility does not erase me. It does not blur the lines of who I am, or soften me into something shapeless and dependent. It does not strip me of identity, voice, or self worth. If anything, my humility has required me to know myself more, not less. To understand my needs, my boundaries, my emotions, and my growth in a way I never did before.

Before I stepped into this dynamic, I struggled with self worth. I let people walk over me because I didn’t believe I deserved better. That wasn’t humility, that was a lack of self. That was silence where there should have been a voice.

What I have now is entirely different.

My humility is a conscious choice. It is me standing firmly in who I am and choosing to offer respect, trust, and devotion, not because I am lesser, but because I am aware. Aware of my strengths. Aware of my flaws. Aware of the power in giving myself with intention, not losing myself without it.

I do not disappear behind my Masters. I stand beside them as myself, growing, learning, sometimes stumbling, but always present. My voice still exists. My thoughts still matter. My feelings are not erased for the sake of obedience. True structure, true leadership, and true connection do not demand that kind of disappearance, they require honesty and presence.

If I were to “forget who I am,” there would be nothing real left to offer. Because devotion without identity is empty. Submission without self awareness is not strength, it’s vulnerability without protection. And that is not something I am willing to call humility.

Humility, for me, is knowing exactly who I am, and choosing, willingly and fully, how I show up. It is grounding, not erasing. It is clarity, not confusion. It is strength wrapped in softness, not silence forced by fear. So no, humility does not make me forget who I am. It reminds me.

There was a time when I measured my worth in other people’s eyes.

Every glance felt like judgment. Every whisper felt like it was about me. I learned early that love came with conditions, and beauty was one of them. Growing up, I was taught, explicitly and painfully, that being anything less than “pretty” or ”perfect” meant being less than worthy.

If I was overweight, I was ugly. If I was ugly, I was nothing.

That belief didn’t just live in my head, it was handed to me. When I got sick as a teenager and my body changed in ways I couldn’t control, I didn’t just lose my sense of self. I lost the version of me that was “acceptable.” I gained weight because my body was fighting for me, but all anyone seemed to see was that I no longer fit the mold.

And my Bio father? He made it clear.

He told me that when I was “pretty again,” he’d put my pictures back on the wall. He told me women only make it in this world two ways, by being pretty or by being smart, so I’d better get a degree. He made me run miles while he chased me on a bike. I had to wear sweat suits under all of my clothes at all times. Imagine being told, so plainly, that your value is conditional. That your body determines your worth. That love can be taken down like a photograph and tucked away until you’re “good enough” again. For a long time, I carried that with me. I shrank. I hid. I tried to earn approval that was never freely given.

But not anymore!

Fuck that. Fuck him. And fuck anyone who thinks they get to decide my worth. I am not America’s next top model. I am not airbrushed or flawless. I have wrinkles. I have scars. I have stretch marks. I am overweight. And I am perfectly imperfect. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of my submission, my surrender, my truth. I am confident in my skin, not because it meets some arbitrary standard, but because it is mine. I stopped chasing approval the moment I realized it was never mine to earn in the first place. If someone doesn’t like how I look? If someone doesn’t like who I am? That’s not my business. I have one life. One body. One chance to exist as fully and as freely as I can. And I refuse to waste it trying to fit into someone else’s expectations.

So I walk differently now.

With a skip in my step. With fire in my chest. With no fucking regrets. I glow as I go. Not because the world told me I shine, but because I decided I do. And to anyone out there still battling those quiet, gnawing insecurities. Look at your flaws. Really look at them. And then understand this, There is no one else in this world exactly like you. Not one.

You are a rare, priceless soul. Not in spite of your differences, but because of them.

So stop dimming yourself. Stop waiting for permission. Strut in the knowledge of who you are. Live bright. Live loud. And sparkle like you were always meant to. Because you definitely do.

I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can talk about a recent experience that affected me deeply. It is something that ultimately led to me stepping away from, and blocking, someone I had been mentoring and growing close to as a friend. I won’t be sharing any identifying details, but this situation has stayed with me in a very real way.

Content Warning: - This writing contains references to abuse and domestic violence. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those who may find these topics distressing.

I met this person through social media and we connected quickly. After some time, I invited them to join our server, so we could talk more easily. I was genuinely excited, we had a lot in common, and I was happy to welcome a new friendship into my life. Over time, they began seeking guidance not only from me but from others in our space, both Dominants and submissives, around power exchange and relationship dynamics. Eventually, I took on more of a mentorship role with them.

As time went on, they would come to us frequently in distress, sharing ongoing struggles within their relationship. They described patterns of verbal harm, blame, and emotional pain that raised serious concerns. Based on what was shared, and even messages I was shown, it appeared to be an unhealthy and possibly abusive dynamic. Many of us gently encouraged seeking professional support, but they expressed that they did not believe in therapy. Looking back, that was something I wish I had paid closer attention to.

This wasn’t something I navigated alone, others in our community, including my Masters and several experienced Dominants, also offered support and perspective. We all cared deeply and wanted to help.

Things escalated over time. They became physically ill, and there were concerns about neglect in their care. One night, they came to us in visible distress, saying they had been physically hurt by their partner. To the point their face was covered in bruises. We encouraged them to seek medical attention, which they did, though they chose not to disclose the full situation to healthcare professionals despite encouragement to prioritize their safety.

A short time later, there was another incident. They reached out again, frightened and asking for help. Begging to speak to me alone after informing eight other people, including my Masters that their partner had badly beaten them up again. I was eventually able to speak with them privately, and during that conversation, it became clear they were in a very unsafe moment. Their partner entered the room while we were speaking. They begged their parterner to leave them alone, and not to hurt them again. They refused to leave so I calmly asked for space to be given so they could feel safe.

That request was not received well.

At that point, I made it clear that if space wasn’t respected, the only way to ensure safety might be to involve emergency services. The situation escalated emotionally very quickly. They began telling my friend how bad of a person I was, because I desired those bad men with guns to show up to hurt them. Then they demanded my friend hang up the phone, because they were done with me. That was they hung up while saying they will reach out to me in a moment. They did not reach out right aaway so I worried about them.

I was deeply afraid for their wellbeing.

With the limited information I had, Their name, city/state, and one phone number. I made the difficult decision to request a welfare check. I did this after guidance fro my own Masters. So I did this out of genuine concern, hoping simply to ensure they were safe. When authorities arrived, they stated they were fine. That my friend had no idea what I was talking about.

Afterward, they were understandably upset with me. They felt that I had crossed a line, and they used terms that I don’t feel accurately reflect what happened. Saying I doxxed and swatted them? I used only the information they had given me, and a welfare check is not swatting. Even so, I can understand why it may have felt overwhelming or invasive from their perspective.

For me, this was never about control, panic, or projection. It was about care, concern, and doing what I believed was the safest option in a moment that felt genuinely dangerous.

What ultimately led me to step away completely was receiving a message that felt threatening in nature, one that did not feel like it came from the person I had been speaking to, but rather reflected outside influence from their spouse. At that point, it became clear that continuing any form of contact was no longer healthy or safe for me.

I want to be clear about one thing, I will never regret trying to ensure someone’s safety. Even if it means being misunderstood, even if it means being seen as the “bad guy” in someone else’s story, I can live with that. What I could not live with is doing nothing in a moment where someone may have been in real danger.

At the same time, I also understand that leaving an abusive situation is incredibly complex. It is not simple, and it is not something anyone can force another person to do. I hold space for that truth, and I genuinely hope they find safety, healing, and support in time. Before it is too late.

Sometimes caring about someone means making a choice they may never agree with. And sometimes, it also means knowing when to step away with compassion, for them, and for yourself.

They are of course still active in this community. I hope they can find a better support system for themselves before they becoem more harmed, or their partner ends up harming someone else.

Over the past two weeks, I have noticed something gentle but profound unfolding inside of me. The fog that had been quietly clinging to my thoughts has begun to lift. I feel lighter. Less depressed. Not only as an individual woman, but as a submissive within my dynamic. As a slave in service. As someone deeply devoted to her Masters and to the structure of their House. The shift has been subtle, but undeniable. It feels like the first warm morning after a long, biting winter, when you open the door and realize the air no longer hurts your lungs. The sun is simply, there again.

For a long time, I have prided myself on being someone others can come to. I have always offered my ear, my heart, and when asked, my counsel. I speak from lived experience, from trials endured, lessons learned, mistakes owned. Service to community has always mattered to me. I believe mentorship, when done ethically and with humility, is sacred work. But what I did not realize was how much constant exposure to other people’s relational distress was quietly shaping my own internal world.

Over and over, I found myself in conversations where dynamics were criticized, partners were dissected, Masters were doubted, slaves were resentful. And inevitably the question would come: “How did you survive what you went through?” or “How do you make it work?” And I would answer. Thoughtfully. Earnestly. Drawing from my own past pain. What I failed to notice was that this created a kind of emotional merry go round. To help someone feel less alone, I would revisit difficult chapters of my own history. To validate their struggle, I would mentally reenter storms I had already weathered. To offer guidance, I would place myself back into the mindset of hardship rather than stability.

Psychologically, this makes sense. Humans coregulate. We mirror one another’s emotional states. Research in social psychology shows that repeated exposure to negative relational narratives primes our brains to scan for similar threats in our own lives. This is called negative attentional bias, the more we hear about betrayal, neglect, resentment, or imbalance, the more our nervous system begins to search for those patterns around us.

And when the majority of your conversations center around what is wrong, your mind begins to highlight flaws that were once neutral, or even endearing. I spoke about this once in a class I taught, if you place a happily partnered person in a social circle dominated by divorces and breakups, something subtle begins to happen. They start noticing every minor irritation in their own relationship. Habits that never truly bothered them become magnified. Small quirks become evidence. The lens shifts. Not because the relationship changed, but because the narrative environment did.

I now believe this is exactly what was happening to me.

As submissives, and especially those of us who serve within structured dynamics, we often hold space for others. We mentor. We soothe. We contextualize. We help people regulate. But when that becomes the only emotional environment we occupy, we never step out of “advisor mode.” We never return to simply being. And being is vital.

These past two weeks, without constant immersion in those heavy conversations, I have felt something realign. My dynamic feels softer. Warmer. My connection with my Masters feels clearer. My bond with their other slave feels more harmonious. The relief has been physical, like a weight lifting from my shoulders. Nothing about my House changed. What changed was the emotional climate I allowed myself to live in.

Misery may love company, but I do not need to live inside it to be compassionate. There is a difference between service and self sacrifice of emotional stability. There is a difference between mentorship and marinating in dysfunction. Boundaries are not cruelty. They are stewardship.

From here on out, I will still be of service to my community. I will still be present for my friends. I will still offer guidance when it is genuinely sought and appropriate. But I will no longer be constantly surrounded by those who only wish to dwell in negativity. You have to be around me for good times too.

If I begin to notice that the majority of our interactions revolve around complaints, bitterness, or cyclical relational drama, I will gently distance myself. Not from lack of care, but from devotion to my priorities. My relationship with my Masters. My harmony within my House. My service to the House of Koch, and my own peace. These are not things I will allow to be eroded by passing friendships or repetitive despair.

I am a submissive. My service is intentional. My devotion is chosen. And my emotional stewardship is part of that service. The sun is shining again. And I intend to stand in it.

I want to say this as clearly and as gently as I can, if you reach out for support, you are not a burden, and it is not a sign of weakness. That is what I am here for. I have no issue sharing space with you when you need it. Whether you need to vent, are looking for advice, or need help locating information or resources to assist you. I do my best to help and to serve our community, and I take pride in being someone who can be there so you feel seen, heard, and valued.

Part of why this matters so much to me is because there was a time in my own life when I truly felt alone, like I had no one at all. I never want another person to feel that way if I can help it.

With that said, I also want to be honest, I am human. I make mistakes like everyone else, and I have my own struggles, including a very stressful vanilla life situation right now. There will be days when I simply have no spoons to assist anyone. When I say I have no spoons, please understand that it is not rejection. It just means I may need a little time, maybe a couple of hours, to reset before I can fully share space with you in the way you deserve.

I am also not a crisis professional, and I cannot advise on crisis situations. If you are in that space, I will always encourage you to contact trained professionals and provide information to help you reach them. There is absolutely no shame in asking me to help you find that support, or even to sit with you while you make that call. If needed, I would even sit with you at a hospital and hold your hand while you talk to doctors and tell them you need help.

Because you are valued and you bring something beautiful to this world, even if you cannot see it right now.

I

do want to be clear about one thing though, I am not an echo chamber. Seeking help or support is not weakness, it is strength. You are never a burden for needing help, and you never need to apologize to me for reaching out. That said, sharing space with me should also be a place for growth. A place to learn from mistakes, to be accountable when needed, and to keep moving forward. You will not be judged here, and you will be respected, appreciated, and encouraged to grow into the best version of yourself.

We all need help sometimes. We all need support. We all make mistakes. And all of that is okay, as long as we learn, grow, and keep giving ourselves grace along the way. So please reach out. Seek support. Seek connection. And most importantly, be gentle with yourself as you grow into an even more beautiful version of who you are becoming.