Under The Whip

A few days ago, my world cracked in half.

I got the news that my sister passed away… finally, after fighting Stage Four Cancer for two long years. I knew this moment was coming, I could feel it creeping closer, but knowing doesn’t make the impact any less brutal. There’s no easing into this kind of pain. It hits like a fucking freight train.

Today is her funeral. And I’m not there.

I can’t begin to express how much that tears me apart. I feel sick with guilt, with regret, with the feeling that I should be standing there with everyone else as they honor her life. She’s being given a military service, she served in the Air Force, and she served with pride. She deserves that honor. She deserves every moment of respect and remembrance they’re giving her.

And I’m sitting here hundreds of miles away, trying not to drown in the weight of all the things I can’t change.

I keep telling myself she isn’t suffering anymore. That her pain is gone. That her body, which fought as hard as it could until it simply couldn’t anymore, is finally at rest. A part of me really is grateful for that. She deserved peace so much more than she ever got But the rest of me…

The rest of me is just fucking devastated.

I miss her so fucking much. I miss her laugh. Her sarcasm. Her kindness. The way she could ground me even in my darkest moments. I miss knowing she was on this planet with me, even if we weren’t talking every day. Losing her feels like losing a piece of my own foundation. My chest physically aches with how deeply I love her and how violently she’s been ripped away.

I will never forget her. I can’t.

She’s part of my bones, part of my history, part of everything that shaped me, and continues to shape me. I love her with a depth I don’t have words for, and I will honor her memory for the rest of my life. She deserved more time… but I’ll make damn sure her impact doesn’t fade.

So this is me… grieving loudly because I don’t know how to hold this quietly. This is me missing her with everything I am. This is me loving her beyond the boundary of life.

Rest easy, sis. You finally get to breathe.

TRIGGER WARNING...TALKING ABOUT CANCER, HOSPICE DOWN BELOG!

I don’t even know where to begin. My heart feels like it has been ripped from my chest, and I’m barely able to breathe through the grief.

For years now, I have been holding my breath, praying, hoping, and watching my dear friend, my chosen sister, fight stage four ovarian cancer. About six months ago, we received what felt like a miracle: she was in remission. My heart soared. I let myself believe. I let myself hope.

But nine weeks later, the cancer came back with a vengeance. It spread to her lungs, filled the lining and fluid of them, and left her body too weak, too fragile to handle more chemo. I listened to her, as she told me, that her strength was fading, as doctors did everything they could to stabilize her, but it was never enough.

Yesterday, the hardest decision was made: she is moving to Hospice. she told me, if the cancer is at least kind, she might have, two months. Two months.

FUCK! Why is life so cruel?

I have spent all day, all night, crying. I barely ate, surviving mostly on junk food, because food has no meaning when my heart is breaking like this. Every ounce of energy has been drained. I have no spoons. I cannot respond to messages, I cannot get out of bed. I cannot be here in any real way right now. My soul feels fractured, and a piece of it is leaving with her.

She chose this path herself, she chose not to fight anymore. And though part of me wants to scream, to beg her to keep going, I support her choice. I respect it. I do not want her to suffer in pain. But losing her, losing her will leave a hole in my heart that I don’t know if I can ever fill.

She asked me to share, one last time, her gratitude to everyone online, who helped with her gift back in May. It eased her body, it eased her mind, and it gave her courage to fight. Please, let that kindness linger in your hearts, as it did in hers.

All I can say now is this, love one another fiercely. Be kind. Cherish the moments you have. We never truly know how much time we are given.

I love you Ves, my sister. I will hold you in my heart every single day.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, it comes from the absence of something sacred.

Lately, that’s what I’ve been living in. A quiet, aching space between what my heart longs for and what life currently allows.

Our home has become a place of care and compassion, full of people who need tending. Family members with illnesses, dementia, bipolar disorder, souls who need patience, stability, and love. And I give that, wholeheartedly. It is what’s right. It is what’s needed. But somewhere in the process of caring for others, I’ve had to tuck away pieces of myself.

The part that kneels.The part that bows her head and whispers, yes, my Master. The part that lives and breathes devotion through ritual. Those small, quiet moments that used to anchor me, kneeling, offering, surrendering, are no longer part of my daily rhythm. And without them, I feel... adrift.

There’s a grief that comes with that loss, even though it feels strange to call it grief. But that’s what it is. A mourning for something still alive, just out of reach. The rituals were never just “acts” or “roles.” They were breaths. Heartbeats. Sacred pauses in the noise of the world where I could just be, Theirs.

Now, I move through my days surrounded by family, keeping the peace, keeping the masks on. I smile, I comfort, I tend to those who need it most. But beneath it all, there’s this dull ache, a hunger that hums low and constant.

It isn’t about sex, or even about control. It is about expression. It is about the freedom to live in my truth. To kneel without needing to explain why. To feel Their presence in the air and know that my submission has a place to breathe. And when that breath is held too long, the edges of me start to blur. I feel myself spiraling a little, grieving what I can’t express, missing what made me feel whole.

I know this isn’t forever. I know love and devotion don’t vanish just because the rituals have paused. But still, I can’t help but feel the pull of it, the yearning to return to that space where I can exhale, surrender, and feel the world fall quiet again.

Until then, I hold the ache like a prayer. I whisper devotion in the spaces between tasks, and hope that, somehow, They still feel it, that my heart still kneels, even when my body cannot.