Under The Whip

There is a small corner of my world that belongs entirely to me. No collar hangs there. No title lives there. No expectations sit neatly folded on a shelf waiting for me to pick them up. Just me.

Some days, it is a spiritual space filled with candles, soft light, and quiet moments with the gods. Other days, it becomes my submissive altar, a place where I journal, reflect, and ask myself difficult questions. Occasionally, it is simply the chair in the corner of the living room after everyone has gone to bed, when the house is finally quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.

I've learned something over the years that I wish more people talked about in Power Exchange communities, Not every piece of you belongs to your dynamic. I know, I know. Somewhere, someone just clutched their pearls and whispered, "But isn't Total Power Exchange total?"\

Here's my slightly sassy answer, You're still a human being before you're a title.

Submission is a beautiful thing, but it was never meant to erase us. It should reveal us. Healthy dynamics make room for growth. They leave space for curiosity. They allow us to become more of ourselves, not less. And sometimes that means creating sacred spaces that exist outside of service.

For me, my altar is one of those spaces. It is where I can ask questions without needing permission. It is where I can sit with my spirituality, my fears, my hopes, and the parts of myself that are still unfolding. It is where I remember that service can begin with serving my own well being.

Because here's the truth, a submissive who knows themself serves differently than one who has forgotten who she is. I've also come to appreciate something equally important, allowing the people we love to have sacred spaces of their own. We talk a lot about supporting our partners, but sometimes support doesn't look like joining them. Sometimes it looks like protecting their time. It looks like saying, "This space is yours, and I will honor it." You do not have to participate in every spiritual practice your partner has. You do not have to understand every calling they feel.

And you certainly don't have to merge into one indistinguishable being simply because you share a dynamic.

Dominants are still people outside of being Dominants. Submissives are still people outside of being submissives. We're allowed to have hobbies, beliefs, rituals, and moments that belong solely to us.Imagine that, a whole human being with interests outside of kneeling. Revolutionary, I know. The longer I walk this path, the more I realize that healthy Power Exchange isn't about ownership of every breath. It is about stewardship. It is about creating an environment where everyone involved has the room to become who they are meant to be. Sometimes love looks like participation. Sometimes service looks like devotion. And sometimes service looks like quietly closing the door behind someone and protecting the sacredness waiting on the other side.

So yes, I have my own altar. I have moments when an entire room becomes mine, not out of selfishness, but out of necessity. Moments where I sit with my spirituality, my submission, my healing, and the ever evolving woman underneath all the labels.

And every time I leave that space, I return to the people I love more grounded, more present, and more authentically myself. Because I've discovered that sacred spaces aren't the opposite of service. They are often where service begins.

And if you're reading this wondering whether you're allowed to have a corner of the world that belongs only to you, let this be your reminder, You are. Light the candle. Close the door. And remember who you are when no one is watching.

There is a question that has been sitting with me lately, quietly tapping me on the shoulder every time I think I have myself figured out.

Do I actually know myself, or do I simply know who I have become in service to others?

That question has been uncomfortable. As someone who has spent a significant portion of my life in service, I know how easy it is to become exceptionally good at reading a room, anticipating needs, and finding fulfillment in caring for others. Some of us can tell you exactly how someone takes their coffee, when they're upset before they realize it themselves, and which words will make them feel seen.

And yet, ask us, "What do you need?" and suddenly we're buffering like a computer running on dial up internet. Funny how that works. Over the past several months, my experiences with Holy Fire have been opening my eyes to so much more about my relationship with service, devotion, and spirituality. It has gently, and sometimes not so gently, held up a mirror and asked me to look at the person standing in front of it. Not the kajira. Not the service oriented person. Not the title, the role, or the expectations. Just me.

Because here's the thing I am slowly learning, Devotion is beautiful, but if it only ever flows outward, eventually you run dry.

We talk a lot in Power Exchange about vulnerability with our partners, but how often are we vulnerable with ourselves? How often do we sit quietly and admit the things we don't want to say out loud? "I am afraid of disappointing people." "I don't always know what I want." "I am terrified of being unnecessary." "I don't know who I am outside of service." Those are not easy things to admit.

Self intimacy is a strange thing. It asks you to become a student of yourself. To learn your own rhythms, your own desires, your own boundaries. It asks you to stop performing and start listening. Can you articulate your needs? Can you identify your desires without filtering them through someone else's approval? Can you sit alone with yourself and still enjoy your own company? Those questions matter. Because there is a tremendous difference between devotion and loneliness wearing devotion's clothing.

Sometimes people serve because it fulfills them. Sometimes people serve because they are afraid that if they stop, no one will stay. And if that sentence made you shift uncomfortably in your seat, welcome to the club. We have jackets. They're probably black leather.

The older I get, the more I realize that healthy Power Exchange is not built upon one whole person and one incomplete person. It is built upon two individuals who have done the difficult work of knowing themselves. You should be able to stand on your own before choosing to kneel beside another. Not because kneeling is lesser, I will forever argue that there is incredible strength in intentional surrender, but because surrender means something entirely different when it is a choice rather than a necessity.

There is power in saying, "I know who I am without you, and I still choose you."

That is devotion. Likewise, there is power in saying, "I know I will survive without this dynamic, but I choose to invest myself in it anyway." That is devotion too.

Holy Fire has taught me that spirituality is not always found in grand moments. Sometimes it is found in accountability. In honesty. In sitting quietly and asking yourself difficult questions without immediately reaching for comfortable answers.

Who are you when no one is watching? Who are you when no one needs you? Can you offer yourself the same compassion you so freely give to everyone else? I suspect many of us are still learning. And perhaps that is the point.

So, if you've made it this far, I leave you with one final question, Before you devote yourself to another person, have you ever considered becoming devoted to yourself first?

Because I am beginning to believe that the strongest acts of surrender do not begin at someone's feet. They begin in front of a mirror. And if that mirror occasionally calls you out on your nonsense? Well, that's just part of the spiritual journey.

When the Weapon Teaches the Wielder:, Spiritual Stewardship From the Right Side of the Slash. I greatly appreciated my time at The Holy Fire Conference. Especially since it taught me all about my experience in this lifestyle.

There is something that people do not talk about nearly enough in Power Exchange dynamics, and that is what happens when the submissive has significantly more experience than the Dominant. For some people, that sentence alone is enough to make them uncomfortable.

We have this tendency in the lifestyle to assume that experience should always flow from left to right. That the Dominant should always know more, teach more, guide more, and have walked farther down the path. But life, and people, rarely fit themselves neatly into the boxes we build for them.

I have been actively involved in this lifestyle for twenty-five years. Twenty four years of learning, serving, making mistakes, growing, studying, unlearning things I thought I knew, and continuing to evolve into the submissive and slave I am today. That number can feel intimidating.

If you are a Dominant with five years of experience and you find yourself interested in someone like me, I can absolutely understand why that might feel daunting. There can be a fear that you are somehow not "enough." That you need to know everything before stepping into a dynamic. That if your submissive knows more than you in certain areas, you have somehow lost authority before you've even begun. I want to offer another perspective.

Your submissive's experience does not diminish your authority unless you allow your ego to convince you that it does. My twenty four years do not make me better than my Dominants. They do not place me above them. They do not grant me some magical superiority badge that gives me more value within a dynamic. They simply make me experienced.

Experience is a resource. Nothing more and nothing less. I have often described myself as a tool. Not in a degrading sense, but in the most practical sense imaginable. A well crafted tool has value because of how it can be utilized. If I have spent decades learning about service, protocol, spirituality, communication, Gorean philosophies, Leather traditions, ritual, devotion, and Power Exchange, then those experiences become resources that can be offered. What my Dominant chooses to do with those resources is entirely their decision.

I can teach what I know. I can answer questions. I can provide insight when asked. I can offer perspectives that come from years of experience. Then I kneel. Because submission was never about knowing less than the person leading me. Submission is choosing to surrender within the agreements we have made.

I think sometimes we do Dominants a tremendous disservice by implying that they must become experts before they are worthy of leading. Human beings are wonderfully complex creatures. No one is going to know everything. The truth is, I do not expect my Dominants to be experts in every subject I am passionate about. I do not expect them to know more about spirituality than I do. I do not expect them to know more about service than I do simply because they stand on the left side of the slash.

What I do expect is humility, curiosity, integrity, and a willingness to continue learning. And I hold myself to those exact same expectations. There is also an incredible amount of responsibility that comes with being the more experienced submissive in a dynamic.

Having more experience means I have a greater duty not to abuse it. It means I do not get to manipulate conversations simply because I know more terminology or have attended more events. It means I do not get to weaponize my knowledge to undermine authority or push a dynamic in the direction I personally prefer. It means understanding that obedience is still obedience whether my Dominant has one year of experience or thirty.

My responsibility is to remain inside the agreements we have created together. To keep my word. To show devotion. To communicate honestly. To offer information when appropriate and to respectfully step back when decisions are made. Experience should never become entitlement. If anything, experience should make us softer in our humility.

I also believe one of the most beautiful things I have witnessed in healthy dynamics is when Dominants learn that leadership is not synonymous with knowing everything. Sometimes leadership looks like creating space for your submissive's skills and talents to flourish. Sometimes leadership looks like saying, "Teach me." Sometimes leadership looks like protecting the time and space necessary for your submissive to pursue their own spiritual calling and personal growth. That is not weakness. That is stewardship.

One of the things I have been learning more deeply over the past several years is that spiritual growth cannot be forced into Power Exchange simply because we happen to live within one. There are moments where my spirituality belongs to me as an individual. There are moments where it belongs to my service. And there are moments where it becomes something shared and nurtured alongside my partner.

Those distinctions matter. You do not have to walk the same spiritual path as your partner to honor it. You do not have to participate in every ritual to support someone's calling. Sometimes support simply looks like making space. It looks like asking questions. It looks like listening. It looks like protecting sacred spaces without needing to occupy them yourself.\

I think many people avoid spirituality, not because they aren't interested in gods, rituals, or meditation, but because spirituality requires something much more difficult. It requires intimacy with ourselves. You cannot truly surrender to another person if you have never learned how to sit with yourself. You must learn how to be emotionally intimate with who you are. You must learn vulnerability. You must learn how to articulate your thoughts, needs, fears, desires, and values. Self awareness is not a destination we arrive at one day and proudly announce we've completed. We are lifelong students of ourselves.

Power Exchange has taught me many things over the years, but one lesson continues to surface again and again: submission does not require me to become smaller. It requires me to become more honest. The same is true for Dominance. We do not need to flatten ourselves into someone else's idea of what these dynamics should look like. We are building relationships between human beings first and titles second.

If your submissive has more experience than you, wonderful. Learn from them. If your Dominant has less experience than you, wonderful. Respect them. Neither situation is inherently problematic unless ego enters the room. At the end of the day, my twenty four years of experience do not make me difficult to lead. They make me practiced in how I serve. I am not looking for perfection in my Dominants. I am not measuring their worth against the number of years listed on a FetLife profile. I am not keeping score.

The Dominants I respect most are not the ones who claim to know everything. They are the ones confident enough to say, "Let's learn together." And perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons I continue to learn as I walk my own spiritual and service oriented path. Sometimes the weapon teaches the wielder. And sometimes the greatest act of leadership is having the wisdom to listen.

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.

"If the violin is making awful sounds, it is generally not the violin's fault." - Anonymous

I heard someone say this at the Holy Fire Conference this year, and it has been rattling around in my brain ever since.

For whatever reason, it struck something deep within me. Maybe because I have spent so much of my life identifying with being of service. Maybe because I am a submissive. Maybe because, if I'm honest, I have spent years believing that if I was not thriving in a dynamic, it must somehow mean I wasn't trying hard enough.

I simply needed to be more obedient. More disciplined. More devoted. More patient. More submissive.
I needed to become a better violin.

In the Leather, BDSM, and Gorean communities, we often talk about service, growth, leadership, structure, and responsibility. We talk about the beauty of watching a submissive blossom under the guidance of someone who has taken on the responsibility of leading them. We celebrate when someone flourishes under a collar, becomes more confident in their service, and grows into the best version of themselves.
But what happens when they don't?

For the longest time, I believed the answer was simple: the submissive must not be trying hard enough. The older I get, however, the more I realize that human beings are far too complicated for that answer to ever be true.

Sometimes the violin isn't being played correctly. Sometimes the music being asked of it isn't what it was designed to create. Sometimes the strings are too tight. Sometimes they're too loose. Sometimes the room is too humid. Sometimes the musician is exhausted. Sometimes the violin has cracks that nobody knew were there. And sometimes, it is simply the wrong violin for that particular musician.

That doesn't make either one bad. I think we do ourselves a tremendous disservice when we approach power exchange dynamics with a need to determine fault. Someone has to be wrong. Someone has to be failing. Someone has to be the problem. Relationships are rarely that simple.

Sometimes a submissive is struggling because of unresolved trauma they haven't yet healed from. Sometimes a Dominant lacks the capacity to provide the leadership they desperately want to give. Sometimes boundaries aren't being communicated clearly. Sometimes needs have changed over time. Sometimes moral or philosophical differences become impossible to ignore. Sometimes communication slowly breaks down despite everyone's best intentions. And sometimes, a Dominant's leadership style and a submissive's submission style simply do not align. None of those things automatically make anyone a bad person. It simply makes us human.

This is something I have experienced more than once throughout my life, but especially within my current relationship dynamics.

Many of you know that I am in a polyamorous relationship with my Masters. For a very long time, our romantic relationship and our power exchange relationship existed side by side. Those two things felt inseparable to me. Today, they are not.

At this moment in our lives, we have ended our power exchange dynamic. Not because anyone stopped loving anyone. Not because there was some dramatic explosion or betrayal. Not because anyone failed. We simply do not currently have the capacity on either side of the slash to maintain the type of power exchange that all of us deserve. And that realization has been both heartbreaking and strangely beautiful.

It is heartbreaking because power exchange is not simply something I do, it is woven into the very fabric of who I am. It is beautiful because choosing to acknowledge when something isn't working is, in its own way, an act of love.

Right now, we are simply a romantic poly throuple. That sentence still feels strange to write.

This season of our lives is confusing for all parties involved. Damon, Calvin, and I are navigating what our relationship looks like without the structure that existed for so many years. We are learning one another all over again in some ways.

The truth is, I don't know what our future looks like. I don't know whether we will eventually return to a deeper power exchange dynamic. I don't know whether collars will once again find their place around my neck. I don't know what service will look like six months or two years from now.

What I do know is that life has been throwing an extraordinary amount of bullshark at all of us lately. We're stressed. We're exhausted. We're healing. We're preparing for a move. We're trying to survive while also figuring out who we are becoming. And that's okay.

Sometimes growth looks like leaning deeper into service. Sometimes growth looks like stepping away from it for a while. My hope is that once we've moved, settled into our new lives, and found our footing again, we will be able to revisit what a deeper connection and power exchange might look like for us.

Or perhaps we will discover something entirely new. Both possibilities are worthy of exploration.

What I am learning through all of this is that submission is not measured by how much suffering I can endure while pretending everything is fine. It is not measured by how tightly I cling to a title or a collar when the relationship underneath it is asking for care and attention. Submission can also be honesty. Submission can also be vulnerability.

Submission can also be saying, "This isn't working right now, and I love you enough to acknowledge that."

I am still a Leather person. I am still Gorean. I am still devoted to service. And even though I am not actively their slave or held beneath their collar today, Damon, and Clvin remain my entire world. I love them fiercely and deeply. I am, and always will be, loving and loyal to them. Titles may change. Dynamics may shift. Relationships evolve. Love remains.

And finally, perhaps the most important lesson I took away from that quote,

Sometimes a violin is broken. And sometimes the person holding the violin is not the one meant to fix it. Sometimes the violin needs to retire. Sometimes it simply needs to spend some time in the repair shop learning how to become whole again.

Therapy, healing, self reflection, and personal growth are not signs of failure. They are acts of stewardship over the instrument we have been entrusted with, ourselves.

No violin should be expected to produce beautiful music while its strings are frayed and its body is cracked. So if the music sounds awful, perhaps we should spend less time assigning blame and more time asking better questions.

Is the violin okay?

Is the musician okay?

Are they meant to create music together?

And what kind of song might they create once they've both had the opportunity to heal?

Sometimes, that question matters far more than who is at fault.