Obsidian is born in fire extreme heat, sudden pressure, violent eruption. It comes out sharp, dark, unyielding. From the outside, it looks unbreakable. But the truth is, obsidian is fragile. Hit it in the wrong place, and it shatters.
Submission feels like that to me.
I’ve been through my own fire. I’ve been shaped by pressure and chaos, by moments that cut me down and forced me to harden. On the outside, I know I look steady, maybe even unshakable. But inside? I know how close the cracks are. I know how easily I could break.
Submission isn’t weakness. It’s where I stop pretending to be indestructible. It’s where I trust someone enough to hold me, to see the fragility I usually hide, and to sharpen me into something stronger. Something beautiful. Something dangerous.
Obsidian can be turned into a blade, a tool, an edge. My submission can be that too, sharp in its devotion, precise in its obedience. Strong, but only if handled with care. In the right hands, I’m transformed. In the wrong ones, I could shatter.
That’s why the name fits me. Because I am both fragile and strong. Both weapon and gift. Both survival and surrender.