About two and a half months ago, my life tipped sideways.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Quietly. Internally. The kind of shift where your body knows before your mind catches up. Something I had suspected for a long time was finally spoken out loud, and hearing it shattered my mental footing in a way I didn’t expect. It cracked something old. Something buried. Something I thought I had already survived.
I wasn’t okay.
And in that space, my submission didn’t just call to me.
It ached.
My body and mind craved it with an urgency that scared me a little. Not because submission is bad, but because the craving wasn’t about desire anymore. It was about escape.
When someone is in a bad mental space, the desire to disappear into someone else’s control can feel like relief. Less thinking. Less choosing. Less pain. And that’s exactly why it requires caution. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s powerful.
This wasn’t “I want this.”
This was “I don’t want to hold myself up right now.”
That’s the moment submission stops being desire and starts being hunger.
And hunger doesn’t always choose wisely.
I knew that if I let myself, I could have said yes to almost anyone. I could have handed over my submission just to feel held, directed, quieted. I wanted to sink into obedience and let someone else carry the weight I was drowning under.
Instead, I stepped back.
Not because I stopped being submissive.
But because I refused to abandon myself.
That choice was uncomfortable. It went against everything my body wanted in that moment. Submission can be healing, but I realized it cannot be a crutch. It can support growth, but it cannot replace self-work. A dynamic shouldn’t be the thing that keeps you upright when you’re collapsing. It should be something you enter with intention, clarity, and choice.
Stepping back didn’t mean I failed at submission.
It meant I respected it.
It meant I trusted myself enough to say: I need to stabilize me first.
Now, with space and grounding, I can see the difference. Submission feels different when it comes from want instead of need. From desire instead of desperation. From strength instead of survival.
If you’re reading this and you’re in a rough place, hear this clearly: you’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to step back. You’re allowed to protect your submission, not give it away just to feel something.
Submission is powerful.
And powerful things deserve care.