Whispers between knots

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.

When I joined The Cage, I had no clue what I was getting into. I figured I’d lurk, read a few blogs, maybe flirt a little. A few months later… I’ve learned a lot about people, trust, and myself. Some lessons came easy, some hit like a brick to the face. But all of them shaped how I see this whole D/s world now.

So, here’s what I’ve picked up along the way:

1) Make a friend you can talk to.

Seriously. You need that one person who gets it. Someone who’ll call you out (nicely) when you’re not seeing things straight, or just listen when your head’s spinning.

2) Your limits are not up for debate.

If someone starts twisting definitions to make your “no” sound like a “maybe,” they’re not dominant, they’re manipulative. Run, not crawl.

3) If they ghost once, they’ll ghost again.

People don’t owe you a message back in casual chats. That’s life. But if you’ve agreed to start a dynamic or committed interaction, communication is part of the deal. If they disappear and come back like nothing happened? Nope. Block, bless, and move on. You deserve clarity, consistency, and respect.

4) Submission and dominance are both gifts.

Even in small interactions or just watching others, I can see how powerful it can be when handled with care and respect. Like a blade forged from fire, the right balance of trust and attention can make something sharp, strong, and breathtaking.

5) Finding submission wakes something up inside you.

Don’t fight it. Embrace it. Let it teach you about yourself.

6) Titles mean nothing without actions.

Anyone can type “Sir” or “submissive” in their bio. Watch how they treat people, especially when no one’s watching.

7) You don’t owe anyone your submission.

It’s earned, not taken. You’re not “difficult” for having standards.

8) There’s a line between being vulnerable and being used.

Submission isn’t giving up your worth. It’s sharing your trust with someone who’s proven they can hold it gently.

9) You’re allowed to walk away.

From a conversation, a dynamic, or a person you’re allowed. Walking away doesn’t mean you failed. It means you value yourself enough to protect your peace and boundaries. Submission doesn’t mean surrendering your worth, and dominance doesn’t mean staying where you’re not respected. Choosing to step back, pause, or leave is a sign of strength, clarity, and self-respect.

10) Growth takes time.

You’ll learn. You’ll mess up. You’ll unlearn. It’s all part of it. There’s no “perfect sub” handbook (trust me, I looked).

When I joined, I thought this was about learning how to please someone else. Now I realize it’s also about learning me. My edges. My softness. My power.

If you’re new here, take your time. Ask questions. Protect your peace. And when it feels right? Lean in.

Bonus lesson:

Stop overthinking every word, every message, every move. The right people will see you. The rest don’t matter. Just be you, because that’s enough.

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.

If you’d asked me a year ago what submission meant to me, I’d have given you a very different answer. Back then, I thought it meant keeping my head down, being meek, unseen, unheard. Bending over backwards to please someone who would never truly be pleased.

But a year later, I know submission is something deeper.

Now, submission to me means being his calm when life gets messy, his support when the world feels heavy, and also his toy when he craves control. It’s the quiet thrill of anticipating his needs, the trust of giving myself fully whether that’s kneeling at his feet, taking his discipline, or simply being the one who will never waver in her devotion.

Submission, I’ve learned, is a gift. But it’s also a journey of self-discovery, becoming someone you didn’t know existed. It’s strength, vulnerability, and growth all wrapped together.

I’m still learning. I’m sure my definition will evolve again. But this is where I’m starting.