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Divine Feminine and The Temple of Asherah

There are places where the veil between worlds is thin—a hush before the storm, the scent of rain on ancient stones, a pulse beneath the sand that remembers every footstep.
Such is the Temple of Asherah, eternal and yet always being reborn.

The Forgotten Queen

Asherah. Some call her the ā€œQueen of Heaven,ā€ others the lost Mother whose name was almost erased from every holy book. She was there before the ink dried, before gods went to war and stories were rewritten. In her temple, there was no shame in the feminine, no apology for power, hunger, or the full bloom of desire.

Men and women alike came to her sanctuaries—not with bowed heads and guilt, but with hearts hungry for healing, for truth, for the blessing of being seen. The pillars of her temple were carved not just with symbols, but with secrets—each one a promise, a memory, a whispered spell to call the lost and the longing back home.
5 months ago. Thursday, August 28, 2025 at 12:16 PM

(An ExposƩ on Relationships, Power, and the Quiet War Over Surrender)


ā€œTrust, who do you?
Trust, what makes you a real lover?
Trust, I put this question to you
'Cause I want you to be with meā€

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Prologue: The Question That Cuts Deeper Than Love

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šŸ’” Trust isn’t the flowers, the vacations, or the promises.

šŸ”‘ Trust is what happens when the lights are off and the masks come down.

āš–ļø It’s the balance between surrender and control, risk and responsibility.

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Every relationship begins with chemistry—desire, laughter, late-night conversations that feel like they were meant to last forever. But beneath the surface of every touch and every kiss, there’s a harder question: trust—who do you?

Trust isn’t the flowers, the vacations, or the promises. Trust is what happens when the lights are off and the masks come down. When one person is trembling, waiting to be held, and the other is asked to take responsibility for both pleasure and pain.

Too often, I’ve seen trust become the battlefield that breaks people.

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The Stories We Don’t Tell

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šŸ•Æļø A friend gave everything, only to be betrayed by the one she trusted most.

šŸŖž Another saw his submissive side turned into humiliation instead of sanctuary.

šŸ•°ļø Perfect lives on the outside, secret fractures underneath

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I’ve heard the quiet confessions from men and women alike:

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A friend who gave her body and heart to a man who promised to protect her but used her vulnerabilities as weapons. He didn’t just betray her; he rewired her nervous system to doubt safety itself.


A man who lived every day as a leader, decisive and respected, but who craved surrender at night. He trusted one woman enough to show her his submissive side, only to be humiliated, exposed, and left questioning if intimacy was worth the risk ever again.


Another who built a family, a business, a life that looked perfect on the outside—but behind the curtain, their partner chipped away at their confidence until dominance felt like abuse and submission felt like shame.

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These people didn’t lose love; they lost their mirrors. Because trust is the mirror: it reflects who we are when we risk being seen. When that mirror cracks, it doesn’t just distort the image of your partner—it distorts the image of yourself.

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The Anatomy of Fear

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šŸ›”ļø Armor works in the outside world—control, discipline, strength.

šŸ”„ But intimacy burns through armor; it demands vulnerability.

šŸ‘ļø Fear whispers: If I yield, I’ll lose myself.

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Why do powerful people—CEOs, parents, soldiers, community leaders—freeze at the thought of giving themselves over to a lover?


It’s because power in the outside world is earned through armor. Decisions, control, discipline. But intimacy demands the opposite: it demands vulnerability, exposure, risk.

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Fear whispers: If I let go, I’ll be hurt again. If I yield, it will be used against me. If I reveal this side of myself, I’ll lose respect.

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So people hide. They turn their deepest desires into locked rooms inside their own bodies. They pretend that love can exist without surrender. But love without surrender is just negotiation—it never becomes transcendence.

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The Rise Beyond Fear

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ā€œWho do you trust if you can't trust God?
Who can you trust, if you can’t trust me?ā€

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Trust is not blind faith. It isn’t reckless surrender. It’s an equation:

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Boundaries negotiated. (Consent, clarity, limits, safe structures.)
Risks acknowledged. (Yes, you may be hurt; but hurt is not the same as harm.)
Power balanced. (Dominance isn’t theft; it’s stewardship. Submission isn’t weakness; it’s bravery.)

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To rise above fear means demanding partners who don’t weaponize vulnerability but honor it. It means risking yourself again, not because you’re naive, but because you’re strong enough to know that fear can’t define your future.

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The Hidden Power of Surrender

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The world teaches us that power means control. But in intimacy, power is paradox. True dominance isn’t about taking control; it’s about being trusted with it. True submission isn’t about losing control; it’s about choosing who deserves it.

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When two people step into that paradox—one willing to take responsibly, one willing to yield willingly—they create something more dangerous and beautiful than love alone. They create belonging.

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The Final Word: Who Do You Trust?

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Not everyone deserves your trust. That’s the brutal truth. One wrong person can make you hide your true identity for years. One betrayal can silence your deepest cravings.

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But hiding is not living.

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The challenge isn’t to trust recklessly—it’s to trust intelligently. To find the one who doesn’t just touch your body, but carries your burden, honors your secrets, and takes your surrender as seriously as their own breath.

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That’s what makes a real lover. That’s what makes the fear worth facing.

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It ain’t the sex šŸ’¦

It ain’t the money šŸ’°Ā 

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It’s imaginationĀ 

Its presence

Its attention to detailĀ 

and… 

Trust

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So I put the question back to you:

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When the night is quiet, and the world asks who you are, not as a mask, not as a parent, not as a boss—

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Trust: who do you?

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