🔥 To the Ones Who Were Touched Before They Could Speak

A Remembrance for the Lost (disconnected), the Loud (performance), and the Longing (desire to come home).

I was violated before I had language.

Before I could form a sentence, someone crossed a line

my soul would spend decades trying to reclaim.

So when I see people performing pain,

putting on distortion like armor, like lipstick, like liberation,

I don’t judge them.

I feel them.

Because I remember.

I remember what it’s like to be introduced to sexuality

before safety,

before consent,

before the sacred.

And I see now how we package it—

how we hand children confusion dressed as education,

how we normalize exposure before embodiment,

how we push what should be protected.

Let’s be honest:

Sexual perversion isn’t rebellion.

It’s a residue.

A distortion.

A coping mechanism that became an altar

for those who were never allowed to be whole,

and who forgot that they already were,

even after the scars left by others’ pain and longing.

But I don’t write this to shame those who’ve lost their way.

So many are still dissociated from their own pain,

disconnected from soul,

performing what once protected them.

I see you.

And I honor you,

for the warrior underneath it all.

When the weight became too heavy,

I wrote it on paper and burned it.

Not to destroy it, but to transform it.

To offer the pain as prayer.

I delivered the ash to the base of a tree,

to her roots,

so that the Earth, in all her beauty,

could hold what I, in my humanity, could never do alone.

Deliver it to the feet of Mother Earth and Father Sky.

They still remember how to carry what you’ve forgotten how to name.

I didn’t write this to condemn you.

I wrote this

so the next child

doesn’t have to sacrifice their soul

just to feel seen.

I’ve been the girl

who wanted to be seen more than she wanted to be safe.

I’ve played with fire just to prove I could hold it.

I’ve sexualized my ache just to feel closer to love

forgetting I already was.

And I write this for the ones

who still confuse being watched with being witnessed.

Who still confuse likes and popularity with the masses

as an emblem of their worth,

instead of remembering their inherent worth

through the ONE who knew them

before the world ever looked their way.

You don’t have to allow others to exploit your pain.

You don’t have to pour your life force

into the hands of those

who market your wound

and judge your bleeding

in the same breath they asked for it.

I see your soul beneath the shock.

I see the child you used to be.

And I love your inner child enough to say:

You were never meant to be a spectacle.

You were meant to be a temple.

It’s not too late to come home.

Not to the home that is sold—

but to the home that is soul.

Your soul never disappeared.

God never disappeared.

And through your pain and suffering,

just know,

you are still here.

Read this in silence.

Let God’s love shine through.

May you never forget the unconditional love

of our Creator…

and come home

back to YOU.

🦎 The Predator, the Prey & the Child Who Still Believes in Healing

Today, my daughter found a lizard nearly dead.

The cats, innocent in their nature, had nearly ended its life.

One back leg was torn off.

Part of its tail, missing.

But it was still breathing.

She didn’t look away.

She didn’t fear the brokenness.

She picked it up, laid it in a doll bed,

placed a cloth on its back, and made it a home.

Because to her

even the wounded deserve softness.

And in that moment, I saw the whole cycle:

The predator who acted from instinct.

The prey who survived the wound.

And the child who chose to soothe, not shame.

Isn’t that the remembering?

That even the smallest life holds worth.

That love doesn’t erase pain

it enters it.

We don’t always get to stop the harm.

But we do get to choose what happens next.

🙏 Closing Prayer for the One Who Still Carries the Ache

To the one reading this:

I speak life over you.

Over the places inside you that still flinch,

still question, still ache for the love that was once misnamed.

I speak healing over your inner child,

the one who was rushed, touched, taken from,

before they had a name for what was sacred.

May that child be held now

in the arms of God,

and in the gaze of your own soul

finally remembering them.

May you know this:

You were never the pain.

You were the light that lived through it.

May you feel the flame of remembrance rise again,

not to burn you,

but to bless you.

To warm you.

To call you home.

You are not forgotten.

You are not broken.

You are still breathing.

And even now,

God is gathering the ashes.

Building the temple.

Calling you by your real name.

Come home, not to the version of you that performed,

but to the one who still sits by the tree

and believes in love anyway.

Amen.

A’ho.

And it is so.