I rarely find myself in conversations where I am completely wrong or where the plot has gone over my head—especially when discussing topics, I consider myself an expert in, or when it comes to dealing with and reading people in everyday situations. I am almost always right. I know these statements may make me sound like someone who lacks self-awareness, struggles with self-reflection, or has an inflated sense of self. I promise you, that isn’t the case. I’m just blessed with impeccable intuition and exceptional reasoning and critical-thinking skills—GIFTED actually.
In the words of my mother, “I can smell shit a mile away.” I say all of this as an interlude into a story time about a conversation that exposed the fact that I was, in fact, missing the plot. I was fast but my blind spots were faster.
Last summer, I met up with my cousin. She’s one of the cousins I call “cousiiiiiinnnnn” instead of her actual name. Our meetings last for hours and usually include champagne and some type of seafood—both her favorites.
The setting may change, but the scene is almost always the same.
We catch up.
We laugh loud.
Somebody cries.
Somebody is reminded of their worth.
Somebody gets checked by hearing something hard to hear.
That day, it was my turn.
As I stated in a previous post, I had struggled with many things for the last four to five years. I charted a lot of unfamiliar territory—one thing after another. Evidence of that struggle is the fact that I hadn’t seen this cousin since Christmas, and maybe once in 2024. I secluded myself because I am not a “misery loves company” person. I’d rather sit in my own shit than ruin someone else’s day.
The topic was marriage—mine in particular.
I was venting and laying out the issues. I was going in. Saying what I wasn’t going to do. What I hadn’t been doing. I listed my refusals. I said “ain’t no fuckin’ way” at least five times. You couldn’t have paid me to believe I wasn’t making sense.
With a look of disbelief and empathy, she said:
“Oh, so you let this situation take all of the femininity out of you.”
I was like, “Excuse me?”
I immediately went on the defensive. She stopped me and said, “No, you listen to me.” And I got quiet.
Her point wasn’t about me being right or wrong. She highlighted that I had allowed myself to get out of my body. I have always been feminine.
For me, femininity has always meant ease, intuition, softness without weakness, and self-trust.
My feminine energy has always attracted masculine people. I can’t control anything but myself—how I act, how I respond, how I take care of myself, how I manage myself. All of that is on my watch.
We ended the meeting the same way we always do—with a hug and an “I love you.”
I walked away from that restaurant in a different form.
Survival will make you forget who you were before the fight.
I have a rule: if I don’t like the way something sounds when I say it out loud, or the way it looks when I write it on paper, it must be fixed. And I did not like hearing the words, “You let this situation take all of the femininity out of you.”
After reflecting, I realized how much had changed about me.
-
I stopped dressing up for fun.
-
I stopped listening to music while getting ready.
-
My tone became more forceful.
-
I repeated myself instead of exercising boundaries.
-
I stopped watching movies and crying.
-
I became closed off—stiff instead of light and flowy.
-
I was solving too many problems and carrying stress that wasn’t mine to hold.
-
I was constantly moving and never still.
-
I had stopped asking God for coverage and guidance.
I’ve been on a journey ever since that conversation. I’ve been asking the questions I believe will lead me back to myself.
What does femininity look like on me today?
How does it sound?
How does it feel?
What are my non-negotiables?
Where do I compromise?
How do I care for myself?
Maybe growth isn’t about becoming someone new. Maybe it’s about returning to who you were before survival hardened your edges. I’m not trying to reclaim a version of myself from the past—I’m redefining her for where I am now. Softer, wiser, and still discerning. Still intuitive. Still protected. Just no longer willing to abandon my body, my joy, or my femininity in the process. The most interesting part about this is I had no clue. I couldn’t see it. I am not sure if I would have made this revelation on my own at that time. This is why we must surround ourselves with people who love us and have their own sense of self.
If any part of this made you uncomfortable, pause.
Sit with that.
Discomfort is often a signal—not of wrongdoing, but of awareness arriving.
Ask yourself if you’ve been in defense mode for so long that you’ve forgotten what ease feels like.
If you’ve become louder instead of clearer.
Harder instead of grounded.
Busy instead of present.
If you realize you’ve been surviving instead of living, start small.
Return to your body.
Turn the music back on.
Dress up for no reason.
Rest without guilt.
Pray again—even if it feels awkward.
Soften without apologizing.
This isn’t about blame.
It’s about awareness.
And awareness is always the first step back home or in a direction of who we hope to become.
Reflection Questions
Take a moment and be honest with yourself:
-
When was the last time you felt soft, present, and at ease in your body—not guarded or on alert?
-
In what ways have you been over-functioning or carrying things that were never yours to hold?
-
Have you been repeating yourself where a boundary should have been set?
-
What parts of your femininity—however you define it—have you muted in order to survive?
-
What is one small way you can invite ease, rest, or softness back into your life this week?
I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Whether you’re just realizing something has shifted or you’re already on the journey back to yourself, your reflection might be exactly what someone else needs to read today.