The soul does not whisper—it roars
through silence,
through bone,
through bloodlines etched with memory.
It is not a metaphor.
It is fire.
It burns away illusions
like old skin molting under
a rising sun.
This is not death.
This is transfiguration.
Self-care is not a ritual of convenience—
it is a resurrection.
A remembering.
A holy act of defiance
in a world that asks you to forget
your sacredness.
Each breath—
a chant from the womb of the Earth
saying yes,
you were always worthy.
You were always divine.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
This is the alchemy:
Turning ache into anthem,
grief into gold,
scar into scripture.
Your truth does not beg for permission—
it exists.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
It pulses beneath your ribcage
like an ancient drum
calling the ancestors home.
You are the ceremony.
You are the offering.
You are the record
etched in every tree ring,
carved into mountain bone,
sung by oceans
that remember
your original name.
Stand still—
and the Earth will chant it back to you.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes–
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