There is a kind of love that doesn’t knock. It just enters.
A kind of love that doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
It arrives at your altar, barefoot and divine, dripping with sacred memory.
And when spirituality meets love—raw, stripped of performance and expectation—you don’t walk away the same. You can’t.
This isn’t your red-rose Valentine’s Day love.
This is the kind that rearranges your cells, floods your dreams with ancestors, and touches the parts of your soul you had buried beneath survival. It is the kind that holds your trauma in one hand and your rebirth in the other, and still dares to call you beautiful.
Let’s be clear: I’m not talking about religion.
Religion is the dress code.
Spirituality is the naked truth.
It’s the unedited scream you let out when your heart cracks open for the first time—not in pain, but in recognition.
It’s that magnetic moment when you realize God didn’t abandon you; you just stopped listening. Or worse—you stopped feeling.
And love—real love—will make you feel everything.
Messy.
Loud.
Alive.
Soft in places you boarded up with brick walls and disclaimers.
It’ll strip you down until the only thing left standing is your truth.
And baby, your truth is sacred.
I used to think healing was quiet. That it required dim lights, sage bundles, expensive retreats, and silent meditations.
But the most potent healings I’ve known? They came during the ugliest cries.
The type where your snot doesn’t care who’s watching, and your chest heaves like your body’s trying to expel every damn time someone made you feel unworthy of love.
That’s when Spirit showed up.
Not with a halo—but with a laugh so deep it shook my rage loose.
With a presence so bold, it stared down my shame and said, “You are still worthy.”
That, my love, is what happens when spirituality meets love.
You remember yourself.
And I mean that literally—you re-member. You gather the fractured parts, the silenced screams, the forgotten dreams, the pleasure you were told was too much, the voice you were told was too loud—and you bring them back home.
To you.
To the altar of your becoming.
Love without spirit? It’s performance.
Spirit without love? It’s disconnected.
But when the two collide?
Alchemy.
That’s when you stop performing for love and start becoming it.
That’s when your body stops bracing for abandonment and starts expanding in joy.
That’s when healing stops being a to-do list and becomes a way of being.
Messy.
Radiant.
Sovereign.
Real.
I’ve learned that love doesn’t fix you.
Love frees you.
To be tender.
To be sacred.
To be sexual.
To be fierce.
To be held.
To be whole.
And spirituality?
That’s the map.
Not to some paradise far away, but right here.
Back to yourself.
Back to the divine within your bones.
Back to the truth you forgot while pretending to be okay.
I don’t care what the world told you.
I don’t care if they labeled you too broken, too loud, too sensitive, too much, too sick, too complicated.
You are not too much.
They were just not ready for your wholeness.
And if that makes you cry, let it.
This is the kind of space where your tears are holy.
This is Healing Majestically.
At your altar.
Where you don’t have to choose between being spiritual and sensual, soft and sovereign, sacred and silly.
You get to be it all.
Because you are it all.
So here’s your permission slip:
To let Spirit kiss your scars.
To let Love fill the cracks.
To laugh loud.
To cry ugly.
To rage sacred.
To heal out loud.
To be fucking divine—unapologetically.
Let this be your reminder:
You are the prayer your ancestors whispered.
You are the love your past self never thought she’d taste.
You are the living proof that healing is possible.
Not when you’re perfect.
But when you’re present.
In Spirit.
In Love.
In Power.
— Copyright © 2025 Sherley Delia | All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 