Oh honey—
you tried to pray with your belly tucked in,
tight-laced in Spanx and self-doubt,
hoping God wouldn’t notice the jiggle
or the ache behind your eyes.
You saged your trauma,
chanted affirmations like a backup choir
but still apologized
for existing in surround sound.
Girl, you were a holy mess
waiting to be kissed by the sacred.
And spoiler alert—
you didn’t need a degree in grace
to be worthy of divine things.
Future me writes you from a golden bathtub
full of rose petals and ridiculous laughter,
telling you straight:
you’re not too loud,
you’re the echo of every silenced ancestor
finally taking up space.
And that “no” you whispered
with a nervous smile?
It becomes a thunderclap.
A boundary in red lipstick.
A gospel.
You’ll learn one day that your thighs
are not the enemy,
they are drumsticks of destiny,
marching you out of every place
you once shrank to fit into.
You stop apologizing for the soft in you.
The sacred. The silly. The sensual.
You dance badly on purpose.
You cry in public
and call it baptism.
You’ll gather women like moonlight gathers tide—
unbothered, unfiltered,
laughing about how healing
sometimes looks like eating mangoes
on satin sheets
while telling your past to mind its business.
You become your own damn guru.
You throw away the timeline.
You touch your belly and say,
“This is where the revolution begins.”
So to the girl
who wore shapewear to a healing ceremony—
thank you.
You started this whole thing.
And baby?
We look damn good laughing now–
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Healing Majestically 