I guard my freedom
the way elders guard recipes—
no substitutions,
no rush,
No strangers touching the pot.
My nervous system is a sanctuary,
not a battlefield,
not your dumping ground,
not a place for chaos
to rehearse its trauma monologue.
If your presence raises my blood pressure
instead of my consciousness—
please, darling,
See yourself out.
I am no longer impressed by urgency.
I do not respond to noise.
I am fluent in calm.
Regulation is my love language.
Peace is my posture.
Anything that vibrates below clarity
cannot sit at my table.
This is not avoidance.
This is mastery.
I have learned that freedom
It is not a loud rebellion
but quiet authority—
the ability to say no
without a thesis,
without a tremor,
without checking my pulse afterward.
If you mistake access for entitlement,
understand this gently:
Access has been revoked.
My body has voted.
My spirit has notarized the decision.
The ancestors cosigned.
And yes—
If you insist on lingering where you are no longer welcome,
disrupting my peace like an unpaid bill,
I will write your obituary
with elegance,
with accuracy,
with impeccable grammar.
Cause of death:
Irrelevance.
Survived by:
My serenity.
My boundaries.
My regulated nervous system is
living its best, well-hydrated life.
Let it be known—
I am not cold.
I am clear.
I am not distant.
I am disciplined.
I am not difficult.
I am free.
Freedom looks like choosing myself
without apology,
without explanation,
without collapsing afterward.
Freedom looks like laughter returning to my chest,
sleep deepening its roots,
joy no longer bracing for impact.
So go—
with love,
with dignity,
with the lesson intact.
I remain—
unbothered,
regulated,
divinely calm,
and exquisitely unavailable
to anything
That does not honor my peace.
Signed,
sealed,
and resting peacefully in her power–
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