The Love Was Me All along

It wasn’t them I missed. It was me.

The woman I was when I felt that love. The woman whose body softened into safety. Whose voice lowered, whose eyes sparkled, whose heart poured through fingertips like she was made of molten gold. That was me. I remember her. I miss her sometimes. But I see now — she was never theirs to awaken. She was always mine to hold.

There have only been two. Two connections in my life where the love felt like that. Where the pull was deep, the energy electric, and my feminine felt fully alive. Both were emotionally mature in many ways, but emotionally unavailable in others. Still, each one held enough masculine energy to still the chaos in me. And in that stillness? I bloomed. I surrendered. I softened. Not because I was small or naive or co-dependent. But because I felt safe. Safe enough to exhale into my feminine. Safe enough to stop gripping, stop bracing, stop anticipating disappointment. Their steadiness anchored me. And in response, my sensuality came online.

I thought I missed them. I thought it was the coincidences, the conversations, the undeniable pull. But it was the frequency I was in that I miss. The love I felt was mine. It always was. I was feeling my own current reflected back. I loved them deeply, yes. But more than that, I was in love with the way I loved. Fully. Freely. Unapologetically. Like a healer, a poet, a fire.

That frequency? That flow? It lit up everything. My body. My energy. My abundance. I remember how magnetic life felt. Things aligned. Money flowed. My aura was honey and wildflowers. And I thought it was because of them. But no. It was because of me. My system was open, trusting, radiant.

I know this now:

> They don’t love like I do. Not because they can’t. Not because they’re broken. But because we all love to our own capacity. And mine? It’s my powerhouse.

The soul connections I felt were real — but not for the reasons I thought. They were mirroring my light. They confirmed the feelings, the timing, the strange synchronicities that made it all feel destined. But I see it clearly now: they were bouncing back what I was putting out. And that version of me? She’s not lost.

She doesn’t need anyone to rise again.

But she does need safety. She needs a solid container.

The feminine doesn’t emerge through force. She emerges through ease. And so, I’m learning to become my own masculine. To protect my softness. To provide the structure, the stability, the steady presence I once searched for in someone else. So I can be her again. For me. With me. As me.

Because that kind of love? It was never about them.

It was me all along.

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And yet now, I notice the contrast.

Because in other connections, the ones that preceeded and came after, it was different. They were emotionally available — but not emotionally mature. And so I became the one who anchored the space. I drove. I planned. I remembered. I mothered. Because if I didn’t, it didn’t happen.

Not just for them — but for me. Because I wanted to do things. I wanted to make memories. I wanted to see them, feel something, live. And without my input, it just wouldn’t unfold. Not from a place of cruelty or carelessness, but because the initiation always came from me. I pushed myself too hard.

And that sounds admirable until you realise what it costs. Because the more I protect others from discomfort, the less space I have to soften. The more I anticipate their pain, the less I express my own. My feminine doesn’t feel free here — she feels functional. There is no exhale when I’m holding the whole thing up.

I learned to double cope. To grieve for people before they disappoint me. To carry their emotional weight before they ever ask me to. And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself what I needed.

But I remember now. I remember who I was when I didn’t have to do it all. And maybe that’s the lesson.

To stop proving I can carry everything, And instead... choose not to.

How Do I Let My Masculine Rise… Without a Catalyst?

I’ve met my feminine. I’ve danced in her softness. I’ve lived in her glow. I’ve watched her bloom under the weightlessness of love. I know how she moves when she’s safe. How she creates when she’s free. I know her intimately.

But my masculine? He’s always been reactive. He shows up when there’s no one else. When it all falls on me. When structure is lacking, when plans unravel, when something needs to be done and no one else is doing it.

And I’m grateful for him. He’s carried me through. He’s been the one who steps in, who drives, who sorts, who decides. But I don’t want him to only arrive in crisis. I don’t want my masculine to be born of chaos.

I want him to rise on purpose.

Not as a reaction to someone else’s absence. Not as a plug for someone else’s immaturity. But as a conscious structure I build for myself. A container that holds me, consistently. One that says: "I’ve got you. We’re safe here."

I used to think I needed a man to bring that out in me. A strong one. A present one. Someone who anchored me so deeply that I could rest into my feminine without fear. And I’ve known what that feels like. It was beautiful.

But now, I want to know what it feels like to be anchored by myself. To build that steadiness from within. To be my own presence.

So I ask myself: how do I do that? How do I let my masculine rise… without a catalyst?

Maybe it starts here:

By committing to my own follow-through

By waking up and asking what would support me today

By giving my emotions a place to land

By tending to the practical without losing the poetic

By keeping promises to myself

Because my masculine is not just the doing. He is the direction. He is the edge that protects my flow. The sword that clears what isn’t aligned. The spine that lets me stand, even in softness.

I’m not abandoning my feminine. I’m honouring her with structure.

So no, I don’t need a partner to provoke this. I don’t need a crisis to force it.

This time, I’m choosing it.

Not because I have to. But because I want to know what it means to be held by a masculine that doesn’t disappear. One that I built. One that stays. One that’s mine.

When the Masculine Burns Out: Listening to the Body’s Boundary

My right side has gone on strike.

Not metaphorically. Literally. The part of me that does, lifts, pushes, drives, carries — has had enough.

And I know why.

It’s because my masculine has been in overdrive for too long. He has carried things no one else did. Held the line. Built the scaffolding. Shown up, again and again, even when I was tired, even when I wanted to fall apart. And while I’m grateful for that strength, I’m also seeing the cost.

Because the body always tells the truth. And my body is telling me: "You’re doing too much."

The masculine is sacred. He is the container, the consistency, the one who keeps the ship steady. But when he’s the only one showing up, something starts to wither. And in me? It’s the feminine.

I haven’t let her breathe for a while. Not fully. Not freely. And that’s on me.

It wasn’t about blame. No one forced me to over-function. But I kept stepping in. I kept carrying it all. Because it mattered to me. Because I wanted connection. Because I wanted memories. And when no one else initiated, I did.

But now the right side of my body aches with truth.

It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. My masculine isn’t failing me. He’s waving the white flag. And beneath that, my feminine is whispering: "Please… let me back in."

Because I can’t carry both poles forever. I was never meant to. And my softness isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity.

So maybe this pain isn’t just physical. Maybe it’s an invitation.

To stop doing everything. To let support in. To let rest be holy. To trust that my value isn’t in my output.

Because I have known my fire. I have known my strength. But now?

I want to know my stillness. I want to be met in it.

And if no one comes? Then I will learn to hold myself with such tenderness, that even my body remembers:

I am allowed to rest.

The body doesn’t need rescuing.

It needs remembering.

It can heal everything —

if you find the invitation,

and honour what it’s trying to say.