The Moment the Collapse Began
I don’t remember the exact moment I stopped feeling safe, but I remember the moment I realised I had never truly felt it.
There were touches that weren’t asked for. Words that curled like smoke around my throat. Moments that ripped something from my body I didn’t yet know I could reclaim.
But more than the events themselves, it was the inheritance of identity that gripped me.
I became Her—the Victim.
She who flinched at kindness, questioned joy, waited to be rescued.
My nervous system became a shrine to survival. I shrivelled. I had a pulse, but I was not alive. I stopped living and just existed. Barely.
My pleasure became a foreign country. Not just sexually - but in life. I stopped living.
And I made my home and my identity in the myth that I was broken.
The Powerlessness Was Almost Comforting
There is a strange seduction to staying small. A quiet safety in playing the part of the one who needs saving.
I found validation in pain, intimacy in trauma bonding, belonging in wounds that mirrored mine. I thought if I performed fragility long enough, someone might finally carry me out of the burning house.
But no one came. And one day, I realised: the fire was inside me. And so was the key.
I began to wonder what would happen if I stopped waiting for someone else to pick me up, and instead learned to rise.
Returning to My Body: Not for Him—For Me
The first time I touched myself after the trauma—not for numbness, not for validation, but for presence—I cried.
Not from shame. From remembrance.
Something ancient stirred. A whisper of a woman I once was. Or always was. The one who knew how to touch her own body like a sacred artefact, not a battlefield.
Through Phenxx’s teachings, I began to repattern my relationship with pleasure.
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I touched myself not to climax, but to listen.
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I moaned not for show, but to stir my womb awake.
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I lay in rituals of pelvic release and breathwork, letting grief rise like steam.
This wasn’t about sex.
It was about soul.
The Moment I Stopped Leaking Power
There came a night—I remember it viscerally—where I refused to collapse.
A partner misunderstood me. I felt that old pull to shrink, apologise, explain my feelings away. The part of me that once whispered “maybe if I’m softer, I’ll be loved” began to rise.
But I didn’t collapse. I didn’t contort.
I held my centre. I held my “no.”
And in that moment, I felt it: power.
Not the power of dominance. The power of self-belonging.
The kind that doesn’t shout. It hums. Grounded. Unshakable. Magnetic.
Erotic Sovereignty is My Rebirth
Reclaiming my erotic self wasn’t about seduction. It was about sovereignty.
I lit candles to seduce my own breath back into my body.
I anointed my skin with oils not to be seen, but to see myself.
I whispered into my womb like she was a priestess holding my lineage in her blood.
I began to choose pleasure not as a prize, but as a birthright. I remembered what The Phenxx Woman teaches: I cannot be owned. I cannot be shamed. I cannot be silenced.
Not anymore.
She Didn’t Die—She Transformed
The Victim still lives inside me. But she is not in charge anymore.
She is not my identity. She is my teacher.
She is the echo of my younger self, and I hold her with fierce tenderness.
But I no longer act from her wounds.
I act from my wholeness.
I no longer seek safety outside of myself.
I cultivate it, breath by breath, in my sacred skin.
I no longer beg for my power to be returned.
I stand in it, uncloaked, unapologetic.
An Invitation, From One Woman to Another
Sister, if you are still collapsed—come closer.
This isn’t your fault.
What happened was real. But it is not who you are.
You are not here to perform pain.
You are here to reclaim joy.
You are not broken—you are becoming.
Let yourself soften. Let yourself scream. Let yourself rise.
Touch your thighs like soil rich with wisdom.
Say “yes” and “no” like spells.
Know that your pleasure is not indulgent. It is revolutionary.
You are more than what hurt you.
You are power, risen.
And I am walking beside you.