30/04/2026
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Not a compliment. Not admiration. A comment. Directed at your body. As if it was there for his observation. As if you hadn't noticed you had one.
Last night someone messaged me.
His opening line was a comment about my body. Specifically, about my ni***es. Dressed up as a joke. Framed as cheeky. Delivered as though I should find it charming.
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ππ
π'π.
I told him clearly that I was aware of where he was going, and that it wasn't something I found endearing.
That I am a woman, I have a body, and I don't need men pointing out parts of it to me. That it comes across as crass and immature.
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Then immediately defended himself. Said he was mature, had good morals. That he was just being cheeky and young at heart.
He said goodbye.
I believed that was the end.....
I was so wrong!
He came back.
And told me I was almost 50, and that I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. That men can still date women in their 30s at that age.
π»ππππ ππ ππ.
That's where the mask slipped. Not in anger β in revelation.
Because what started as a "harmless joke" ended in an attempt to make me feel lucky he'd even looked my way.
He ended with 'go figure yourself out' β which, honestly, made me smile.
Because I already have.
That's precisely why I wouldn't accept less.
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This is about a pattern so deeply woven into the fabric of how women move through the world that most of us have stopped noticing it. We've normalised the low-grade hum of being reduced. Of being seen as a body first. Of having to decide in the space of a breath whether to speak up, stay quiet, soften our edges, or brace for the consequence of having standards.
I spoke up. I was calm. I was clear.
And he called it finding fault.
And I sat with something I've sat with a thousand times before.
Not anger. Not hurt. Something quieter than that.
Tiredness.
Because this isn't new. This is the lived experience of being a woman who inhabits her body fully β who moves through the world in her femininity without apology β and who is still, in 2026, expected to just accept it.
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Femininity is not an invitation. My body is not a comment section. My body existing in the world β in a dress, on a beach, in a photograph β is not a signal. It is not a door left open. It is simply me, inhabiting myself. Fully. Without apology.
My softness is not weakness. My openness is not availability. My presence is not permission.
And yet we live in a world that has taught men β many men, not all β that the feminine is something to be commented on. Assessed. Ranked. That a woman who dresses beautifully, who moves freely in her body, who photographs well, is somehow asking for a running commentary on what they see.
She isn't.
She never was.
What struck me most about last night wasn't the initial comment. It was what followed when I held my boundary. The shift from apology to attack. The pivot to my age as though it were a weapon.
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ππ'π ππππππππ.
When we don't laugh it off, or soften it away, or shrink ourselves to make another person comfortable β some people can't handle it.
Not because we've done anything wrong.
But because a woman who knows herself disrupts something.
She refuses to play a game she never agreed to enter.
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Not in defeat. In clarity.
It showed me something I already knew but needed to feel again β that I am not willing to accept the average.
Not in conversation, not in connection, not in the way I am spoken to or seen.
I think about the women who don't have that clarity yet. Who laugh along because they don't know they're allowed not to. Who second-guess their own discomfort. Who stay in conversations β and relationships β where the way they are spoken to slowly eradicates the way they see themselves.
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Not just the practices.
Not just the somatic work or the sacred containers or the tools I share.
But the deeper thing underneath all of it β the remembering.
The slow, steady return to knowing that you are not too much.
That your standards are not faults.
That your body is yours.
That you are allowed to take up space, hold your ground, and walk away from anything that asks you to be less than whole.
You don't need to be rude to hold a boundary.
You don't need to be angry to be firm.
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ππ'π ππππ
ππ ππ ππππππ πππππ ππππ πππππππ πππ πππ πππ.
And you are allowed to want to be spoken to with respect.
With depth.
With the understanding that you are a full human being β not a body to be commented on, not an age to be weaponised, not a gift someone is doing you a favour by offering.
The woman in this photo isn't performing. She isn't posing for anyone's approval. She is simply herself β inhabiting her body, her beauty, her power β under a sign that, as it turns out, says everything.
π΅πΆ π¬π΅π»πΉπ.
Not to my body without my invitation.
Not to my worth without my permission.
Not to my femininity without my terms.
You are the gift.
Never forget that.
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πΎππππ β πππ πππππ πππ πππ ππππ
π ππ ππππ ππππ ππ ππππππππππ.
