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🌙Mystical Moon Sisters🌙
119 members • Free
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Writing Into The Wound
40 members • Free
14 contributions to Writing Into The Wound
26d •
Module 7 — Rewriting Your Future
How do we rewrite our future when many times we have not even come to terms with our past. How can one see their future when you can’t even see past today!
1 like • 17d
Both are so Beautiful!✨❤️
1 like • 11d
Dear Future Me Dear future me, I don’t yet know how your mornings unfold, what your kitchen smells like at sunrise, or what kind of peace rests on your shoulders now. But I am proud of you. I am proud of you even while I am still here— in the thick of understanding, in the middle of untangling what once tried to define us. There are pieces of the past that still ache when touched, questions that don’t yet have gentle answers. Some memories still flicker like unfinished conversations. And still— with intention, with trembling but willing hands, you are rewriting the story. Each day you place one word down that wasn’t written for you before. Each day you step a little farther from the starting line that once felt like a finish. Look at how many miles you’ve already traveled. Some days you walk. Some days you run. Some days you crawl forward with tears in your throat. But you are moving. Happily, lovingly, softly, consistently. You no longer hand your time to what once harmed you. You no longer let old wounds steer the direction of your becoming. You have learned to plant your feet deep into the earth and keep them there no matter how loud the wind howls. You are healing— not in grand gestures, but in daily devotion. In choosing yourself again and again. Look at you. Risen from ash, not hardened— but warmed by your own fire. You are becoming the woman you were this whole entire time. And even when it’s hard to see past today, remember— Today is not the end. It is the pen in your hand.
Jan 25 •
Module 6: Becoming The Fire
Becoming the Fire Turning pain into power — reclaiming your voice.
1 like • Feb 1
Becoming the Fire Until now, I spent my days not just in the fire— but running toward it. A bag on my back, packed light: only what was needed to survive. Nothing more. Nothing less. I ran from places that could take my life, only to arrive at others just as dangerous. A vicious cycle, years and years of motion without escape, until I reached a dead end— a place I could not outrun. Every time I tried to leave, hands gripped my ankles, dragging me back into its stomach, back into the heat. Demons surrounded me there— keeping me company, keeping me distracted. But something inside refused to die. It was called bravery. A bravery planted in me long before I was ever imagined, etched into my bones on purpose. The fire suffocated me, fed on my soul. I was starving for air, for light, for freedom. The fear of taking my final breath in that hell I was held inside was no match for the bravery within me. So I ran. Fast. Blind. Without looking back. Direction didn’t matter— only breath. I fought through the flames. They burned my eyes, my skin, nearly erased what little was left of me. And then— air. Sky. Sun. Freedom. The fire that once tried to swallow me whole is something I now see. Not because I am trapped inside it, but because I stand above it. I look down at the flames, glowing, and they spark a twinkle in my eye. They burn bright— but I burn brighter. Now, I am the fire. Stronger than anything that tried to take me from this world. And when I am tested, when I am tempted, when I am lured— I burn bright. I burn strong. I burn free. And the opposition learns it is no match for who I have become.
Feb 1 •
My Mothers Hands
As I sit here looking at my hands, I see more than just mine. I see the hands of two beautiful women. I see my grandmother, Ellen Louise. I see your strength. Your hard work. I see the sun spots from all the countless hours you spent outside planting and tending to your gardens. I see you digging up the backyard just to make me a swimming pool — with a canopy, I might add. I remember you using cow watering cans just to make sure I stayed cool in the summer. I see the pride you carried in these hands with every meal you made for your family, cooking with love every single time. But I also see the pain you endured. The times you weren’t seen. The times you weren’t heard. The times you were misunderstood. You stayed because that’s what women did. You carried it quietly, and you kept loving anyway. Then I see the other set of hands — my beautiful mother, Diane Rose. Your strength looked different, but it was just as powerful. You fought the fight, Mom. You never gave up. You never said you couldn’t do something. Even in a wheelchair, you believed you had no boundaries, and you were determined to prove everyone wrong — even the doctors. I watched you fight again and again to beat the odds stacked against you. Momma, your heart was so big. You cared for everyone, even when people treated you wrong — men and women who saw you as less than. But you never saw yourself that way. Your elegance was more than beauty. It was class, with a little touch of “bougie,” just like you used to say. You always said a woman doesn’t need to show her body to be classy. And if you couldn’t be rich, you could at least look rich. No matter where we lived — even in the roughest projects — you made it a home. You made it ours. I am so grateful for your wisdom and your guidance. I wish you could see me now — healed, full of love, full of joy. I wish I could sit with both of you just one more time and say thank you. Thank you for the tough love. Thank you for the lessons. Thank you for never giving up on me, even when, in my pain, I told myself stories that you didn’t love me or that you were bad mothers.
1 like • Feb 1
Absolutely beautiful. Absolutely sacred.❤️
Jan 20 •
Module 5 — The Truth You Swallowed
What is the guilt and shame you have had to swallow. Put this week’s writing on this post.
1 like • Jan 20
Absolutely Beautiful ladies!❤️
1 like • Jan 27
The Truth I Swallowed The truth I swallowed sat lodged in my throat, unable to reach the root of my purpose— blocked by guilt, blocked by shame. Guilt I carried from situations I was a part of, placing blinders over my eyes. Shame born from moments that never had my consent. A shame that once ran through the blood in my veins, because my heart didn’t know how to carry only my own— so I carried the shame of others too. The shame they were never willing to name, never brave enough to admit, because understanding their wrongdoing required a depth they could not reach. Truth tried to whisper to me, soft and patient in my ear, but guilt placed noise-canceling headphones over my head before truth could ever reach its source. I was once an enemy to my own flesh. But in taking the time to slowly see, I realized the places I once called home were never safe— they were hell on earth. And in that knowing, truth finally reached me. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable. Now I live and breathe truth. Truth is the blood that runs through my veins. Truth comforts me, loosens the grip of guilt, dissolves the shame that once held me hostage. Truth reminds me: I was blind, but now— now I can see.
Jan 7 •
I feeling we need a check in.
Let’s go live at 7:30 writing into the wound sisters and brothers. Let’s go live. I’m feeling that there is a need to do alive. I feel some heavy emotions. @Erika Mathis @Liz Matheny @Lamar McAllister @Liam David @Luniver Lago @Mellissa Rhoades @Hollena Matthews @Tamika Brown @Dawn Burgess @Jen Borgstadt @Nicole Banker @Nybria Forrest @Jay Dimick @Elizabeth Matheny @Angie Flunker @Jessica Rose @Manda Jackson @Sierra Meyer @Savannahh Y @Erica Stoll @Keon Vance @Jessica Rose
1 like • Jan 15
I started a page and titled it My Mother’s Perspective. At first, I thought her story began with my father, with a marriage that hurt more than it held, with a divorce that left wreckage behind. But I was wrong. Her life did not start when I was born. It started when she was a child. I asked questions. I listened. And I learned that my mother grew up with a mother who spoke through complaints, who saw the world through dissatisfaction, who filled the home with negativity instead of safety. I can laugh it off now. I don’t feel threatened by it. But my mother was small. She couldn’t escape it. She lived inside it. That atmosphere was her home. What hurts me most is not what my mother did, but what she could not give— emotional presence, physical touch, comfort when I was breaking. There were times I cried and cried. She saw my pain. She heard it. But she was frozen, unsure how to step into it with me. And now I understand why. The nurturing she received came only from her father. She was never taught how to communicate because no one communicated with her. She was never shown how to hold emotions without fear. I see the generational trauma clearly now. I know where it began and how it traveled. Still, I refuse to reduce her to what she lacked. She has been abundant in so many ways. She stepped into the space my daughter’s father left behind. She helped me raise my child. She stayed. Every time I felt emotionally neglected, it was never her intention. She was doing the best she could with what she was given. And knowing this does not erase the pain, but it brings peace. Because now I know— my mother loved me, even when she didn’t know how to show it.
1 like • Jan 18
A mother who is doing her very best with the deck of cards she has been dealt.
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