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🌙Mystical Moon Sisters🌙
156 members • Free
WI
Writing Into The Wound
53 members • Free
16 contributions to Writing Into The Wound
Apr 28 •
Not feeling well
Hey everyone I just got in from driving and have a little bit of a headache. I would like to move this to tomorrow please. As I need to be full charged physically and mentally for you all. Or if tomorrow doesn’t work then put down two days and time Wednesday or Thursday works for me.
2 likes • Apr 28
Thursday works for me👍 I hope your headache goes away soon❤️
Apr 7 •
Week 1: Meeting Your Younger Self
Writing Prompt: Write a letter to your younger self introducing who you are today. Let them know you’ve come back for them. Description: This week establishes connection. Many people have never consciously “met” their younger self with compassion. This exercise builds emotional safety and begins the re-parenting process. Shadow Questions: 1. What version of me have I been avoiding acknowledging? 2. When did I first feel unseen or unheard? 3. What did I need most at that time that I didn’t receive? Associated Emotion: ➡️ Vulnerability Affirmations: • I am safe to meet myself with honesty and compassion. • I am willing to see and hold every part of who I was
1 like • Apr 13
Dear Younger Me Dear younger me, I’m you. Not standing ahead, not trailing behind— but gently, finally, beside you. I am a woman now, but I have not forgotten the softness of your hands, the tremble in your voice, the way you learned to survive before you ever learned to live. I was you. And I still am. Though my days now carry chaos, mistakes, lessons that carved deep lines into my spirit— they also carry you. I carry you willingly, happily, peacefully. But somewhere along the way, running forward, chasing healing, chasing becoming— I forgot to turn around and come back for you. So I’m here now. To hold you. To look into your eyes and say what you always deserved to hear: I love you. I have always loved you. And you are safe now. I am here to protect you. To stand between you and the world when it feels too heavy. To promise you— you will never be alone again. We will sit together with the pain you still carry, not as enemies, but as something we can soften, something we can heal. Together. Please know this— the woman I’ve become is strong. She is an overcomer. A protector. A provider. A mother. And with everything in me, with every breath I take, I will fight for you. I will stand tall when you feel small. I will lend you my strength when yours feels gone. Because this was never just about me. It was always about us. Every moment that tried to break us, every ache that made our chest feel like it might stop beating, every voice that told us we were less than— they were wrong. They never saw what was already inside of us. Because in our veins lives something unshakable. Something sacred. Something that refuses to stay down. And from ash— we rise. Not broken. Not lost. But together. Stronger. Whole.
Feb 9 •
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 • Feb 18
Both are so Beautiful!✨❤️
1 like • Feb 23
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.❤️
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