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When I was young, my femininity was innate.

I played, and I created.

However, from the day I dropped earthside, I was taught to hide her. Slowly but surely, I was conditioned to exclude her.

She tried to come with me to school and to religion, but they wouldn’t let her in. She tried to show me how to express myself, but I was taught it wouldn’t make me money.

When I was a teenager, I was furious with her. I felt she wasted my time and caused me perpetual pain. I tried to destroy her. I pushed her away.

I saw her power and her rage. It got me in trouble, and it scared me.

Over the years, she visited me. Sometimes I would allow her to stay for an afternoon, to craft, or for a week, when I needed to be brave.

Yet each time, I would shun her again. I worked her away, birth controlled her away, brainwashed her away, and most of all numbed her away.

Now here she is again, knocking at my door. A gracious force, still wanting me, after all this time.

I open the door, just a crack, and take a deep breath, reminding myself that I invited her here. Come in, I say, have some tea. Her energy is unsettling and comforting, simultaneously. She sips her tea, and then invites me to take her place at the table while she cooks a meal.

I sit down, in my own home, watching my guest hover over the stove. She does not cook to please. She does not cook to follow a recipe. She cooks to create sustenance, life. She cooks from intuition and soul. She knows what nourishes. She intuits needs.

As she sets the steaming bowl before me, I feel…fear? Disdain? I know that what is being provided is what my soul needs, but this is what I have been taught is witches brew. My entire life, I have been rewarded for pushing away offerings such as these.

My mouth salivates, as does my soul to be nourished in this way, by a wild and untamed woman, not afraid of who she is. I sip, and feel each cell in my body coming online, waking up, connecting.

I drink from the bowl and she offers me bread, soft, warm, and comforting, as if it came straight from the womb. I eat with my hands; utensils seem silly. I do not fear the calories or anything it may add to my physical body. In this moment, I am reminded that it is my right to be wholly expressed.

When I am finished, she takes a seat on the floor and I sit facing her, cross-legged. Our spines erect, we close our eyes. She allows me to feel my connection to all that is. From the center of the earth to the vastness of the universe and beyond, we are one with it all.

Opening all three eyes, I see every color, shape, and frequency swirling around me. I am unafraid, for I am grounded and held. Nothing is here now that wasn’t here before. It’s just that I can see it now.

My body flows with it—has no end or beginning. Clothing is unnecessary here. I am warm and free of shame. I know that I am perfect too, just as I am.

I feel peaceful and centered. Weightless yet grounded. We walk outside, bare feet on the cool grass. I breathe in the smell of nature and take a moment to listen to the gentle wind and crickets.

She looks knowingly at me, as nature has always been the way she communicated with me, even when I was fully asleep. She never truly left.

She lifts her gaze to the sky and mine follows. Each bright star forms a different letter in the sky. It strikes me that language seems so mortal, yet is so divine. Some of the letters I don’t recognize. They are in different languages. But she does; she can understand them all.

I continue to enjoy spending time with her. We paint, sing, and dance, without a second thought to if it would be considered “good” by another human. She strokes my hair and shows me how to properly care for my body. She shows me how to re-mother myself.

We have had such a lovely evening. It is around this time I realize she doesn’t have to go. She is a part of me, and belongs with me…she is me.

My eyes well up with tears.

If you stay, will I still accomplish all I am meant to? I ask.

More. She says. You will have more space and ease.

Does my masculinity have to go? I ask.

No. She says. But it must learn to not overwork. You must teach it to make room. There will be another coming who will be in his own masculine, and this will make it easier for you and I to exist. He will not appear to you until I have made my home here with you again, my love.

I am scared, I say. And she replies, I know.

She does not force or push. If I am not ready, I know she will wait. But I am ready. I invite her to stay. She moves in slowly, but she lives here now. Maybe she will be moving in for years.

When I am sick, she knows what I need to heal. When I am heartbroken, she holds me so I can dive into the feeling without fear. When I am creating, she allows me to relax enough to let it come through.

She teaches me not to push away help and to let myself be held, for the greatest and highest good.

It feels nice now, having her around. We try new things and define success and failure on our own terms. Once a month, she bleeds with me, and once a month we howl at the full moon.

Sometimes I ignore her, forget she is there, or lash out at her. She continues to forgive, and I will never banish her again.

Space is created and enjoyed. We are one, my femininity and I.

I am grateful.

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