This body will not inhabit anymore ghosts

I will not execute your will. I will not release anymore of your generational suffering. I will not be a vessel for only transformation. I reclaim my autonomy in this lifetime. This is my body, and only what I create dwells here. I send my regards for all you went through. Thank you. But I will not be your servant, your maid, your mother any longer.

I will not be your cycle breaker. I will not clean up the mess you left me in my biology. Here is my resignation. This life, I claim my own storyline. My own choices. My own discoveries. My own creation. I’m not asking to break the cycle, I’m asking for a divorce.

Cycle Breaker, Generational Rebellion, healing generational trauma. It is still asking women to do the work of an army. It is still asking us to do much, and I lay down my sword bloodied, I lay down my shield bent, I slide down my mare, let my feet touch the soil after too much war. Rip off the boots, let my toes, my nails, haggard, feel the damp January-dewed clover. Pull the September’s calendula oil out of its tincture and lather my face, my womb, my hands in her reminders; we did not return to this life to keep fighting the war of ghosts rattling in our cells, asking for a voice they were not given.

So I SHOUT EXIT one last time. Send my regards as a woman of good English heritage, and say, “We are not sad people.”

This is not bypass, this is not gaslighting. This is a reclaiming of a life no longer curated by healing trauma.

I alchemize with my breath. I transmute with my laughter. I shift timelines with the hugs I give my daughter, the smiles I give strangers, the seeing of heartache, and knowing my purpose has never been to fix or mend it all.

It has only been to live it.