She thought she lost it forever—her spark.
The magical thing that gave her a spring in her step and made her—well—her.
The thing that made her smile beam like a blazing ruby flower and her tender, determined eyes sing with life.
She remembers once feeling so vibrantly alive—and if she’s honest, she hasn’t felt that way in months. Or years.
Tears swell. She sighs, feeling defeated by the shades of dull, monotonous grey that capture her current existence.
She misses it—the pure life energy that pulsed through her veins like stardust.
Like fire that fed her to dance, to laugh, to shout, and live out loud.
When did it all become so hard?
Well, she thought her spark up and left when all that surrounded her was pain and people who didn’t understand.
She thought it left when the days blurred together in one big, meaningless blob.
She thought it left when she felt powerless. Hopeless. Broken beyond repair.
She thought it walked right out of her life when her bones seemed weighed down with lead—and she swore she should get a goddamn prize for getting out of bed.
As she claws and climbs up through that old mud with aching joints, she sees a precious fingernail crescent moon hanging in the freshly darkened sky.
It is not full, no—but it is there. The moon shines valiantly, without shame, without a care. Like the moon, maybe she is not full right now.
But it doesn’t matter.
As she gazes at that delicious crescent stapled to the stars, she realizes her spark is still there.
Yes. There. Right in her belly and lungs and hips. In her hair and lips and sweat.
Her spark, that wild, feminine magic inside her—it is still there.
It never left and it never will.
No one—and nothing—can take it away. Not ever.
It was there the whole time, gestating, gathering in power.
Beneath the layers of doubt and shame and all the things people told her to be.
Beneath all the sh*t she’s faced.
Her spark lies there, crackling.
A bright orange firework.
About to explode inside her bones with bliss.
She shivers with delight, sitting alone and savoring to the last symphony of summer crickets. She breathes and cries. Salt drips. Tears rain down to her legs and feet.
But these tears are happy tears. They are letting-go tears. Turning the page tears.
Because change is in the air.
The breeze paints goosebumps like gold letters on her skin as she surrenders deeper to the rippling pleasure of this awakening.
Because she feels her spark thump to life again—like drums and static and the promise of something divine and indescribable.
Something untamed and fierce and bold.
She dances for the forest, for herself—hair flying like feathers as sweat collects on her forehead from the flood of pure passion inside her.
It feels electric and natural.
Like a thunderstorm.
Like tidal waves.
It is hot and wild and utterly hers to claim.
It is her will, not only to survive, but to thrive.
Her body sings with life.
It is subtle. It is real. It is…
A brazenness. A ridiculous joy. A resounding hell yes.
It is her birthright.
Her spark—that wild, vibrant, feminine magic inside her.
It never left.
And it never will.
Nothing can take it away.
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