Page 130 of Unclench Me Softly

He frowns.

But I turn to the group before he can push. “Take your time,” I say. “Let the labyrinth hold what you no longer need. Walk with grace. Exit with gratitude. And if your inner child emerges in tears, just hug it and give it a damn juice box.”

I step aside and open my arms. “Begin.”

They walk in one by one, leaving me behind, like I told them to, like I taught them to.

And I stand at the entrance, smile fading, the ache blooming behind my ribs like its own quiet ritual.

The moment they disappear into the labyrinth, I step back from the edge like it might pull me in too. Like if I’m not careful, I’ll lay my own box in the center, the one that says “Bliss, Before.”

The one I can’t come back from.

Instead, I retreat to my dome.

Self-care, I tell myself.

Ritual maintenance.

Energetic grounding.

Really, it’s just an excuse to be alone for a few minutes without having to perform stability in front of five men I am definitely not in love with. Probably. Maybe. Shut up.

I light a candle.

I unbraid the crown of herbs from my hair and redo it, slower this time, more for the rhythm than the aesthetic. I burn a bundle of something that may or may not be sage, it smells like forgiveness and kitchen fire, and hum a half-remembered chant I made up during a migraine last month.

“I am whole, I am divine, I am letting go without losing my mind.” I say it three times.

Then once more, under my breath, just in case the universe missed the sarcasm.

I steep a cup of moon tea, chamomile, mint, and one dissolving sugar cube shaped like a star, and sit on the floor beside my altar, knees pulled up, sipping like the cup might hold a secret exit strategy from emotional implosion.

They’ll be back soon.

Five men.

Five journeys.

Five versions of themselves burned and remade right here in my lavender-scented madness.

And I have to hold space for all of them one last time.

The Final Circle™.

No more rituals. No more pillars. No more pancake-based awakenings.

Just them, sitting in the dome, each with a candle and a cup of tea, talking about who they’ve become and what they’re taking with them.

And I’ll sit there, smiling like a woman who didn’t hand over her heart one kiss at a time and call it facilitation.

I’m still steeping in my emotional tea puddle, practicing my I-Am-Fine breathing and smoothing the fabric of my robe like that’ll keep my heart from bursting open, when Toad walks in, arms full of six small boxes. All wrapped in reused kraft paper and string, like the universe mailed me one final lesson and disguised it in craft-store packaging.

“These came for you,” he grunts, setting the stack on the floor. “Names on the tags. That big one’s yours.” He eyes me for a beat longer than necessary, then adds, “Don’t cry on ‘em. Some of ‘em might not be waterproof.”

And then he’s gone.

I stare at the boxes.

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