Page 46 of Unclench Me Softly

“You are the leader. You have boundaries. Your robe is your armor.”

“Okay maybe just one more kiss if it’s part of his process??”

“Stop it.”

I set the notebook down, press the back of my hand to my forehead like I’m a Victorian widow overcome by emotion, and lie back in the grass, staring at the stars.

I thought this retreat would be a hustle. A scam. A last-ditch attempt to save the estate and maybe trick some emotionally stunted trust fund bros into manifesting their own growth while paying my taxes.

But now?

Now I’ve got five men cracking open like sacred walnuts, one of them just kissed me like I was the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking, and I have to lead a wolf-themed ego release crawl in six hours without collapsing into a puddle of horny self-doubt.

The stars do not offer advice.

Rude.

I close my eyes and whisper, “Tomorrow, I am professionally feral and completely composed. I am a guide. I am a vessel. I am not kissing anyone in the woods, no matter how good they smell.”

A pinecone drops somewhere nearby like a judgmental mic drop from nature itself.

Great.

Sacred Robe Laundering Instructions

Because spiritual filth still needs a gentle cycle

Wash on cold, like the heart of an ex who “wasn’t ready for this version of you.”

Use hypoallergenic detergent infused with lavender and abandonment issues.

Add one (1) rose quartz to the wash drum for energetic recharging.

Do not bleach. Do not tumble dry. Do not let a man who hasn’t unclenched touch it.

Hang dry by moonlight while chanting “I release stains, shame, and emotionally unavailable energy.”

Store in a drawer lined with affirmation cards, sage bundles, and maybe one vibrator. For balance.

Bliss-ism #81/δ:

Sometimes you have to howl. Sometimes you have to cry. Sometimes you have to fake a sacred ritual because you forgot your lesson plan.

Chapter Nine:

Return to Wild, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Kiss Anyone

There’s something sacred about a morning spent braiding beads into your hair while pretending you’re not emotionally destabilized from making out with a man who smells like trauma and eucalyptus.

I sit cross-legged on the edge of the fire circle, robe loose, coffee hot, fingers weaving small wooden beads and bits of moss into my crown like I’m channeling my inner wolf priestess-slash-retreat coordinator-slash-kiss-dazed idiot. The sun is just barely crawling over the hills, the air smells like dew and leftover sage smoke, and for three whole minutes, I feel like I have my shit together.

Today is Rewild the Inner Wolf-Cub™ day.

Which means I need to be:

Grounded

Composed

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