Page 54 of Unclench Me Softly

Miles folds himself in with the grace of a monk. Asher immediately curls up like a very well-adjusted emotional fox. Seb lies down flat, arms crossed like he’s prepared to meet the void.

Jonah? He settles into one nest. Gently. Like he’s waiting.

The second one, empty. Waiting too.

I cross my arms, pulse pounding, brain screaming, “Don’t you dare lie down with him. Don’t you dare become the lynx mate of his forest wolf cub. You are the leader. The vessel. The robe-wearing authority figure.”

“Are we supposed to reflect in silence now?” Asher asks quietly.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Reflect. Rest. Whatever feels right.”

They all close their eyes.

The forest hushes.

And I stand there, barefoot in the leaves, watching them breathe, sweat, and exhale their inner children into leaf cradles like I didn’t make this all up with a glue stick and desperation.

And yet…

It’s working.

They’re healing.

And I might be falling.

Not in love. Not yet.

But into something.

Something that smells like pine needles and poor decisions and the overwhelming weight of being looked at like you might be someone’s safe place.

Even if they never say it out loud.

After a long break that includes spiritual refueling via pizza with strategically selected toppings: mushrooms for grounding, olives for inner wisdom, and pepperoni because I’m not a monster, we reconvene at the center of the clearing for the final ritual of the day: the Howl of Vulnerable Reclamation™.

A sacred scream.

A release of inhibition.

A group vocal exorcism I absolutely stole from a sound bath video on TikTok and rebranded as a transformational auditory cleansing ceremony.

I stand in the middle, the Staff of Embodied Return in one hand, a handmade chime in the other, and every one of them, five men, wild-eyed and dirt-smeared, fresh from nest-building and emotional unclenching, forms a loose circle around me.

They are glowing. Literally. Damp with sweat and sunlight, leaves in their hair, some shirtless (because of course), and all of them so grounded in their bodies it’s actually starting to hurt me a little.

This was supposed to be a joke.

And now I’m the one who feels like howling.

“Okay,” I say, voice warbling slightly from overstimulation and spiritual confusion. “This is the final step in our rewilding. The vocal release. The reclaiming of your inner voice. The howl.”

I hold the chime high.

“Let it come from your belly,” I say. “From your past. From the part of you that needed to scream but was told to be quiet. From your inner cub, wild and sacred.”

They nod.

Why are they all nodding?

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