Page 85 of Unclench Me Softly

They will throw it into the bonfire.

While I play the didgeridoo in the background wearing a shawl made of thrifted silk and ancestral trauma.

I am not prepared for any of this.

But they are.

They’re bonding. Healing. Being introspective and possibly unionizing.

So I do what any slightly unhinged retreat leader does when she’s emotionally wrecked and under-lubricated:

I send the men into the forest.

By late morning, they’ve all gathered outside the dome, looking suspiciously well-rested and spiritually moisturized.

Jax is eating something from a tin with his fingers.

Asher is vibrating with the need to emotionally overshare.

Jonah is leaning against a post like a man who absolutely did not make me come until I forgot my own name less than 12 hours ago.

I step outside. Robe. Bread. Fake clipboard.

“Today’s work is sacred,” I begin, in the voice of someone who has not cried in a towel this morning. “You are each going to spend the day in intentional isolation, at the pond, in the woods, wherever your wounds whisper best.”

They nod, surprisingly serious.

I continue. “You will write a farewell letter. A goodbye to the version of yourself that performed masculinity for the world. The man who pretended to be something harder, louder, more palatable. The King you built to survive.”

Jax raises an eyebrow. “And we burn him?”

“You burn him,” I confirm. “With intention. With compassion. While I do breathwork on the didgeridoo.”

Miles actually writes that down.

Asher clasps his hands to his heart.

Jonah doesn’t move.

Seb grunts. Which I think is agreement.

I finish the last bite of bread and point my clipboard at them dramatically. “Go forth. Write your truths. Do not return until you’re ready to burn the King.”

They scatter. Some head toward the woods. Some toward the pond.

And I?

I return to the dome. Pull the robe tighter. Sit in a sunbeam like a lizard with too many feelings. And whisper to the universe, “Please don’t let one of them write a poem.”

I’m mid-realignment snack when Miles knocks.

It’s a soft knock. Courteous. Like he doesn’t want to interrupt my robe-based crisis, which is thoughtful considering I am currently sprawled across a floor cushion, half-eating a fig and half-planning a fire-based masculinity exorcism for five emotionally wounded forest men.

“Miles,” I call out. “Enter the sacred chaos.”

He steps through the flap like he’s arriving for a medical consult, not walking into a cloud of incense, fruit peels, and the faint scent of spiritual desperation. He’s barefoot, naturally. Shirtless, unfairly. And carrying the exact energy of a man who’s come to tell me that the assignment is flawed and his spreadsheet has concerns.

He crosses his arms. “I can’t do it.”

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