Love to me, is the divine women remembered

There is a love that doesn’t ask, doesn’t cling, doesn’t wait.

It simply radiates — because it knows who it is.

To me, love is not just a feeling.

Love is an embodiment. A remembering.

It is the way I walk, the way I breathe, the way I dare to soften into the fullness of being a woman.

Love, to me, is the sacred trust I have in life —

and in myself.

It is believing in the divine spark within me,

not only when I meditate in silence, but when I laugh out loud, when I cry, when I dance barefoot in my kitchen.

It’s in the way I move — with elegance, with grace, with that quiet knowing that I am enough.

Love is also the fire in my hips,

the sparkle in my playfulness,

the silky touch of my own skin under candlelight.

It is divine, yes — but it’s also grounded, real, sensual, and alive.

Love is when I let myself be soft and powerful at the same time.

When I am not performing, proving, or pleasing.

Just being — raw, radiant, whole.

This is what love means to me.

It is not a concept. It is a presence.

It is me.