There’s a specific, grounding magic in finishing a long, dull workday and coming home to a hot shower. But it’s the ritual after that truly centers me. Standing naked in front of the mirror, lotioning my skin, I don't just see my body. I see the map of my history—the faint stretch marks from carrying my daughter, the softness of my belly that held her. I trace the contours of my own hips and tits, feeling a quiet, fierce ownership that was stolen from me for so long. It’s not vanity. It’s reclamation. It’s looking at my cunt in the mirror and thinking, ‘This is mine. My pleasure, my stories, my life starts here.’ Tonight, that feeling bloomed into a slow, luxurious solo session with my favorite toy, thinking not of some fantasy lover, but of my own capacity for joy. The ache of a powerful orgasm that I gave myself is a deeper kind of intimacy than any cult could ever fabricate. My body is no longer a tool for their control; it’s the home I built for myself, and I worship at its altar every single day.