Page 134 of Unclench Me Softly

Asher on my right, curled around me like I’m his favorite mantra.

Seb at my feet like some kind of protective forest cat.

Jonah on the window ledge journaling shirtless like a reformed menace.

And Miles sitting cross-legged on the rug with a spreadsheet and a cup of tea, softly whispering about interest accrual on our sacred bathrobe fund.

And me?

I’m in the middle of all of it, wrapped in a robe that’s technically lingerie but spiritually ordained, sipping moon-blessed tea with glitter dust in it, leading a workshop later called Reclaiming Your Inner Chaos Goblin Through Scented Clay and Group Moaning.

The retreat’s booked out a year in advance.

There’s a newsletter now. A podcast. A very popular merch line that includes our signature “Unclench Me Daddy” weighted blanket.

Sometimes people ask if we’re a cult.

I usually say, “Only on Tuesdays and Full Moons.”

But really? It’s a home.

A sanctuary built on sage smoke, spiritual nonsense, sacred sex, and the kind of love that doesn’t demand you be healed before you’re held.

“Did you ever think it’d end up like this?” Asher asks me once, while spooning me with the kind of reverent affection that makes my aura throb.

I turn and kiss his jaw.

Then Jax’s shoulder. Then Jonah’s mouth. Then the top of Miles’ head as he passes me a crystal-infused scone. Seb doesn’t need a kiss, he just looks at me like I’m already made of the thing he was looking for.

“No,” I say. “But it’s exactly what I needed.”

And the truth is, I didn’t fix them. They didn’t fix me.

We just stopped pretending we had to go back to the world as the people we were before the howling and the planting and the very intentional cuddlefucking.

We stayed soft.

We stayed wild.

We stayed.

And every night, we light a candle, whisper something ridiculous to the stars, and fall asleep in a pile of limbs and lavender.

And I think…

This might be what healing looks like.

Robe optional.

Bliss-ism #777/f

You are not too much. You are exactly enough chaos wrapped in the right amount of glitter and yearning. Let them worship you gently. Let them scream into the woods. Let them plant seeds in your soul garden and call it masculine healing. You are the ritual now.

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