We are the daughters of men who broke their own hearts before the world had a chance to. Men who taught us that love could be a wound long before it became a song.
We are the daughters of mothers
whose own mothers whispered:
“Be still, be soft, be something small,
so men will want to play with you.”
But they bore us instead, iron-clad and restless. Their defiance braided into our hair.
Our wombs are not temples of waiting. Our bodies do not beg for sanctuaries. We have bled rivers of resilience, each drop a hymn to survival. When the world sought to name us fragile, we broke their tongues and dared them to define strength.
We are the daughters of women who were never given gardens but grew forests from ash.Women who learned to wield fire. Their shadows cast long and fierce over the faces of oppressors, whispering, “We are here.”
Our laughter is rebellion.
Our tears, a language older than war.
We walk with the weight of ancestors, their sacrifices sewn into our skin. Their dreams sprouting like wildflowers in the marrow of our bones.
Do not call us fragile.
We are storms that leave no sky untouched. Earthquakes that shift tectonic souls. We are the breaking and the remaking.The echo and the origin.
📷:@emotional.st
GreatCosmicMothersUnite 