The oil is still warm on my skin when I rise. I’m slow and steady, and it feels as if the room itself is holding me upright.
The air swirls around me.
It’s softened, scented, aware, and the fabric waiting nearby feels less like clothing and more like an invitation.
My body glistens faintly in the morning light, each curve and scar catching the glow like a quiet hallelujah.
This is the moment after the blessing… when the world hasn’t touched me yet, when my skin still remembers every prayer whispered into it.
I pause with my hands hovering over the first garment, feeling the weight of choice, of agency, of lineage guiding my fingertips.
Today, I am not dressing to hide.
I am dressing to honour.
To protect the softness I just unlocked.
To wrap the woman I’ve become and the women who walked before me, in something that feels like truth.
If you were standing here, watching the way the fabric pulls my attention, what would you reach for first?
What material feels like it knows your story before you speak it?
I think about how my elders always dressed with intention.
Their entire wardrobe was curated to present the story that they wanted the world to know about them. No. That they NEEDED the world around them to know.
Black women, existing in the Southern States of mid 20th century America. Before the end of segregation. Before the women’s liberation movement.
Their clothing was a uniform. An armour. A statement to society about who they were and what their place was in the world.
Can you imagine? Knowing on a subconscious level, that the wrong garment choice could very easily be a life or death decision?
This realisation brings goosebumps to my glistening, freshly oiled skin.
I send up a silent thanks to my elders, to my grandmothers, to the countless women whose sacrifices led to my not having to bear the same burdens as them.
It is in this thanks that I am empowered to swap my daytime underwear for my most sensual undergarments.
Not because I have anywhere special to be, as I don’t.
Not because I have a romantic encounter waiting for me on the other side of this door, as I haven’t. That comes later.
Not because I am to be regarded in this delicious finery, as I won’t be.
But because the choice is mine and mine alone to make.
Because I like the way these items feel against my skin.
I enjoy the feeling of silk stockings and suspenders.
Of garter belts and thongs.
Of lace pressed against my bosom.
I wonder why I only wear these garments that bring me such pleasure, such joy; solely for the enjoyment of others.
Why is their satisfaction regarded as more important than my own?
Where is it written that exquisite lingerie shouldn’t be paired with leggings and an oversized hoodie?
That a trip to the supermarket doesn’t call for a sheer lace bustier and matching thong?
If you were here with me right now, what would you make of my underwear choice?
Would you laugh at the absurdity of my silk stockings and tatty trainers?
Or would you see it as the epitome of modern day feminism?
Would you be inspired to think about the reasons behind your wardrobe choices?
Would you be inspired to do the same some day?
As I pull my leggings up over my silken laden thighs, I am overcome with arousal.
This arousal intensifies as I put on my t-shirt and hoodie.
I am desirable.
I am sensuous.
I am a sexual being.
The words settle over me like another layer of fabric, warm and undeniable.
It’s intoxicating, this knowing — this quiet thrill of dressing for my own delight.
For once, the mirror isn’t a judge… it’s a witness.
I tug the hoodie down over my hips, the soft cotton grazing the lace beneath, and the contrast makes me inhale sharply.
Who knew that something so simple could feel like rebellion?
Who knew that pleasure could be stitched into the seams of an ordinary morning?
If you were here, watching me pull this hood up over hair that still smells faintly of citrus and basil, would you see what I’m claiming for myself?
Would you notice the way confidence blooms when nobody else is asked to validate it?
I smooth the fabric over my belly — the same belly I anointed with love and grief and gratitude moments ago — and it feels… different.
Lighter.
Almost as if the oil has rewritten the story my body tells under my clothes.
My hands drift to my pockets, as though grounding myself in this new softness, this new power.
And for a moment, I just stand there.
Breathing.
Letting the fabric settle.
Letting the truth settle.
Today, I am not dressing to be looked at.
I am dressing to be felt.
By myself.
By the memory of every woman who dressed with intention long before I knew how.
The final layer waits on the back of the chair — a coat that has seen countless versions of me.
But today, when I slip my arms into the sleeves, it feels like stepping into my lineage.
Into my becoming.
Into the woman who knows she is allowed to be sensual in the supermarket aisle, sacred in the produce section, divine at the self-checkout.
If you were beside me now, would you let yourself believe the same?
Would you walk out into the world wrapped in your own quiet fire?
I pull the coat tight around my waist, the silk underneath humming against my skin like a secret lover, and I smile — slow, certain, knowing.
The ritual is complete.
And I am ready.
As I stand at the edge of this moment, dressed in softness and defiance and the secret thrill of silk hidden beneath cotton, I realise how much of my life has been shaped by what I thought I owed the world.
But today… today I feel a shift.
A reclamation.
A remembering.
If you were here with me, standing in this tender light, I would ask you one last question:
What would it mean to dress not for approval, not for performance, but as an act of devotion to the person you are becoming?
Where on your body would you place your first truth?
And what would you dare to let the world see — or not see — when the choice is finally yours?
I breathe in, straighten my spine, and step forward — wrapped not just in fabric, but in the woman I have chosen to be.