The house is quiet when I return.
Not the kind of quiet that feels empty —
the kind that feels earned.
Lived in.
Like the walls have been watching me carry my lineage with every step I took today,
and they’re humming their approval as I slip inside and close the door behind me.
The coat comes off first.
It always does.
It held me all day — wrapped me in the secret softness of lace, the rebellion of silk under cotton, the quiet confidence I conjured in the mirror this morning after the oil kissed every inch of me.
As it slides from my shoulders, the day slides with it.
Not discarded… just released.
Honoured, then set down gently.
If you were here, watching me exhale into this moment,
would you notice the shift in my body the second I cross the threshold?
Would you see how my shoulders drop, how my breath deepens,
how I ease into myself as though I’ve stepped into warm water again,
just like earlier this month when the bath held me in its ancestral embrace?
I move slowly — deliberately —
the same way I moved when I first lifted the bottle of oil,
when I asked myself what truth I needed written into my skin.
My fingertips find the hem of my hoodie, and a quiet smile spreads through me.
Only I know what lies beneath.
Only I know the devotion stitched into these hidden layers.
I lift the hoodie over my head,
and the cool air wraps around my warm, oiled skin like a second breath.
My t-shirt follows — soft cotton peeling away, revealing the lace,
the silk,
the intention I wore out into the world today.
The lingerie that wasn’t for them.
That was never for them.
That was a declaration —
a whispered prayer to myself:
I am desirable. I am sensuous. I am a sexual being.
If you were here, would you understand the power in this?
Would you see how undressing becomes a continuation of the ritual,
not an undoing of it?
A return to the body the bath cleansed,
to the skin the oil blessed,
to the woman the clothing honoured.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings and slide them down slowly.
The silk brushes against my thighs,
and the sensation sends a tremor through me —
familiar, grounding, intimate.
Not arousal this time…
something deeper.
Recognition.
My ancestors are here.
My grandmothers.
My Fairy.
The women whose names I whispered into steam and water,
whose wisdom I felt sinking into me as I soaked in their memory.
They stand with me now,
not to guide the ritual —
but to witness what comes after.
I unclasp my stockings one by one,
letting the garter straps fall against my skin with a soft snap.
There is something deliciously sacred in removing garments chosen entirely for my pleasure.
As if I am telling myself:
You are allowed luxury.
You are allowed beauty.
You are allowed softness without permission.
My bra is next.
The lace gives way.
My breasts settle into their natural warmth,
and the relief is immediate —
spiritual even.
A release of tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
A letting go of every gaze imagined or remembered.
A return to the body that has survived, created, endured,
and still offers me joy.
If you were standing in front of me,
what would you make of this moment?
Would you see undressing as vulnerability?
Or would you see what I see —
that it is its own kind of armour,
shedding what the day required
so I may return to what I am?
I pause before removing my panties.
They feel like the final boundary between the outside world and the woman who belongs only to herself.
Slowly, I slip them down,
the lace whispering against my thighs,
my hips,
my ruby red stoma —
the life-saving portal I honoured with oil and gratitude,
the part of me I massaged with laughter and love.
I cup my stomach gently,
the same way I did earlier this month,
and whisper a thank you.
For surviving.
For adapting.
For carrying me.
For teaching me devotion in places the world told me to hide.
When I am finally bare,
fully undressed,
standing in the centre of my bedroom with the moonlight painting soft silver across my oiled skin,
I feel it —
the completion of the ritual.
Not an ending.
A return.
A circling back to the truth that threaded through the bath,
the oil,
the dressing:
I am woman in all her glory.
If you were beside me now,
breathing in this quiet with me,
I’d ask you:
What do you release when you undress?
What parts of yourself are revealed only in the soft light of your own sanctuary?
And what story does your bare skin tell when no one else is watching?
I exhale,
long and low,
and climb into bed,
my body still humming with lineage and citrus and silk.
The sheets welcome me like water.
Like memory.
Like home.
And as I settle into their softness,
I whisper one final truth —
a truth the bath taught me, the oil sealed into me, and the clothing carried out into the world:
I am mine.
Entirely.
Beautifully.
Unapologetically mine.