Before religion was written down, it was lived.

It moved in bodies that bled with the moon.

It thrived in cycles, in breath, in the quiet strength of women who created life from their own flesh.

What is religion if not the sacred act of creation?

In the beginning, there was no priest, there was no dogma, there was no confession or contrition.

In the beginning, there was the womb.

There was the world built from her body and her breath.

Women don’t need to seek the divine.

We are the divine—living proof that creation is not a metaphor, but blood, bone, and breath—

and that terrifies the men who can’t do what we can.

So, they rewrite the story.

They make man the first creation, and woman the afterthought.

They make god a father, and sin a woman’s invention.

They turn our knowing into danger and our wisdom into blasphemy.

When they can’t embody power, they design systems to contain it.

When they can’t replicate creation, they teach the world to fear it.

They take our sacred rituals and label them sorcery.

They call us witches, heretics, temptresses.

They light a fire under our feet and call it justice.

Still, we remember.

We remember through care that doesn’t ask to be celebrated.

We remember through grief that becomes ceremony,

We recall through birth, through rage, through survival that looked like softness but was anything but fragile.

They tried to make us forget where we came from.

But the sacred was never something they could own or conceal.

Religion became a way to control what they could not become.

It offered rules where there had once been relationship.

It replaced reverence with fear.

It convinced generations that holiness was something to be earned, rather than embodied.

The truth was never erased—it was buried.

And we’ve been digging it up ever since.

You don’t need a title to speak the sacred.

You don’t need a pulpit to stand in your truth.

You don’t need to ask permission to carry divine power in your body.

The sacred feminine was never lost.

It was silenced.

It was shamed, hidden in plain sight.

Now it’s rising again—not in quiet, but in clarity.

The sacred rises not in secret, but in sovereignty.

We are not waiting to be invited back, but we returning on our own terms.

You are not an afterthought.

You are not the helper.

You are not a mistake.

You are the source.

You are the story before it was edited.

You are the god they feared would remember herself.

You don’t need a doctrine.

You don’t need to earn the sacred.

You are the sacred.

You were the temple all along.

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