This essay traces the powerful evolution of the female main character across literature, film, television, and music, revealing her transformation from a passive figure shaped by male narratives into a complex, autonomous force at the center of storytelling. It explores how early representations confined women to symbolic roles, gradually giving way to more nuanced portrayals through the influence of feminist thinkers and writers.

Moving through key cultural shifts, the essay highlights how modern female protagonists now embody agency, desire, moral ambiguity, and power. From classic literary heroines to contemporary figures in romantasy, television, and music, the female main character is shown to have expanded beyond traditional boundaries, no longer defined by likability or limitation.

Ultimately, the piece argues that today’s female protagonist is not a singular archetype but a multifaceted presence who commands her own narrative, reflecting broader changes in society, feminism, and creative expression.

She stands at the quiet centre of light—hands cupped around something that is not just power, but creation itself.

This image is a remembering.

A remembering of a time when women were not asked to shrink, soften, or explain their existence. When the feminine was not something to be controlled, but something revered. She is not reaching for power—she is holding it, steady and luminous, as though it has always belonged to her.

There is softness here, yes. Gold-threaded, radiant, alive. But it is not fragile. It is the kind of softness that survives centuries. The kind that rebuilds itself again and again, no matter how many times it has been silenced.

She does not ask to be seen.
She does not ask to be chosen.

She is the axis around which everything turns.

This piece sits somewhere between mythology and modernity—where ancient goddess energy meets the present moment. It speaks to the quiet shift happening now, where women are reclaiming not only their voices, but their desire, their bodies, their presence at the centre of their own stories.

Not the muse.
Not the object.
Not the afterthought.

The origin.

A book that didn’t just ask questions about women’s lives, but rewrote the grammar of how those questions could even be asked.

In this post, I explore The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir through the lens of feminist theory—tracing how her idea that “one is not born, but becomes, a woman” continues to echo through thinkers like Judith Butler, Luce Irigaray, and bell hooks.

This is not just a review. It’s a conversation across time.

From existentialism to gender performativity, from myth to material conditions, this post unpacks how femininity has been constructed, constrained, and contested—and why Beauvoir’s work still matters in a world that is very much still negotiating what it means to become.

If you’re drawn to feminist philosophy, literary theory, or the quiet dismantling of ideas you were taught to accept, this piece invites you to read a little deeper—and question a little more.

There is a kind of strength that doesn’t roar.
It doesn’t demand attention or burn everything in its path.

It is quieter than that.

It lives in the small moments…
in choosing to begin again,
in tending to yourself when no one is watching,
in holding onto hope even when it feels fragile.

Brigid reminds me that not all fire is meant to destroy.
Some fire is meant to warm.
To heal.
To create.

So if you feel like you’re barely holding it together right now…
that doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It might just mean you’re tending a quiet flame. 🔥🌿✨

There is a quiet kind of loneliness in always being the new person.
The one who arrives after the laughter has already settled into rhythm.
The one who listens first, speaks carefully, and wonders where their voice might fit.

I don’t just want people around me.
I want my people.

The kind of belonging that doesn’t ask you to shrink or explain yourself.
The kind that feels like being understood without having to translate your heart.

Reading has started to feel less like falling into a story… and more like trying to solve one.

Every sentence is picked apart. Every moment examined for hidden meaning, future twists, or secret intention. We are no longer just readers, we are investigators.

But not everything is a clue.

Sometimes a forest is just a forest.
Sometimes a love story is just a love story.
Sometimes a line is simply meant to be felt, not decoded.

Stories are not machines built to be solved.
They are living things, shaped by emotion, instinct, and experience.

And maybe we are allowed to do both…
to analyse, and to simply enjoy.

Because we did not fall in love with books to study them.

We fell in love with them because, for a little while, they let us live another life.

A poem about the morrigan

A poem about Hekate

A poem about Persephone

A poem about Freya

For a long time, I softened my voice to keep the peace. But silence has a cost. This post explores the importance of finding your voice, speaking your truth, and having the courage to stand up for what is right. Sometimes our voice is not only for ourselves, but for those who cannot safely speak for themselves.

To Be Loved reflects on the simple but powerful human desire to be cherished, protected, and truly seen. It explores why romantasy stories resonate so deeply with me and how fantasy worlds transform love into something fierce, loyal, and life-changing. Beneath the magic and adventure lies a very human hope: that somewhere, someone will choose us completely and love us without hesitation.

This post explores the quiet grief that can come with the loss of a friendship. Through reflection sparked by EMDR therapy, I examine how one memory reshaped the way I see trust, loyalty, and connection. It is an honest look at the pain of broken bonds, the patterns we carry into our relationships, and the courage it takes to face our imperfections with compassion while continuing to grow.

Friday the 13th has long been wrapped in superstition and fear, but its roots tell a different story. Once connected to lunar cycles, feminine wisdom, and sacred ritual, this day carried deep meaning before those traditions were pushed aside. This post explores the forgotten history of Friday the 13th and offers a gentle personal ritual to reconnect with intuition, rest, and inner power. It is an invitation to step away from inherited fear and return to the quiet strength of the divine feminine.

A personal reflection on choosing an authentic life rather than following expectations. This piece explores independence, self-discovery, creativity, and the courage to shape a life that feels honest and meaningful. It is a quiet manifesto about listening inward, honouring change, and allowing life to unfold on your own terms.

Float tanks are one of the rare places where the world goes completely quiet. No screens, no noise, no pressure to do anything at all. Floating effortlessly in warm, mineral-rich water allows the body to relax deeply while the mind slows down and resets. For an hour, gravity disappears, the nervous system softens, and stillness becomes the most powerful form of restoration.

For years, I tried to live at the same pace no matter the season, expecting constant energy, constant output, constant strength. But nature doesn’t live that way, and neither do we. Everything moves in cycles. Everything rests. Everything renews. Seasonal rituals remind us that we are allowed to change, to slow down, to expand, and to begin again. When we stop fighting our rhythms and start honouring them, life softens. We realise we are not failing. We are simply moving through seasons.

For a long time, I thought change arrived in dramatic moments. Now I see it unfolds in small, faithful rituals.

Twelve Months of Ritual is an invitation to return to yourself, month by month. To clear, to rest, to begin, to release. To choose presence over pressure. Growth over urgency.

Not a year of becoming someone new.
A year of remembering who you are.

Ritual is not about incense smoke or perfect routines. It is about presence. It is about choosing, in small and quiet ways, to return to yourself. In a world that pulls at your attention from every direction, ritual becomes an anchor. A hand on your chest. A candle lit before you write. A single honest sentence in your journal. These moments may look ordinary, but they are acts of devotion. They tell your nervous system: you are safe here. You are allowed to slow down. You matter.