Mother

There is a fire rising—not destruction, but restoration. The kind of power that does not ask, does not wait, does not shrink. It remembers. It returns.

For too long, the feminine has been told to be quiet, to be soft, to be patient. But there is a side of us that is neither quiet nor patient. A force that burns away what was never meant to last. A voice that does not whisper—it roars. This is the rage that is not reckless, but holy. The wildfire that clears the way for new life. The primal knowing that what is sacred must be protected.

This rage is not separate from the Earth—it is of her. The rivers carve stone, the winds tear down mountains, the roots break through concrete. Gaia does not apologize when she reshapes the world—she simply does. She is rising, not as a distant force, but through us. The storm in our bones, the hunger in our hearts, the pulse beneath our feet—all of it is her awakening through us.

We are not just nurturers—we are warriors. We are not just healers—we are breakers of chains. The Divine Feminine is not passive. She is the earthquake, the flood, the ground shaking beneath what was built to keep her small. And she is rising through us.

The world is shifting, and we are done waiting. The time for permission has passed. The time for power has arrived. The Earth does not ask to be free—she takes her place. And so do we.