Start by peeling back the layers—like citrus rind under your nails, sharp and fragrant. Bitterness clings at first, but underneath? Juice. Sweetness. Sun-warmed possibility.

Slide your hand across your own chest and whisper: this body is still worthy. Say it with a tongue slick from honey. Say it like it’s a recipe passed down through generations of women who never gave up on themselves.

Wake slowly. Let the morning kiss your collarbones. Let the light flirt with your scars. You are not wilted—you are marinated. You’ve soaked in sorrow, yes, but also strength. And baby, you’re tender now in all the right places.

Eat strawberries. The messy way. Let the red stain your lips and laugh when it drips down your chin. That’s what love should do—ruin you a little, in the most delicious way.

Learn the heat of your own skin again. Touch your shoulder like you’re meeting it for the first time. Trace the edge of your jaw. Wrap yourself in silk or sunlight or both. Become the kind of softness even fire would hesitate to burn.

Forgive boldly. Not like a saint, but like a woman slicing through bitterness with a machete. Not for them—for you. Because freedom tastes better than resentment, and you’ve been starving.

Dance. Not like anyone’s watching—because they are, and they’re lucky to. Move your hips like an offering. Like every beat is a tongue pressed to your neck. Let joy shake something loose inside you.

Take chances again. Not big ones. Just enough to stir the soup. Smile at a stranger. Say yes to the long way home. Let your life simmer with slow surprises.

Fall in love with silence, too. The kind where it’s just you, a candle, maybe some Miles Davis, and the sound of your heart remembering how to feel.

When love knocks—whether it’s yours, theirs, or the universe’s—open the door slowly. Let it in like incense: curling, rich, intoxicating. Let it soak into your walls.

And if it burns a little? Good. That’s the spice working.