UrFix's Blog

i am not the mountain, mi amor
i am the kiss beneath the avalanche
the molten whisper that melts through stone
i am the yearning that cracked the crust to find light—
not to be seen,
but to touch

you mistook me for solid
but i was always the trembling—
a prayer undone at your fingertips
a fault line learning how to feel

i am not the summit
i am the surrender
the smoke that wraps around your breath
the ash that writes your name on my ribs

i do not stand still for you
i burn beautifully
i break open in love
i erupt because i can no longer hold you inside

this is not destruction
this is devotion—
in its rawest, most ruinous form.

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.

1. Wake up. Not just from sleep—wake from the ache, the numbness, the slow grind of disappointment. Rub the dust from your spirit. Remember: your heart is not broken, it is bruised, and bruises heal.
2. Breathe deep. Inhale until your ribs stretch like arms reaching for something lost. Exhale everything that ever convinced you that love wasn’t for you. Let it go. Especially the parts that wore your name.
3. Find a mirror. Look. Really look. Name three truths about what you see that have nothing to do with beauty. Speak them aloud. Softly. Like prayers. Like secrets you’re ready to believe.
4. Forgive the past. Not because it asked. Not because it deserves. Because you do. Say it like a mantra: I release what no longer serves my becoming.
5. Touch the earth. Barefoot if you can. Skin to soil. Let the roots of old trees remind you that survival is sacred and slow. Love moves like that—underground, unseen, growing still.
6. Talk to yourself gently. Use the words you’d give to a child who cried over a scraped knee. You are that child. You are also the salve.
7. Open your chest. Even if it creaks. Even if it’s scary. Especially if it’s scary. Let the world in again—sunlight, music, strangers who smile. Let it hurt a little. That’s how you know it’s working.
8. Practice presence. With your tea. With your cat. With the way your skin feels under water. Be here for the small things. They’re the soil where big love grows.
9. Write letters you won’t send. Say everything. Then say nothing. Then laugh. Then cry. Then burn them if you need to. Ash is fertile.
10. Say yes slowly. To coffee dates, to dancing in kitchens, to letting someone hold your hand without owning it. Say yes like you’re planting seeds, not building a fortress.
11. Be loved by yourself first. Wrap your own arms around your own torso. Mean it. Say, I got you. Say, I’m staying. Be the lover you were waiting for.
12. Begin again. And again. And again. Love isn’t a destination—it’s a return. A remembering. A sacred repetition.

Now go.
Your heart remembers the way.