Let them talk. Let them build stories out of shadows. Let them sculpt their own fears into your silhouette and call it truth. You don’t have t
Let them talk.
Let them build stories out of shadows.
Let them sculpt their own fears into your silhouette
and call it truth.
You don’t have to wear their confusion.
You don’t have to sip from their shallow cups
and call it understanding.
See—people will rename you
the moment your light reminds them of their own neglect.
They will say you’re angry
when what they really feel is convicted.
They’ll call you arrogant
when what they really mean is they’ve never been taught how self-respect looks on a woman who means it.
They will call you bitter
because they’ve never tasted healing
without sugar on top.
Let them.
Their ignorance is not your biography.
Their projections are not prophecy.
You are not an open field for anyone’s misunderstanding to graze on.
You are sacred land—
fenced by discernment,
watered by truth,
guarded by ancestors who do not negotiate your worth.
So keep walking, sis.
Keep that rhythm that says,
“I know who I am.”
Because even when the world whispers falsehoods
like prayer beads,
you still get to decide your name,
your meaning,
your legacy.
Let them talk.
Let them tweet.
Let them misunderstand.
But don’t you dare shrink to fit their storyline.
The divine doesn’t explain itself—
it just keeps rising,
glorious and unbothered,
over and over again.