Look at her.
Your daughter. Your niece. Your granddaughter.
That little girl in your life who twirls without reason, laughs too loudly, and believes she can be anything.
Watch how she takes up space without apology.
How she states what she wants without softening the edges.
How her eyes still hold the universe because no one has told her to look down yet.
You would fight wars for her.
You would stand between her and anyone who tried to dim that blazing light she carries.
You would never whisper in her ear:
“Make yourself smaller.”
“Your dreams are too ambitious.”
“Your voice is too much.”
“Tone it down so others feel more comfortable.”
You would burn at the thought of someone telling her those things.
So why are you still saying them to yourself?
Maybe not out loud.
But in the way you over-explain.
In the way you hesitate before speaking.
In the way you hold yourself back, waiting for proof you’re allowed to rise.
Maybe it started years ago.
You were praised for being compliant.
For being no trouble.
For keeping the peace.
For putting everyone else first—even when it chipped away at your own voice.
Maybe it was when you raised your hand too eagerly in class and someone rolled their eyes. Too much.
When your confidence was called “bossy.” Too forward.
When your joy made someone uncomfortable. Too loud.
When you stood your ground and were told to “just let it go.” Too difficult.
You didn’t choose these wounds.
They were handed to you by a world terrified of women who know their worth.
Passed down through generations by mothers who loved you—but only knew how to teach survival, not thriving.
And so you learned the art of becoming less:
To pad your opinions with “just” and “maybe.”
To apologise before speaking.
To smile when you meant no.
To shrink to fit into spaces never meant to hold all of you.
You mastered the dance of being agreeable. Of being digestible. Of being easy to love—as long as you didn’t take up too much room.
Until now.
That ache in your chest? That fire behind your ribs? That flicker of rage and grief when you imagine your daughter shrinking the way you did?
That’s not weakness.
That’s power.
That’s your full self pounding on the walls you built around her.
That’s your soul saying:
“Enough.”
And that voice is not selfish.
It’s sacred.
It’s your truth, and it’s always been there—waiting for you to listen.
You don’t have to wait until you’ve earned it.
Until you’ve done more. Lost weight. Got the promotion. Healed every wound.
You get to rise now.
You get to say:
“This is who I am becoming,”
…and let your life rise to meet her.
You are allowed to:
Be powerful and kind
Rest without guilt
Want more—and receive it
Speak in your full voice
Lead from your wholeness—not your perfection
And if you’re raising children, especially sons?
You want your son to honour strong women—not fear them.
To see brilliance and build it up—not tear it down.
To know that love is partnership, not power.
To understand that a woman who stands tall is not a threat—she’s an equal.
Let him witness you in your fullness.
Let your healing become his re-education.
You are the pattern-breaker.
The permission-giver.
The cycle-ender.
The line in the sand.
This ends with you.
And something so much brighter begins with you too.
You wouldn’t teach your daughter to dim her light.
You wouldn’t raise your son to fear a woman’s power.
So stop doing it to yourself.
The world is starving for women who rise.
Let them see you.
Let her see you.
Let the little girl inside you finally exhale.
Your healing becomes her inheritance.
Your courage becomes her starting line.
Your self-respect becomes her birthright.
Now is the time.
Rise.