On Becoming Before Being Seen

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings, and you, my gentle Stillwater Petticoat Society,

Pray sit with me a moment, for I have been thinking upon numbers — those curious little digits that flutter about the modern world like moths at a lantern — and how easily a woman might mistake their glow for warmth.

There was a season, a good while ago, in a former chapter of my life, when I observed the grand parade of Instagram with a wondering heart, seeing certain ladies garlanded in adoration, their photographs strewn with hearts and exclamations as though they had been crowned in laurel before a Roman crowd, and I, in quieter corners, felt the tremor of comparison tap politely upon my shoulder. Yet Providence, in her most instructive kindness, allowed me an experience so singular that it altered my sight altogether.

You know that I was once invited into the drawing rooms of a most notable production, interviewed not once but thrice, and placed before a board of executives who regarded me with steady eyes and measured speech; one gracious woman, with composure befitting her station, told me repeatedly that I was, in her estimation, “a superstar,” and she spoke it not with frenzy but with certainty, as though remarking upon the colour of the sky. At that time, my Instagram following was scarcely two hundred souls, and yet there I stood, considered, evaluated, and chosen — not because a crowd had applauded me, but because I had already become, within my own heart, the woman who belonged in such rooms.

It was then I perceived something of great consequence; visibility is not born of numbers; it is born of identity.

The opportunity itself proved lucrative and instructive, and though the show did not continue in the manner first imagined, it did not fail; it revealed. When the glitter quieted, and the announcement no longer danced upon feeds, several acquaintances slipped away as autumn leaves detach from a branch, and I saw, with a clarity that felt almost bracing, who had loved the ascent more than the woman ascending. It was a gentle sorrow, yet also a gift, for one cannot build a village of beauty upon the shifting sands of borrowed enthusiasm.

In those days, I learned two truths that now rest peacefully in my keeping. The first is that manifestation is no frivolous enchantment, no airy “woohoo” whispered beneath a crescent moon, but rather the sober art of becoming; when one so thoroughly inhabits a belief — when one dresses, speaks, labours, and thinks from that conviction — the world rearranges its chairs accordingly. I did not conjure a reality show with smoke and incantation; I aligned my life so wholly with story, heritage, and cottage-laced charm that those who dealt in stories recognised me as their own. Identity first, reflection after.

The second truth is this: Instagram may applaud you, yet it cannot complete you.

Numbers may rise like a tide and recede with equal swiftness, and if one’s sense of worth floats upon that tide, she will forever be at the mercy of the weather. To seek visibility as proof of value is to place one’s heart in a hall of mirrors, where every glance asks, “Am I enough now?” and never quite receives an answer. The app is not wicked, nor are followers foolish; it is merely a lantern, and lanterns are meant to illuminate what already exists, not to fabricate substance where there is none.

When I look now upon those accounts adorned with admiration, I feel neither envy nor hunger, but a curious tenderness; for I know that free parcels and flurries of praise are pleasant trifles, yet they are not the marrow of a life. A woman must be rooted more deeply than applause, or she will find herself performing for crumbs of affirmation whilst her truest work waits patiently in the wings.

If you believe in manifesting, believe it in this mature and measured way; become the woman, and the stage will find you; cultivate the garden, and the bees will come of their own accord; steady your nervous system in the knowledge of who you are, and the world’s recognition will be a by-product, not a necessity. What is sought from insecurity can never satisfy, but what grows from wholeness bears fruit in due season.

I remain, in my own quiet breast, entirely content to know that I am capable of grand rooms and candlelit corners alike, and if the world should choose to look upon me, let it be because I have built something worthy of being seen, not because I have pleaded for its gaze. And if ever the numbers falter or the algorithms grow temperamental, I shall still be here, stitching, writing, restoring, and loving the life before me — for that, my darlings, is where true fulfilment resides.

Take Joy, and do not surrender your worth to a tally.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, LR 

A Quiet Word on Manuscripts

My dearest mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There is a most curious and comforting steadiness that settles upon the heart when a story is first entrusted to ink rather than summoned upon a glowing screen. I have long held the habit of beginning each manuscript by hand, as though I were coaxing a shy creature from the reeds. The gentle drag of pen upon paper bids the mind to slow its gallop and take a measured walk instead, and in that softened pace the tale reveals itself with far greater honesty. Ink requires patience; it does not tolerate haste, nor does it flatter distraction. It asks only that one sit, breathe, and listen.

When I write in this manner, I feel as though I am in quiet company with those women of former days who composed their letters and novels by lamplight, trusting the rhythm of their own pulse more than the ticking of the clock. The story is not forced forward; it unfolds, stitch by stitch, like a length of silk drawn steadily through waiting fabric. And thus it is protected — not from labour, but from hurry.

Below, I have opened the door of my little writing room a trifle wider and spoken more fully of this practise — for those among you who delight not only in the finished book, but in the tender rhythm that lives beyond the pages.

May you find there a cadence to accompany your own.

On Loving Instagram Without Losing Oneself

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society, 

Pray, draw your chair nearer, for I wish to speak of something exceedingly modern and yet most ancient in its temptation — the little glowing screen that rests so innocently in our palms and yet can stir the most curious tides within a woman’s heart.

You know well that I have no desire to flee from the world in dramatic renunciation, nor to cast my Instagram into the sea as though it were some malevolent talisman, for I confess quite plainly that I love it — I love the quiet gallery of beautiful homes, the gentle exchange of thought, the correspondence between kindred spirits across oceans and hedgerows — and yet I began to observe, with the sober clarity of a woman no longer content to be ruled by habit, that there were moments when curiosity was not truly curiosity at all, but a subtle leaning outward to measure myself against another’s lantern.

It was not envy in its loud and unbecoming form, nor was it bitterness, but rather a small internal tremor — a tightening so slight one could easily ignore it — and I realised, with the tenderness one reserves for self-examination, that deleting the app would not mend that tremor, for if a lady has not tended the garden within, the weeds shall sprout elsewhere, whether in a parish hall, a marketplace, or the drawing room of comparison; thus I resolved not to retreat, but to remain, and to learn the far more delicate art of setting the phone down when my spirit whispered, “Enough.”

There is a most curious power in that gesture — the quiet placing of the device upon the table and the turning instead to one’s own life — to a teacup that requires washing, to a book half-read, to a husband waiting in the lamplit hush of evening — for in that turning I felt not deprived, but steadied, as though some invisible thread had been gathered back into my own keeping, and I perceived that regulation is not the stern refusal of pleasure, but the gracious choosing of peace over restless scanning.

How easy it is, in this age of perpetual unveiling and hurried transformation, to believe that one must either withdraw entirely or surrender wholly, yet I have discovered a middle path — to love the gallery without bowing to it, to admire another’s tapestry without unravelling one’s own, to open the app with intention and close it without agitation — and this, my loves, feels less like conquest and more like integration, as though the sea within me has grown calm enough that passing ships no longer dictate its tide.

I do not write this as counsel from a lofty tower, but as confession from a woman who has known the subtle exhaustion of comparison and has chosen, day by day, to return to her own hearth, and if you, too, have felt that faint stirring when another’s life seems polished and swift and endlessly renewed, may you remember that your task is not to vanish nor to compete, but to remain — to inhabit your own rooms so fully that no curated corridor can persuade you to abandon them.

For when I set the phone down and turned toward my own small, ordinary miracles, I felt steadier, and steadiness, I am persuaded, is a far more exquisite adornment than endless novelty; it is the jewel that does not glitter ostentatiously, but glows with quiet assurance, and in that glow I find myself loved without condition, anchored without striving, and content to be precisely where I stand.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, 

Lady Raquel 

Unentangled: A Letter to the Woman Who Chose Peace

Stillwater, where peace does not argue. 

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

Permit me to draw my chair a little closer to yours, to smooth my skirts beside the hearth, and to speak in that low and tender tone one reserves for a beloved friend who has known both the frost of exclusion and the warmth of her own becoming, for there is a peculiar sorrow — and an even more peculiar strength — that arises when a woman begins to awaken into her own soul and finds, to her astonishment, that not all will rejoice in her rising; indeed, some will call her strange, others misguided, and a few, in their tremor of certainty, may even whisper that she has wandered into shadow, when in truth she has only wandered inward.

It is a curious thing, is it not, that the moment a lady ceases to ask permission to exist in her own spiritual skin, she is suddenly informed by anxious sentinels that she has stepped beyond the pale, as though the garden of God were bordered by their particular fence and patrolled by their own trembling convictions; yet I have observed, with the calm of one who has weathered many a squall, that those who cry “danger” most loudly are often fortifying the ramparts of their own fear, for when one’s faith is fused not to love but to alarm, every differing bloom appears a weed, and every sovereign woman a threat to the carefully tended order of things.

You must understand, my loves, that when you no longer quake beneath the opinions of others, when accusations fall upon your doorstep like leaves that cannot enter unless you open the door, there arises within you a most delightful lightness, a sensation as though you have at last set down a heavy trunk you had been carrying since girlhood, and in its place you discover something far sturdier than defiance — you discover steadiness; not the rigidity of stone, but the rooted grace of an old oak whose branches may sway yet whose heartwood does not splinter at every passing gust.

There was a season — and perhaps you know it well — when being misunderstood felt like annihilation, when family alienation stung like salt upon an open wound, when spiritual accusation threatened to unhouse your very sense of belonging, and yet, instead of shrinking into compliance or sharpening yourself into perpetual defence, you chose — sometimes trembling, sometimes resolute — to heal, to regulate, to return again and again to your own centre until disagreement no longer signified danger and judgement no longer dictated your worth; this, my darling, is not arrogance, nor rebellion, nor some theatrical emancipation, but the quiet consolidation of the soul.

You will notice, as your spine grows straight and your breath grows even, that many still live upon the battlements of defence, interpreting every differing thought as invasion and every unconventional woman as a herald of doom, and though it may at first tempt you toward a subtle superiority — that faint and fleeting whisper that you have grown while they have not — I entreat you to smile gently at such a flicker, for it is merely the echo of the part of you that worked so very hard to survive, and it dissolves most sweetly when met with compassion rather than censure.

True maturity, I have found, is not the absence of ego but the refusal to enthrone it, not the impulse to correct the world but the willingness to let others be precisely where they are upon their own arc, for when you can delete what disturbs you, close the door without slamming it, and whisper sincerely, “May you find peace,” you have already stepped beyond the battlefield; you are no longer interested in proving, persuading, or performing righteousness, but in tending your own lamp and keeping its flame steady for those who wander in need of warmth.

And oh, what a revelation it is to discover that the most potent form of strength is not loudness but lightness, not reaction but rootedness, not conquest but authorship, for when you cease to build your identity in opposition to others and instead fashion it from the silken threads of your own lived truth, you become psychologically expensive — unbaitable, unshameable, uncoerced — and in troubled times it is to such women that others instinctively gravitate, not because they shout the loudest, but because they remain the calmest harbour in a season of restless seas.

So if you, my sweet mermaid, have been called peculiar, misguided, or even wicked for daring to inhabit your own spiritual sovereignty, take heart, for your task is not to wrestle shadows nor to patrol the beliefs of those who fear you, but to remain soft and boundaried, open-hearted and discerning, wishing others well without surrendering your ground, and continuing, with the serene confidence of a lady who knows her lineage, to build a life so anchored in truth that even accusation cannot rearrange it.

I write this not as one who has never felt the chill of exclusion, but as one who has flourished despite it, who has learned that being unentangled is far more powerful than being victorious, and who would far rather be rooted and luminous than universally approved, and if ever you doubt your steadiness, remember that the oak does not argue with the wind, nor does the sea apologise for its tide — it simply remains itself, vast and faithful, and in so doing becomes a refuge for all who are weary.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, LR

On Self-Authorship and the Quiet Injury of Unnamed Things

From the Stillwater Days

My dearest Mermaid Darlings and beloved members of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There comes, often without herald or ceremony and at a moment far quieter than one might expect, a realisation that settles gently yet irrevocably upon a woman’s spirit, wherein she understands that she must at last take the pen back into her own hand, not for the purpose of contesting another’s version of events, nor to plead her case before a fickle and ever-attentive world, but merely to stand within the truth she herself has lived and to write from that ground alone, free of borrowed ornament, softened omission, or the restless desire for witnesses to affirm what her own conscience already knows.

I have been much occupied of late with thoughts of self-authorship, with that sober and inwardly luminous labour of remaining faithful to one’s experience even as more palatable narratives pass easily from mouth to mouth, and with the peculiar ache that sometimes attends this faithfulness — an ache not born of loss alone, but of discrepancy, of observing words employed too lightly and lives recounted with a gentleness they did not earn, until something within the spirit recoils, not in envy nor bitterness, but in allegiance to truth itself, which resents being made decorative.

For those who have truly begun again, without inheritance to soften the descent, without unseen scaffolding erected beyond the public frame, without the luxury of stepping neatly into a next chapter already prepared, beginning anew is neither a metaphor nor a literary convenience, but a lived winter crossed with bare feet and steady resolve, a home rebuilt plank by plank, a life re-entered without applause or reassurance, and it is this unspoken weight, borne quietly in the bones, that sharpens one’s awareness when tales of ruin are told without rubble and reinvention is praised without the reckoning that ordinarily attends it.

I do not set these reflections down in a spirit of accusation, nor with any desire to convene a tribunal of judgment, for the world is already overburdened with courts of opinion and verdicts rendered with undue haste, but rather to remind myself — and you, my dearest companions — that no telling, however polished or warmly received, possesses the power to diminish the truth you have lived, nor does your authority require correction of the record, comparison of paths, or the eventual unraveling of another’s carefully sustained illusion in order to be made secure.

There is, I have found, a particular freedom in laying aside the longing for visible vindication, a freedom that neither demands forgiveness upon command nor insists that justice arrive upon a public timetable, but instead releases the quiet hope that another woman’s life must be exposed, corrected, or undone for one’s own story to make sense, for self-authorship asks only that you refuse to abandon your knowing in exchange for peace with appearances, and that you remain seated within your truth even when it is less adorned and more costly than those that travel easily.

Some stories must be believed loudly in order to be endured at all, while others are endured so deeply that repetition becomes unnecessary, and if you find yourself among the latter — those who have lived without spectacle, rebuilt without illusion, and carried on without the comfort of collective applause — you may rest in the knowledge that you need neither to correct the record, sharpen your voice for hearing, nor measure your path against another’s polish, for your authority resides not in what you proclaim, but in what you have survived without ever consenting to lie to yourself.

Let us then continue, quietly and steadfastly, to write our lives as they are — salt-stained, hand-stitched, and honest — leaving ornamental narratives to those who require them for shelter, trusting that the sea, which knows the weight of true crossings, recognises the difference at once, and that in time, so too, shall we.

Most affably yours til' my next enchanting swim, LR

On Woven Boundaries

The first wattle fence I ever made. 

On Woven Boundaries

{A letter left upon the kitchen table}

My dear mermaid darlings, and you tender souls of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I was thinking this morning of the first wattle fence I ever made, and how I did not so much decide upon it as simply find myself weaving, branches gathered in my arms and laid where the earth itself seemed to suggest a line, flowers placed not for show but as quiet markers of care, and Oliver hopping freely about the whole affair, quite unconcerned with whether anything sensible was being accomplished, which in truth felt rather perfect, for there was no urgency then, no need to name the work, only the gentle pleasure of hands moving and something slowly taking shape.

That was nearly a decade ago now, long before I had words for what these small acts were teaching me, and long before I understood how in England the winter months have always belonged to hedgelaying, that old and patient craft of renewing boundaries not by cutting them away but by bending and weaving living growth so that it may continue, a way of tending that protects without hardening and shelters without closing the world out.

A wattle fence carries the same quiet knowing, never pretending permanence, never demanding authority, simply saying — here is where something is being cared for — and that first fence held flowers and soil and a small creature moving exactly as he pleased, doing its work without explanation, without performance, without the slightest concern for whether it would be noticed.

As the years have passed and my own life has softened into clearer shape, I have come to see how much these woven things mirror the seasons we move through as women, how there are times when we grow outward with enthusiasm and other times when the truer work is returning to strengthen what already stands, not beginning anew but tending gently, choosing boundaries that breathe rather than walls that brace.

Hedgelaying season feels like that to me now, a season for mending rather than striving, for shaping without severing, for remembering that the most enduring structures are made slowly and by hand, with enough kindness to allow life to move through them, and I find I have always preferred fences you can see through, boundaries that are firm yet gracious, and ways of living that do not require explanation to be true.

So I continue to weave as I always have, trusting that what is made with care will hold, that what needs passing through will do so naturally, and that a life well tended, like a hedge well laid, knows exactly how to stand without becoming unkind.

With love, and twigs still upon my sleeves,

— Lady Raquel 

I share small daily moments and seasonal reflections over on Instagram, for those who enjoy such things.

A Letter on Quiet Lives and Loud Expectations

Dear mermaid darlings and the lovely Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I have been noticing something of late, and I wonder if you have felt it too.

At times, as I wander through these so-called slow living and old-fashioned spaces — the linen aprons, the sourdough loaves, the rows of industrious little hands — my chest tightens rather than softens. Instead of calm, I feel a faint unease, like a breeze that carries the memory of a storm long past.

These women are always doing.  

Cooking from scratch, teaching their children, tending homes and gardens, building dream houses plank by plank, posting daily, filming constantly, offering themselves endlessly. There is scarcely a moment when the hands are not busy, the mind not occupied, the body not required.

They call it devotion.  

They call it purpose.  

They call it a beautiful life.

Yet what I see — and what my body remembers — is something altogether different.

I see exhaustion worn like a badge of honour.  

Dark circles framed as virtue.  

Rest postponed, justified, or quietly denied.  

A life where stillness must be earned, and silence feels suspicious.

I know this life.  

I lived it once.

And it nearly cost me everything.

When I was younger, I carried a home, children, responsibility, faith, and expectation upon my back without pause or mercy. There was always one more thing to do, one more soul to tend, one more measure of goodness to prove. I did not know how to stop — nor was I ever given permission to do so.

The world praised my strength while my spirit quietly disappeared.

So now, when I see these images — no matter how charming the crockery or golden the light — my nervous system stirs. It is not judgment. It is recognition. The body does not forget what survival felt like.

What troubles me most is not the work itself, but how exhaustion is sanctified. How suffering is reframed as calling. How a woman’s worth becomes entangled with her usefulness, her output, her endurance.

This is not slowness.  

This is labour dressed in lace.

Authentic slow living — the kind that heals rather than hollows — leaves room for margins, for unseen days, for afternoons that accomplish nothing at all. It allows creativity to arise from rest, not pressure. It honours the woman herself, not just the life she produces.

These days, I choose a quieter rhythm. A gentler authority. A life that does not require constant evidence of its value. I no longer confuse depletion with devotion, nor busyness with meaning.

And if you feel that same tightening — that subtle tremor in your chest when you scroll — please know this: there is nothing wrong with you.

Your body may simply be remembering a life it survived.  

And it may be lovingly reminding you that you are no longer required to live there.

We are allowed to build beautiful lives without breaking ourselves upon them.

A Small Blessing for the Woman Who Is Learning to Rest

May you never again mistake exhaustion for holiness,  nor believe that a life must be heavy to be worthy.

May your days contain pauses that require no explanation, and rest that arrives without guilt or apology.

May your hands learn that they are allowed to be still, and your heart remember that it is not measured by what it produces.

May you choose beauty that soothes rather than strains, and rhythms that leave room for breath, wonder, and quiet joy.

And when the world grows loud with its expectations, may you feel no obligation to answer.

You are already enough.  

The tide does not hurry, and neither must you.

With affection,  

R.

From the Stillwater Days

—reflections for women who are no longer willing to prove their worth through exhaustion.

Candlemas at Stillwater: A Gathering of Light

My dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

February has arrived at our dear threshold, and she comes as she always does—cool of breath, silvered with damp, and wrapped in a soft grey shawl. There are mornings when it feels as though the whole world has drawn its curtains and settled into a long, thoughtful slumber, quite forgetting its promise to wake again as spring. Yet February is a brief visitor, and her days are short besides. When the sun deigns to show her face, we step outdoors with glad hearts, strolling slowly and watching our shadows trail after us like old friends who refuse to be left behind. One cannot help but wonder—how many weeks more of winter must we yet endure?

I, for one, remain incurably hopeful. I cannot pass the garden beds without spying what I call February’s fair maids—those brave little snowdrops pressing their pale bonnets through the frozen earth, whispering that spring is already on her way, however quietly she may tread. With the great holidays now folded neatly away, the young souls of our household grow bright-eyed again, keen for fresh diversions and gentle merriments.

And so February, dear month that she is, offers us her own small treasures: evenings by the fireside, wax and wick for candle-dipping, bowls and spoons for the making of comforting sweets, paper and ribbon for valentine missives made by hand and heart alike. These are the simple joys that bind us, stitch by stitch, into warmth and belonging.

Come then, my loves—draw nearer. Let us pass this month together in candlelight and quiet laughter, trusting the tide, knowing full well that spring never truly forgets us.

There is a quiet turning point in the heart of winter that I have honoured for many years now—long before the children grew tall and the house grew quieter. On the second day of February, Candlemas Day, winter seems to pause, draw a thoughtful breath, and consider whether it shall linger or begin its slow retreat.

When my children were little, this day carried a special hush. Candlemas marked the true closing of Christmastide, and together we gathered away the last ribbons and evergreens, setting the house to rights while the light outside still fell early and soft. Winter remained, yes—but it no longer felt endless. Candlelight made it companionable.

Midway through the season, I would take stock of our candles, counting them carefully, knowing how faithfully they served us through the darker weeks. A candle was never merely wax and wick—it was reassurance. Light for an early morning, warmth for a quiet evening, comfort for small hands and sleepy eyes. If our supply ran low, Candlemas became an invitation rather than a concern.

An invitation to make more.

The children loved candles, and they delighted even more in the making of them. Candle-dipping became one of our most cherished winter pastimes—simple in its requirements, generous in its rewards. Beeswax warmed and melted, wicks dipped and lifted, cooled and dipped again. Slowly, patiently, almost without notice, a candle took shape. The rhythm soothed us. The repetition steadied us. Beauty arrived not by haste, but by devotion.

What I learned then—and still hold dear—is that candle-making is never meant to be solitary. It draws people together. Hands pass tools, voices soften, laughter finds its place. By the time the finished tapers appear, the real work has already been done: time has been shared, warmth has been made.

Now, years later, I carry this tradition forward in a new way.

I still observe Candlemas faithfully, but now the circle has widened. Friends gather. Kindred spirits come near. At small social gatherings and seasonal evenings, I invite others into this same gentle practice—candles dipped by many hands, stories exchanged, winter sweetened by light. The house glows. Conversation slows. The season loosens its grip.

We light candles throughout the rooms, often setting them before mirrors so their glow multiplies and wanders. We dine by candlelight, speak softly, and remember what it felt like to live by flame alone. And always, I keep one favourite custom close to my heart: each guest chooses a single candle. When it burns down, the evening draws gently to its close—no abrupt ending, only a natural resting.

Candlemas has followed me through motherhood and into this season of gathering. It has grown with me, just as traditions ought to do. What once held a household now holds a community.

And one day—when the right doors open and the right place receives us—I know this gathering will find its proper home. Until then, the light is already practised, already alive, already waiting.

With waxed fingers and a steady flame,

Lady Raquel 

From the Stillwater Days

My dearest Mermaid Darlings,

This day asks for softness, and I answer it gladly. The cold rests firmly beyond the windows, while within, the low murmur of soothed sheep and distant nature sounds fill the cool air, as though the countryside has drawn nearer for company. And so I remain indoors, tending the quieter labours that keep a home in good spirits.

I write behind the scenes and put small things gently in order — work that does not announce itself, yet leaves the rooms calmer for its presence. I refresh the bedroom as one might smooth a well-loved petticoat, not for show, but for comfort. Gardenia candles scent the rooms, their sweetness lingering like a fond memory.

My knee, ever the honest companion, asks for a slower pace, and I listen. There is grace in yielding to such counsel. Bread rises upon the counter, patient and warm, and the kitchen answers with that familiar fragrance which feels like reassurance itself. As it bakes, I think of the weekend ahead and set small things in readiness, content in the knowing that preparation is its own quiet joy.

Winter does not rush us, my loves. She invites us to move with care, to keep the light, and to rest without apology.

Is this it? 

Until later,

I remain yours,

in still water and candle glow.

LR

A Letter on Devotion, Weariness, and the Quiet Mercy of Letting Go

My dearest Mermaid Darlings,

and you, my cherished Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I wish to speak today of something tender, and I ask your patience, for this is not a matter that yields to haste.

I have noticed, as perhaps you have too, the many beautiful images that drift across our screens: bread rising, children barefoot in fields, milk poured warm from the pail, homes ordered by prayer and promise. Often, these scenes are accompanied by declarations of devotion — words of service, faith, and holy intention.

There is nothing inherently unlovely in this.

And yet.

There are truths one may only speak after she has lived long enough inside them.

I was raised in religion. First Pentecostal, then Mormon, for many decades of my life. I knew the hymns by heart. I knew the rules by memory. I knew how to perform goodness, obedience, cheerfulness, and sacrifice until my body could no longer distinguish devotion from erasure.

And I say this with care, not accusation; the cost was very high. 

I do not speak of belief itself, but of the weight placed upon women in its name. Of the quiet expectation to endure endlessly. Of the sanctification of exhaustion. Of the way suffering is so often mistaken for virtue.

There were seasons when I smiled and served while something vital inside me slowly disappeared. There were years when the promise of goodness required me to deny my own knowing. There was a time — and I say this plainly, because it matters — when I was suicidal, not because I lacked faith, but because I had been taught to abandon myself in order to keep it.

I know now that many women live this way sincerely. Lovingly. With their whole hearts. I also know that sincerity does not prevent harm.

It is difficult to name this without sounding unkind, and so I will be precise:

I have often found that those who spoke most loudly of love and godliness were, paradoxically, the most severe with other women — and with themselves. Judgment was cloaked as concern. Control dressed itself as care. Cruelty slipped through in the name of righteousness.

This is not a universal truth. It is not a condemnation.

It is an observation born of long intimacy.

And here is where I wish to be especially gentle — with them, and with myself.

I understand now that this, too, is a belief system at work. A structure that promises safety through order. Meaning through sacrifice. Belonging through sameness. When one has given her life to such a system, questioning it can feel like death itself.

So I no longer meet it with anger.

I meet it with distance.

And with compassion.

I am still unlearning the reflex that says holiness must hurt. I am still releasing the belief that goodness requires disappearance. These ideas linger like old songs — softer now, but not entirely gone. A pinch, as one might say. And that is all right.

Healing does not require haste.

What I know, with quiet certainty, is this:
love that requires you to leave yourself is not love.
devotion that demands your silence is not sacred.
and a God who asks for your erasure is not one I recognise anymore.

I now believe in a gentler order. One that allows rest. One that honours discernment. One that permits a woman to belong to herself first.

If you recognise yourself anywhere in these words — if you feel a tightening, or a softening, or a long exhale — know that you are not alone, and you are not wrong for noticing.

There is a way of living that does not require performance.
There is a faith that does not demand exhaustion.
There is a holiness in being alive.
I write this not to persuade, but to make room.

A Benediction for the Tenderhearted

May you be released from the belief that love must wound in order to be real.

May you lay down every burden that was never yours to carry.

May you learn, slowly and without reproach, that rest is not rebellion, and that gentleness is not a failure of faith.

May you trust the quiet knowing in your own body.

May you recognise the voice of goodness when it speaks without fear.

May your life become a sanctuary rather than a proving ground.

And if you are still unlearning — if a pinch of old fear yet lingers — may you treat yourself with the same mercy you so freely offer others.

Go softly.
You are allowed to belong to yourself.

With tenderness and a heart still learning mercy,

Lady Raquel 

On Loving What We Cannot Save

My dear mermaid darlings,

There is a little feral cat who has lived on my land since she was born. She has always been small, constantly unwell in one way or another, invariably just a little behind the others. I had her spayed when I could, I make warm places for her when the cold arrives, I leave food and water each day, and still—she seems to improve only to slip back again.

Lately, she has begun sleeping in one of the beds I made when the temperatures dropped. I noticed her there one morning and felt both relief and sorrow at once. Relief that she had chosen warmth. Sorrow that I could not do more.

I cannot touch her. I cannot carry her inside. I cannot explain to her that I am trying.

And that is the part that aches.

There are moments when care meets a boundary, and no amount of love can push past it. I think many of us know this feeling, though we don’t often speak of it. We are taught, quietly and persistently, that love should fix, heal, rescue, and resolve. When it does not, we assume we have failed.

But I am beginning to understand something different.

Some beings—animal or human—can only receive help up to a certain threshold. Beyond that, they retreat, not out of stubbornness, but out of capacity. Their nervous systems, their bodies, their histories will not allow more. To push past that limit is not kindness. It is control dressed as care.

I have learned that tending does not always lead to recovery. Sometimes it leads only to less suffering. And that, too, matters.

This little cat may never thrive, she may ever be fragile, and she may always remain on the edge of things. Still, her life is gentler than it would have been without warmth, food, shelter, and a quiet regard. That is something real, not nothing.

There is a humility required here, one I am still learning. It is the humility of walking beside rather than carrying, of offering without insisting, of loving without possession. It asks us to loosen our grip on outcomes and attend instead to presence.

I find myself thinking that mercy is not always dramatic. Often it looks like a bed placed out of the wind. A bowl filled again. A watchful eye. A heart that does not turn away simply because it cannot finish the journey for another.

We live in a world that praises saving. We speak far less of accompanying. And yet accompaniment may be the truer kindness.

If I am learning anything through her, it is this: I am allowed to love without being able to save. I am allowed to tend without being in charge of how the story ends. I am allowed to offer care that stops where consent and capacity begin.

That feels important. It feels honest. And, in its own quiet way, it feels complete.

So tonight, I leave the bed where it is. I fill the bowls again. I notice her resting, breathing, warm enough for now. And I let that be sufficient.

Sometimes, love does not carry us all the way across.

Sometimes, it simply walks with us as far as we are able to go.

Most affably yours till my next enchanting swim, LR