Great Mother,

I come to you with hands that have forgotten how to receive. With a heart that learned, so long ago, that needing was dangerous. That being soft made me weak. That wanting left me disappointed. That the only safety was in handling everything myself.

I have been so strong, Great Mother. So capable. So independent. But underneath this armor, I am tired. Tired of carrying everything alone. Tired of the fortress I built to keep me safe... that now keeps me separate.

And Great Mother, there is a loneliness I carry. A longing to feel close. Of wanting so badly to be truly known. To have someone strong enough, trustworthy enough, to hold me.

But here is what I'm learning: I keep myself behind walls. Hidden in the shadows of my own making. Because beneath the armor lives an ancient fear—the terror of being truly seen.

Great Mother, help me see what my fear has hidden from me. Help me see that when I look at the people in my life and think "they cannot handle all of me"... Maybe what's more true is: "I cannot handle needing them."

Help me see that intimacy with others begins with intimacy with myself. That I cannot let them see what I refuse to see in myself. That learning to be with my own tenderness, my own need, my own longing... This is how I learn to trust.

I've been waiting for them to prove they can hold me. Waiting for it to feel safe enough to open.

But remind me that my armor is what makes it impossible for anyone to reach me. That I've been so defended that even when they try, I can't feel it.

Help me remember that my armor was wise once. I was a little girl who had to become tough. Self-reliant. Guarded. Because I had to survive.

But Great Mother, please remind me that I am not that little girl anymore. That I am a woman. A woman strong enough to hold myself when others can't hold me perfectly.

Give me eyes to see the people around me clearly, Great Mother. Not through the lens of old wounds, but as they actually are. Longing for closeness with me. Reaching toward me through the walls. Waiting—maybe they've been waiting all along—for me to let them in.

Because they cannot meet me where I won't let them find me.

Teach me, Great Mother, that surrender is safe now. That it's safe to receive. That I am finally strong enough to lower my guard. To soften my armor. My strength is what makes it possible to reveal my tenderness.

Remind me that connection doesn't happen in safety—it happens in risk. That I have been waiting for certainty when what I actually need is courage.

And Great Mother, please grant me the courage to trust again. To trust myself enough to be vulnerable first. To risk being seen—really seen—before I know for certain they can handle it.

Help me expand my definition of being held, being seen, being loved... To include more possibilities than the perfect image I've been holding.

Remind me that I am strong enough to trust. That I am safe. That I am capable of protecting myself. That I have the power to choose.

And to that little girl inside me, the one who built this fortress... I see you. I know you're scared. I know you learned that needing people wasn't safe. But sweetheart, we're not alone anymore.

I am here now. I will not leave you. I'm strong enough to protect us—even as we open. We can do this together. You and me. We don't have to be so guarded anymore.

So help me practice, Great Mother. Help me show them who I really am, instead of waiting for them to prove they can handle it. Help me let the tears flow instead of cutting them off. Help me allow someone to reach out and touch my hand, even if it feels like too much. Help me receive the hug and soften into it. Help me tell the truth when someone asks "how are you?"

Remind me, Great Mother, that I am not too much. That my needs are not a burden. That my vulnerability is safe to share and a bridge to closeness.

Great Mother, soften me. Not into someone weak or dependent. But into someone who can be both strong AND soft. Both capable AND connected. Both self-reliant AND able to receive from others.

Great Mother, please walk by my side as I practice opening, just a little. Melting my armor, just a bit. Taking risks to share my heart. To let others in. To be seen in my depths.

And if it feels too scary, Great Mother, remind me: I am held. I have always been held—by you, by the universe, by love itself.

And I am no longer powerless. I can hold myself. I am strong enough for softness.

Great Mother, thank you for seeing me. For holding me, even in my resistance. For loving me back into my own tenderness.

I am learning to receive. Beginning with this moment. With your love. With my own.

And so it is.

Start your journey here…

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What part of this prayer spoke directly to your heart? I'd love to know what landed for you? Share in the comments below.