The Medicine for the Fawn

You learned to survive through softness.
Not the softness that comes from ease—but the kind forged in fire. You became watchful, kind, accommodating. You sensed shifts in tone before they turned to storms. You read faces like weather. You bent yourself into versions that might be loved.

This was not weakness. This was adaptation. This was brilliance.

And now... you are safe enough to unlearn it.

The medicine for the fawn is reclamation. Not through aggression, but through truth. Through slow, sacred remembering.

You remember that “No” is not a betrayal. You remember that your needs do not make you less lovable. You remember that you were never meant to vanish to be held.

The medicine is boundaries that bless, not walls that punish. The medicine is learning to ask, even when your voice shakes. The medicine is holding your own gaze in the mirror and saying:

“I am allowed to be real.”

You were never meant to be everyone’s safe space. You are allowed to take up space.

And when the fawn in you trembles, unsure if love will last… You breathe. You stay. You root deeper.

You are learning how to belong to yourself.