The floorboards creak beneath me as I pace our living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Another day of pretending to be just another soccer mom when every fiber of my being aches to stretch, to grow, to feel the rush of becoming something magnificent and untamed.
I catch my reflection in the window - ordinary Helen in her ordinary clothes - but underneath, my body hums with potential. The kids are at school, Bob’s at work, and here I am, suffocating in this picture-perfect prison of normalcy. My fingers trace along the wall, imagining how small this house would look if I let myself expand, how the ceiling would barely reach my waist.
The secret burns inside me like molten honey. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to share this with someone who could understand the intoxicating weight of hidden power, someone who wouldn’t run when they saw what I’m truly capable of becoming.