Adena M'lynn's Voice

Before she even understands her anatomy, she  understands its power. Not as freedom—but as leverage. From an early age, many girls are taught that their bodies are not truly theirs. Long before they can name their parts, they know how the world reacts to them. Not with reverence—but with entitlement. With evaluation. With control. She learns that her body can be a tool. A trade. A weapon. A game. She picks it up subtly at first—in how grown men look too long, in how adults scold her for being “too grown” rather than asking why someone was looking. She notices how beauty is praised, while boundary-setting is labeled rude. She learns that a soft voice gets her further than a strong one, and that modesty i sn’t about dignity—it’s about safety. She watches as the women around her navigate the same system. Some play the game well, using their looks to gain access, affection, or approval. Others lose for refusing to play at all. The lesson sticks, her worth will be measured not by who sh...

by Adena M’lynn Life is nothing more than strings of moments threaded like popcorn on a Christmas tree— fragile, uneven, handmade. Some pieces are sweet, coated in sugar like laughter shared under July stars. Others are burnt, bitter— words we wish we hadn’t said but still string up anyway. We pass each other like hands threading the next kernel, not knowing if we’re adding to something beautiful or just trying to keep the thread from breaking. People come and go— but like ornaments packed away each year, some return with new cracks, different colors, the same name. And still, the garland grows. Changing, but never really changing. Memory is sticky like sap— you can’t touch someone without carrying a piece of them with you. Love is the space between the knots, grief is the popcorn that falls off unnoticed, and forgiveness is tying the thread again even when your fingers shake. We hang each year like it’s the last, hoping the lights still work, knowing some bulbs have burned out, but tr...