Adena M'lynn's Voice

“Petals and Thorns” By Adena M’lynn  Speak— but do so like walking through roses. Let your words be petals— soft, intentional, fragrant with truth and tremble. But don’t ignore the thorns. See them. Name them. They are sharp with history, barbed with shame, ready to bleed anyone who dares brush too close without armor. Still— we speak. We reach into the bramble and carve a path not just for ourselves but for the ones who come next. We don’t pretend the way is painless. We simply make it possible. So say it. Say it like a lantern in the dark, like petals laid over broken glass— a softness that says, You’re not alone. You can speak here too. Because healing is not the absence of thorns, but the courage to bloom anyway— and make the path clearer, safer, truer for the ones still waiting to find their voice in the garden.

by Adena M’lynn She used to dream in pink and pirouettes— a swirl of sugar plum fairies spinning across hardwood floors, slippers soft as lullabies, tutus blooming like springtime in her chest. Each night, she whispered wishes into the seams of her pillow, braiding tomorrow with glitter and the promise of an “attagirl”! But no one told her that monsters don’t always live under beds— sometimes they live down the hall, smell like beer and betrayal, and wear the face of someone who says “I love you” without meaning it. She danced anyway, even when the music got swallowed by screams, even when the lights flickered like the truth no one would name. She learned how to bend before she learned how to break— flexible like forgiveness she never owed. The sugar plum fairies stopped coming. Replaced by silence, and a body that never felt like home again. A stage turned into a cell, a costume into a mask she wore just to survive. Now she doesn’t dream in pink— she dreams in warning signs, locks on ...

Prison, for all its harshness, became a kind of refuge—a sacred ground born from shared suffering. Behind the walls, among the clamor and control, lived a quiet truth: most of the women there were not just inmates, but survivors—survivors of some of the worst atrocities. Nearly 85% carried the scars of violence, much of it rooted in childhood, etched deep into bone and memory. Shame ran through them like blood—unspoken, but ever-present. And yet, in that broken place, something unexpected emerged: sisterhood. A space where tenderness was rare but deeply craved. Where being seen—truly seen—and heard without judgment became its own kind of healing. Prison isn’t just steel and concrete. It’s a suspended world where time slows and pain echoes. Every mistake becomes a splinter driven deeper under the nail. And your name—your past—follows you like a shadow so heavy, few dare to reach for you. But within that shadow, there are women who hold one another up. And somehow, that makes even the da...