Why the High Priestess Fell for the Wounded One: A Soul Letter to the Women Who Love Too Deep

Why the High Priestess Fell for the Wounded One: A Soul Letter to the Women Who Love Too Deep

To the woman who was born with fire in her blood and stars in her womb,

To the one who has always felt too much, known too much, dreamed too wild—This is not just a story. This is your initiation.

You were not wrong to love him. You were not broken for believing you could hold him through his shadows. You were simply raised in a world that never saw your magic, So you searched for someone whose ache mirrored yours.

You are the ancient one. The bone-deep priestess in a modern world that forgot the sacred. Your heart beats in the rhythm of the Great Mother. Your soul holds codes no man ever taught you, no school ever offered. You remember.

But when that remembering wasn’t held by your family, your culture, or your lineage...You began to believe that your softness was weakness. That your intuition was fantasy. That your power was a burden that needed to prove itself to be real.

So you looked for the hardest mirror. You found the most wounded man in the room—The avoidant lover, the boy with chaos in his eyes and sorrow in his bones, The man who didn’t choose himself—how could he choose you?

And still, your soul whispered: “If I can reach him, I am worthy.” “If I can heal him, I matter.” “If I am the chalice through which his healing pours… then I’ll finally be enough.”

This is the illusion, beloved. This is where the sacred feminine was tricked into sacrifice.

Because when the world doesn’t validate your brilliance, You start to think your divinity must be earned. And what more noble test than loving the unlovable? Reaching the unreachable? Healing the one no one else could?

But my love… you were never meant to bleed yourself dry. To become holy in someone else's darkness.

You didn’t want love. You wanted to be believed. You wanted someone to look at you and say: “I see your magic. I know you’re real. I honor your power.”

So you gave.

You gave beyond reason.

You gave past your own boundaries, past your own lifeforce.

You became the balm. The bandage. The fire keeper. The priestess of his broken temple. And every time he left, collapsed, or disappeared into his own pain—You didn’t blame him. You blamed you.

You told yourself your magic had failed. That maybe your intuition was wrong. That your softness wasn’t strong enough. That you weren't enough.

But here is the holy truth, my darling:

Your magic never failed.

Your medicine was never the problem. Your soul is intact. Your power is whole. And you were never meant to prove yourself by dying in someone else’s storm.

You are not more holy because you suffer. You are not more divine because you save him. You are not more valuable because you sacrifice.

You are sacred when you are soft. You are powerful when you are well. You are radiant when you are safe.

The man who meets you in your full power will not ask you to prove your worth. He will not hand you his wounds and disappear.

He will meet you—whole to whole, truth to truth, soul to soul.

Because, goddess, you were not born to be a nursemaid to wounded kings.

You are the Queen of Storms, the Oracle of Fire, the Living Altar of Love.

You were born to dance in your wholeness. To love from overflow, not depletion.

To remember that your magic is not performance—it is presence.

Lilith rises in every woman who chooses herself. Who says no more to performing for crumbs. Who walks away from men who cannot see the temple that she is.

So return to yourself now, sister. Return to the wild. Let your softness be your strength. Let your grief be alchemized. Let your womb remember the holy truth:

You were never meant to earn love.

You are love.

And the one who is worthy of you—he will not need saving. He will walk beside you as an equal. And you will rise together, gods reborn.

It is time to revive the magic woman. It is time to let her take her throne.

And you, my love, were never too much.

You were just too sacred for a world that forgot.

But not anymore.

Because you remember now.

And your remembering is the revolution.