A Love Story of Fire, Flow & Fierce Devotion

This blog offers more than story. It is a sacred remembering, a soul-deep transmission of truth, connection and the kind of love that heals from the inside out. 

There are love stories written in books.
There are love stories we read in fairy tales.
Then there are the ones written in the fascia of our body.

The kind that doesn’t sweep you off your feet but brings you back.
Back to the earth.
Back to your breath.
Back into your heart.
Back to the bones of who you really are.

The kind of love that lives in the slow softening of shoulders.
The kind where breath flows easier in the presence of another.
Where your nervous system exhales and says, “Yes… this is safe.”

This is a story of that kind of love.
The kind that doesn’t save you but sees you.
Doesn’t fix you but feels you.
Doesn’t complete you but calls you home to yourself.

I have always been fascinated by the wild woman archetype. The one who remembers her worth not through the validation of others, but through her connection to the earth beneath her feet, the fire in her belly, the yearning in her heart and the truth etched deep in her bones.

Lately, what has been rising through the words I write, the breath I take, and the stories I hear, is that the wild woman is not wild because she is untamed. She is wild because she is fully herself.
She is not a storm to be feared. She is a force to be revered.

Even wild women get weary.
Even queens carry old armour.
Even the strongest of us long for a love that allows us to soften without losing our strength.

I offer this story to you. A story that is infused with archetype and alchemy, devotion and depth.
A story for the woman who remembers...and the man who holds space for her remembering.

I have come to believe that some of the most powerful love stories don’t begin with a cute date or a perfect kiss.
They begin with a remembering.
A quiet awakening in the body.
A knowing in the soul.

The wild woman within me has whispered these truths for years.
She is the part of me who walks barefoot into the unknown, who dances under the moon and listens to the wind.
She is fierce and untamed, compassionate and deeply feeling, and often misunderstood by a world that tells women to be less. To be quieter, easier, smaller.

She cannot be caged any longer.
She has walked through fire.
She has howled in the night.
She has healed herself with saltwater and starlight.

She longs not for rescue, but for resonance.
Not for safety in the form of walls, but in the form of presence.

This is where he enters the story.

Not the prince.
Not the saviour.
But the king.

The one who meets her in her power.
The one who holds space for her rage, her radiance and her rest.
The one who knows that true protection isn’t about control.
It’s about containment. It’s about groundedness.
It’s about a steady hand on the small of her back, whispering, “You are safe to be all of you here.”

This blog is an offering for those who feel this story stirring in their own hearts.
For the women peeling off their armour, piece by piece.
For the men learning how to love in a way that liberates rather than limits.
For the souls seeking partnership that is not possession but sacred reflection and soul-deep connection. For those journeying from armour to sacred union where truth meets tenderness and love becomes liberation.

I offer this story from the wild woman and queen within me to the goddess, the queen, the king, the lover and the healer within each of you.

She was the wild woman.
The queen who remembered.

A queen not because of a crown, but because of the way she rose—again and again—with grace in her gaze and courage in her chest.

Not through words alone, but through windswept walks, floating in the ocean, bare feet on ancient land and whispers from the moon.
She had danced with shadows and sung her own lullabies through the storms.
She had been the flame, the flicker, the whole damn fire.

She was her own heroine, not because she had never fallen, but because each fall became an invitation to rise—softer, wiser, more wild, more graceful, more herself.

And for so long… she carried it all.
The weight of survival.
The ache of the past.
The silence of not being fully met.

The world had asked much of her.
It had demanded her strength.

Layer by layer, she built her armour of untold stories—sharp, necessary, shimmering with stories she never told.
Not because she didn’t want to tell them,
but because the world didn’t feel safe enough for her to hear them.

Each piece of that armour was crafted from experience—not just pain, but the courage it took to survive it.

The heartbreak she swallowed instead of screaming.
The rage she tucked beneath her ribcage to keep the peace.
The brilliance she dimmed to make others more comfortable.
The dreams she silenced so she wouldn’t be left behind.

Her armour shimmered in the light—because even pain can look beautiful when it’s buried in polish.
Beneath the shimmer was a huge weight.
A heaviness that creaked with every movement. Beneath her armour, love waited. A quiet, patient presence–yearning to be felt rather than feared.

Even though it once protected her,
it also kept love from getting too close. Because when you wear armour made from untold stories, you are constantly guarding the very parts of you that ache to be known.
You are speaking, but not from the depth of your heart.
You are connecting, but not from the sacred seat of your soul.

She didn’t even know how much she longed to remove it.
The armour stitched from survival, the weight of stories never told.

Protection became her habit, but not her truth.
Until one day he saw what she was carrying and didn’t ask her to prove her strength.
He simply stood still… and let her rest in his arms.
In the stillness, something sacred stirred.

He saw the fire behind her eyes and the ache beneath her ribcage.
In his unwavering love, she found the courage to shed.

To unfasten the metal plates.
To exhale the tension from her jaw.
To remember the rhythm of her own breath.

Her king had arrived.
Not to rescue her as she never needed saving.
But to stand beside her.
To see her.

To love her deeply.

To invite her back into her own reflection.

He was her king— not the kind who conquers lands, but the kind who holds space like sacred ground.
A steady presence.
A safe place.

His presence was protection.
His energy, a lighthouse.
His heart, a rhythm she somehow always knew.

With him, her nervous system softened.
With him, her breath deepened.

With him, her heart opened.
With him, she let the armour fall not in one dramatic crash, but in a sacred murmur of trust, sighs of safety and quiet moments of remembering that she is not too much and never not enough.

Together, they walked through fires.
Old griefs flaring up in the night.
Triggers surfacing mid-laugh.
Pain they didn’t yet have words for.

They stayed.
They breathed.
They spoke the unspoken.
They held each other when neither had the answers.

Their love is not perfect—but it is true.
And in its rawness, it became timeless and sacred.

Theirs was a love that pulsed with a whole lot of passion, yes—but also with peace.
The kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be eternal.
The kind that burns brighter because it is rooted in realness.

He didn’t shrink her fire.
He stoked it and nurtured it.

She didn’t soften his strength.
She sacredly summoned it and mirrored it with her fierce grace.

They met at the edge of their becoming, over and over and over again.
Learning, unlearning, relearning what it means to be devoted not just to each other,
but to something greater.
A love that leads them both home.

With him, she stepped deeper into her divine feminine energy.
Not because he gave it to her,
but because he never feared it.

He honoured the fire in her belly, the compassion in her heart, the passion in her voice, the softness in her soul.

He didn’t try to tame her power—he witnessed her.
He honoured her through silence but also through a presence that said: I see you, I trust you, I respect you.

In return, she softened into the woman she came here to be:
Wild and wonderful.
Sensual and sacred.
Sensual and surrendered.

Strong enough to hold galaxies,
and surrendered enough to let love move through her without resistance.

Their connection is made of earth and ether—of soul contracts and long-forgotten lifetimes.
Of laughter in the kitchen and magic beneath the stars.
Of eye contact that says, I know you—not just now, but always.

She, the wild woman.
He, the conscious king.
Together, not perfect,
but powerful.

Their love?
Unconditional.
Uncontainable.
Unwritten by rules but written in the stars.

A goddess and her king.
A sacred remembering.
A love that could not be burned—only ignited.
A home they build with every breath.

🌹🕯️🔥

This story isn’t just fiction.
It’s medicine.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a metaphor for the kind of love we know, deep down in our bones is possible,
because it lives in our longing.

Whether you are in sacred partnership
or moving through the holy season of self-union,
I invite you to feel into the places this story stirred something awake within you.

If you see yourself in her in the strength and the softness, the courage and the quiet craving to be fully seen.

You are worthy of a love that meets you in both your power and your vulnerability.
You deserve a partner who sees the queen in you even on your crumbling days.
A love that protects not with control, but with presence.
That holds you without caging you.
That celebrates the fire in you without ever trying to dim it.

And if you are already in love,
may this story remind you:
love is not about perfection.
Love is about presence.
It’s about choosing each other again and again,
especially in the moments it’s hard.
Especially when it matters most.

Whether you are calling this kind of love in or deepening what already lives in your life,
may these words stir something ancient in your soul and something tender in your chest.

Take a moment. Place your hand on your heart.
Breathe deeply and gently ask yourself the following questions.

Where am I still wearing armour that no longer serves me?

What part of me is longing to be seen—not saved?

Do I allow myself to be protected—not because I am weak, but because I am worthy of safety?

How do I embody both fire and flow, strength and softness?

Who in my life meets me with presence, rather than performance?

Safe love is self love in sacred union.

Let whatever rises, rise.
And know this:
You are not too much.
You are not alone.
The love you long for is not a fantasy it’s a remembering.

Love like this.
It’s real.
It’s rare.

It is waiting to be remembered.

As an added bonus, here are a few soulful integration practices for the wild and devoted hearts.

🕯️ Candle Ceremony: Light a candle, close your eyes and visualise yourself laying down pieces of old armour—one by one. Speak aloud what you are ready to release and what you are ready to receive in love.

💌 Love Letter to Your King or Queen (or Future Beloved): Write a letter to the one who holds you in your fullness, even if they have not arrived yet. Describe the way you want to feel. Trust the vibration you send will ripple through time and space.

🌿 Mirror Ritual: Stand before a mirror, hand on heart, and say "I am the wild woman and the queen. I am not too much. I am worthy of love that liberates, not limits."

🌀 Somatic Movement: Put on a piece of music that calls your body to move. Let your hips, spine and shoulders speak the language of freedom. Let the goddess move through you. Let her remember.

May you always remember:
You are not here to shrink.
You are here to ignite.
To love and be loved in the most sacred, sovereign way.
To build not fairy tales, but foundations.
To walk through the fires not alone, but hand-in-hand with someone who honours your soul.

The queen in you is rising.
The wild woman is remembering.
Somewhere out there or perhaps already beside you a king (or queen) is ready to meet you, exactly as you are.

With wild reverence and an open-hearted devotion to love and to life,
Hannah xo