Standing in My Awakened Feminine Spirit,

With Debbie Rosas.

I have carried many identities in my life, but one I have been taking on and off since birth is the identity that came through the biology of being born in a female body. I am a woman and I have come to know myself as something more: an awakened feminine spirit. A woman who stands in her own shoes, in her own truth, not just with confidence and power, but with compassion and grace.

The terrain I’ve been given to explore my life as a woman is vast. I’ve walked through roles, titles, and societal expectations; but underneath all of it, what I’ve come to discover is that to embody my awakened feminine spirit is to know how to stand. Moreover, it is to feel. To stand in my awakened feminine spirit is to feel my feet as symbolic vessels of connection, sovereignty, and sensual wisdom.

I sense the Earth not as ground, but as heartbeat. As altar. As mother. As mirror. When I stand in her feet—not in fear, but in fierce commitment—I root my identity in something timeless and true. My feet are bare and brave, rooted in Earth yet open to the stars. They are the foundation of my inner tree—silent sentinels that remember every place I’ve stood, every path walked and every moment lived.

Every hesitation or forward momentum is powered by my arches; my bridges of becoming. Curved and tender, carrying both memory and possibility. I walk not to escape, but to arrive. To listen. To be. My soles are soft with empathy, yet strong enough to carry the weight of lifetimes. My toes are wild with joy, uncaged, uncensored, reaching like curious questions toward every moment in life.

I remember when I first took off my shoes—literally and symbolically. It was in the martial arts dojo, where I was invited to leave behind not only my footwear, but my assumptions, my armor, and everything I thought I knew about power. There, I stood barefoot on the mat and I met myself. I learned to feel the floor; to sense direction without needing to see and to listen with more than my ears.

I learned the sacred language of the stance—the quiet, rooted kind that doesn’t need to push to be powerful. I learned that stillness could be a strike and that softness could be a strategy.
I awakened to the wisdom of yin and yang. I had known these as philosophical terms before, but now I felt them in my body. I learned that yin wasn’t weakness—it was receptivity, depth, mystery, and the silent knowing of the Earth.

I learned that yang wasn’t aggression—it was focused expression, the radiant clarity of action born from alignment. The martial arts gave me this internal compass—one foot in softness, one foot in strength. That’s when I began to trust my feet. Not just as anatomical tools of locomotion, but as wise messengers. I began to ask, “What energy is rising through my sole right now? Is it time to advance or retreat?”

These questions weren’t conscious—they were sensed and felt. Answered by the whisper of muscle, bone, fascia, and intuition. I remember how the floor began to speak back to me. In kicks and pivots. In grounding and release. Every time I trained, my bare feet became more awake—more alive with memory, meaning, and muscle and yin and yang intelligence. I awakened to the identity of my feet.

It is the identity of a woman who listens. Who doesn’t rush to fix or flee. Who walks with a pulse deeper than time. My feet have taught me that being rooted is not the opposite of being free. In fact, it is the condition for it. Because of martial arts, I learned that discipline can be devotional. That movement can be a form of prayer. That to walk with integrity is to sense both the ground beneath and the sky above.

I carry both inside me as I step. So now, I don’t just walk—I arrive. I don’t just move—I translate. I don’t just stand—I embody. I stand in my awakened feminine spirit: with bare feet, brave arches, and a listening body. I used to walk in patterns I couldn’t name—driven by pressure, performing strength, chasing approval in silence. I moved quickly, always reaching, rarely resting. You might know that rhythm too?

That sense of urgency without knowing exactly what you’re racing toward. I didn’t realize how far I’d wandered from my own center. I was so busy pushing that I’d forgotten how to feel the ground beneath me. What I didn’t know back then was that I was ignoring one of the most ancient voices in me: the voice of my feminine spirit trying to rise up through my soles and whisper, “Slow down. I’m here.”

Everything began to change when I began studying martial arts and somatic awareness. Not all at once and not without resistance. But little by little, I began to listen. I started sensing the difference between effort and ease; between forcing and flowing; between walking to prove and walking because I already belonged. Now, I move differently. I pause more. I feel more. I wait—not out of fear, but trust.

I trust the signal that rises through my feet. My steps aren’t about getting somewhere anymore. They’re about being here. And, I’ve come to believe that the body always speaks first—and most honestly—through the feet. My feet have carried the weight of things I didn’t know I was holding. They’ve ached when I overstayed. They’ve pulsed when it was time to leave. They’ve curled in delight.

They’ve also planted themselves in protest and remembered things long before my mind could. They’ve become my messengers of spirit and soul identity—not the version of me shaped by external roles or expectations, but the version of me that lives beneath all of that. The version of myself that knows how to belong without performing. How to lead without dominating. How to move without apology.

This identity doesn’t live in titles or social profiles. It lives in sensation. In the felt experience of being alive, truly alive—in my skin, my rhythm, and my own way. It’s the reason I finally feel at home in my body. And when I feel that, when I root into it, I don’t need to compare or compete. I don’t need to walk in armor. I walk in truth. My awakened feminine spirit lives within me now, not as a role I play, but as a force I embody.

I feel her in my feet. In the gentle arches that have become bridges of becoming. In my toes, reaching outward like wild questions. In every barefoot step I take across the floor or through the day, she’s there. She doesn’t conquer. She senses. She doesn’t shout. She listens. Her shoes are not for show—they’re for shedding. And when she takes them off, her bare feet kiss the Earth like a sacred offering.

Sometimes I think back to all the times I ignored her—when I pushed through the ache, denied the instinct, silenced the “No!” But she waited. She never left. And the moment I slowed down enough to listen, she returned like a memory I didn’t know I needed. I know I’m not alone in this remembering. Others have moments when they’ve felt her. That gentle knowing in their step. That inner pause before a decision.

That ache in their soles that says, “This path doesn’t honor me anymore.” They’ve always known. Maybe, like me, they just didn’t know that they knew. It took me years to understand that my identity doesn’t come from someone telling me who I am—with or without my consent. It rises from within. It comes from the way my body shivers with truth. From the quiet “yes” in my hips or the sacred “no” in my heels.

And then, there is the unexpected turn my body makes not out of fear, but from wisdom. And every time I honor that, I return to myself. This identity of mine—it wasn’t handed to me. I had to uncover it. Carve it through silence. Refine it through movement. Reclaim it through presence. It lives in my breath. In my fascia. In every step I take that says, This is me. To awaken this identity has been to reclaim.

My body is my first home. Not a battlefield. Not a performance. A home. With a door that opens inward. So now, when I move, it’s not to chase anything. It’s to feel everything. I wonder, what might shift for you if you took off your shoes? If you stood on the Earth not as a stranger, but as someone who belongs? I’m not here to give you your answers. Just a life saving question. Do you choose your own identity?

Once you do, something inside you begins to remember. And from that remembering, something new begins. You don’t just walk. You lead. Not with force, but with presence. Not to prove. But to pulse. You sense when to arrive, when to rest, and when to rise. You move through the world not just as a woman—but as a whole human. Anchored. Alive. Aligned with something deeper than doctrine—your own knowing.

And when someone asks how you got here, you’ll smile, maybe laugh, maybe cry—and simply say: “I listened to my feet.”

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