At Dawn, Power Knows My Name

Dear Sunshine,

There is a particular hour—brief, unspectacular, to the hurried—when the world remembers how authority actually works. Dawn does not clamor for attention. It does not plead its case. It simply arrives, and in doing so, rearranges everything.

I’ve been thinking about that hour lately. About the kind of power that doesn’t announce itself because it has nothing to prove. The type of etypence that unsettles rooms precisely because it refuses to perform for them. It is not the drama of dominance; it is the composure of inevitability.

Watch how the sun greets the ocean at first light. There is no negotiation between them. No persuasion. No apology. The sea doesn't ask permission to glow; it simply receives the gold as though it were always meant to. That, to me, is mysticism with manners—power, —powery trained.

It is the posture I’m committed to now.

I have no interest in sparkling on command. I shimmer by nature. The distinction matters. Sparkle seeks witnesses; shimmer assumes them. One exhausts itself. The other endures.

True mystics know this. They understand that restraint is not absence—it is strategy. That mystery is not evasive; it is selective. Not everyone requires access, and not every truth benefits from exposure. Elegance, after all, is a form of discernment.

There is sass in this stance, yes—but it is the refined kind. The sort that pours itself tea while chaos rearranges the furniture elsewhere. The sort that arrives early, speaks sparingly, and leaves a room irrevocably altered without ever raising its voice.

I’ve learned that the most commanding presence does not chase attention. It redirects it. Quietly. Almost mischievously. Power like this smiles when others scramble. It lets the light do the explaining.

At dawn, even the sun understands this. It does not beg the sea to glow. It simply shows up—consistent, unapologetic—and the water responds in brilliance.

I move the same way now.

Softly sovereign.
Elegantly unmoved.
Radiant without permission.

Call it confidence. Call it mysticism. Call it intimidating if that makes you more comfortable. I call it remembering who I am—and refusing to dim it for the sake of politeness.

May you find your own dawn.
May your power speak fluently without shouting.
And may your elegance remain just complicated enough to keep the uninitiated guessing.

With composure, curiosity, and a glint of mischief,
Sherley Delia