✨THE TELEGRAPH TO MY PAST SELF FROM MY FUTURE SELF✨

Dearest Me,

You’re probably in the mirror right now overthinking that one conversation. Again. Still trying to make sense of a world that doesn't know how to hold women like you: bold, blisteringly brilliant, too sacred for small talk, too soft for savagery, yet too raw to be packaged neatly. And to that version of me, I send this sacred telegraph from the future — not through wires, but through the veins of truth and the soul of wit.

First of all, take off the shapewear. Yes, I said it. Your future self is here in silk and softness, letting every curve bless the wind, and laughing with her belly, not despite it. You’ve wasted enough time trying to contort into spaces not designed for women woven in fire and honey. I am here to tell you — you are not too much. You were just too soon.

I won’t lie, some things broke you wide open. But that opening? It was the doorway to your divinity. You’ll learn one day that grief doesn’t just strip you — it initiates you. Pain doesn’t come to kill you; it comes to remind you that you're still alive, still here, still sacred.

You will rise, not because you finally figured it all out, but because you got tired of dimming. You’ll stop apologizing. You’ll stop shrinking. And girl, the day you realize your “no” is holy? That’s the day the world shifts on its axis just for you.

And yes — you’ll forgive her. And him. And the versions of you that tried to survive on silence, sugar, and spiritual bypassing. You'll even forgive yourself for thinking healing meant perfection. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. Healing is messy, sexy, sarcastic, deliciously layered, and half the time — you’ll be laughing through tears with sea salt on your lips, talking to the moon like she’s your homegirl.

You’ll throw away the timeline. You’ll walk barefoot on your own path and decorate it with lavender and gold. You’ll touch your thighs and call them power. You’ll sit at your altar with herbal tea and ancestral stories, and you’ll remember who you are. Not from books. But from blood memory.

Oh, and another thing — your laugh becomes medicine. Loud, unfiltered, from the womb. You’ll gather women in circles who wear their scars like sashes, who birth ideas and poems and orgasms in the same breath, who reclaim pleasure like protest. You won’t just talk about healing. You’ll become it. Audaciously. Messily. Majestically.

To my past self, my scared self, my soft self — thank you. You did not fail. You initiated the alchemy.

To my future self — I am coming. Wild, worthy, woman, warrior. With rhythm. With reverence. With roasted garlic and divine joy.

This isn’t just a letter. It’s a love story. A reckoning. A sacred inside joke only the healed ones will understand.

And so it is.

With wit, wine, and wisdom,

Sherley Delia

Founder | Healing Majestically Consultancy

Where transformation isn't a trend — it's a sacred remembering.