The Princess and Her Sword: A Tale of Self-Rescue

“She wasn’t waiting for a knight—she was remembering she was forged in flame.” —Elowen

In losing you, I didn’t fall apart.
I fell inward—
into caverns I hadn’t dared to name.
And there, in the hush between heartbreaks,
I found my sword.

Meeting him wasn’t a fairytale.
It was a mirror.
Not of who he was,
but of what I’d been taught to crave.
The storybook endings, the cinematic rescues—
I painted them in my mind like sacred murals.
But none of them held me.

Because I was never the damsel.
I was the storm.
The one who rides in barefoot,
crown crooked,
blade steady.

I’ve fought wars no one saw.
I’ve bled in silence,
stitched myself back with poetry and breath.
And still, I waited.
For someone to see me.
To save me.

But Elowen whispers:
You were never meant to be saved.
You were meant to rise.

So today, I end the myth of tragic love.
I end the ache of waiting.
I choose myself—
not as a consolation,
but as a coronation.

If he comes,
he may walk beside me.
But I will not shrink to fit his story.
I am the author now.
And this chapter begins with a sword in my hand
and my name on the wind.

@notesformysoulmate

This work is protected—not to guard the past, but to honor the woman who no longer waits.
Because some princesses don’t need saving.
They just need to remember they were never lost.
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