Haikus from My Feminization Journey I never thought of myself as a poet. If anything, I always believed poetry belonged to the effortlessly artistic - the ones who could spin metaphors without blushing, who knew exactly how to capture longing in twelve syllables. And yet, years ago, when my feminization journey was still a fragile whisper in my heart, I stumbled upon haiku. Three lines. Seventeen syllables. A moment, crystallized. It felt safe. Haiku did not demand grand declarations. It asked only for honesty. A season. A sensation. A breath. And so I began writing one nearly every day - sometimes shy, sometimes trembling, sometimes glowing with pride. A woman on her way who needed a small container for very big feelings. Recently, I read back through my collection. Page after page of small poems, like pressed flowers from different seasons of myself. I cried more than once. Not because the poems are technically brilliant - they aren’t - but because they hold the girl I was becom...

Romance Rediscovered in My Feminine Skin Why I Had to Write This ( ... blushing while typing ... ) What I love most about this blog is that it allows me to open a window into my daily life. It shows that it is possible to live a new role model - one that includes the feminization of the husband, a female-led relationship, and even a loving threefold partnership. It shows that roles can shift without love dissolving. That softness can grow where structure once ruled. That a marriage can evolve without losing its soul. But this blog has also done something unexpected to me. It has animated me to reflect deeply on my journey. On the subtle changes and developments I observe in myself over the last years. Feminization is not simply putting on a skirt one morning and calling it transformation. It is not just replacing trousers with dresses, or adopting lace instead of cotton. No. Something deeper has happened. Something inside me has shifted. I wrote several weeks on this article - smiling,...

Volume, Joy, and the Courage to Be Seen There is a particular rustle that changes the air in a room. It’s a whisper of fabric, a soft percussion of tulle or organza brushing against itself, a gentle swish that announces movement before words arrive. Petticoats do that. They don’t shout; they sing. And in a world that often rewards the quiet flattening of silhouettes and the efficient erasing of softness, that song feels almost radical. Another Pettioat Phase Let’s say it plainly: petticoats make people feel things. There are old fantasies attached to them - some male, some female, some simply human - about the mystery of volume, the glimpse of layers, the promise of swing. There is curiosity and nostalgia wrapped together, a memory of skirts that didn’t apologize for taking up space. It’s true that today, seeing someone in a proper petticoat is rare, mostly relegated to 1950s oldtimer shows, rockabilly festivals, vintage fairs, and lovingly curated nostalgia meetings. The petticoat ha...