They didn’t take her all at once,
Just questions first. Then sleep. Then run.
A daughter’s laugh turned scripture-bound,
And silence settled all around.

​

I watched it happen. Smile by smile.
A hunger strike. A witch-like trial.
A “Satanist,” they said I’d be.
For daring to ask, for trying to see.

​

Red walked that path too—hood pulled tight,
Promised truth in borrowed light.
The Wolf wore warmth, the forest sang,
But underneath: control, and fang.

​

And like me, she’d once believed
That love meant shrinking to be received.
She smiled through rules, through trials and prayer,
But I knew—one day—she’d breathe clear air.

​

The Wolf told her: “Your mother is dark.”
Said art was power. Power, a threat.
And women with cloaks? Best left behind.
But let’s be clear:
My cape is not his to define.

​

It’s not a costume—it’s memory’s thread,
Of cathedral flames and prayers once said,
Of journals and brushes, ink and hue,
A daughter who dreamed where the wild trees grew,
Told she was free, and believed it was true.

​

They tried to shame—called it wild,
Sewed fear where wonder touched my child.
Said truth must come in rigid size,
And mothers who question wear wolf disguise.

​

But I know the fabric; I’ve traced many seams.
It's cut from thought, from love, from dreams.
It is mine to wear, not his to sever,
Not to hide in—but to honour forever.

​

This website holds what I have learned:
From Vatican candles to bridges burned.
From peer-reviewed pages to fists in the air,
To watching my child vanish deep in his snare.

​

A cult’s filthy veil, worn like a crown,
To cover the light as it dragged her down.
I’ll names the tools, the tricks, the cost,
The swaps, the scripts, the self that’s lost.

​

But more than that—this book is proof
That we return, unhooked from “truth.”
We gather threads once thought were gone.
We stitch our names back into song.

​

My daughter walked into that wood,
Not naïve. Not broken. Just misunderstood.
Just open. Searching. Brave and good.
And the Wolf met her with answers cold,
That punished thought and thwart her soul.

​

He’d never met one like me who saw behind his grin,
With the lies that thinking is hidden sin.
That boldness is danger, that cloaks are a crime,
Red flags of rebellion against holy time.

​

But I kept my cape—not because I’m defiant,
But because I am whole, alive, and reliant.
Creation is not the foe of belief,
And courage is balm, not a source of grief.

​

This is what I gathered along the way:
Threads of psychology, faith, and sway,
The anatomy of control exposed,
And how to break the chains we incidentally chose.

​

A cloak, perhaps—not worn to hide,
But to reclaim with quiet pride.
To wear on my terms, in full bloom,
With the love of a mother who walked through gloom.
.
Let’s name what happened. Let’s stitch it bright.
Let’s walk back out and reclaim the light.
Together we rise, with thread and flame—
Not lost. Not silenced. But calling it by name.