The Lion I Kept Caged

They say your body remembers what your mind tries to forget.
A few weeks ago, during what I thought would be a lighthearted body reading, something like an intimate tarot for the soul, a guide told me I had a shell around me. Protective. Impenetrable. 
Almost as if I was preventing myself from coming out.
I immediately burst into tears.
Not because I was confused. 
But because I’ve known that shell my whole life. 
I’ve even given it a name: the lion I keep caged.

For decades, that phrase lived quietly within a trusted circle. 
I keep the lion caged for a reason, I’d say. 
Half-joke, half-confession. 
Because I’ve always felt this force inside me. 
Strong. Fierce. Unrelenting.
And for most of my life, I feared what would happen if I let it out.

It didn’t align with who I believed myself to be. 
A loving, witty, empathetic soul. 
Someone who deeply cares about people’s well-being. 
Someone who lives for laughter, 
who finds joy in the lightness of life.
So why this beast within me? 
Why this unyielding energy that didn’t feel like softness,
didn’t feel like grace 
and sure as hell didn’t feel like me

So I caged it.
Like a game of chess.
Protecting the Queen until she has no other choice.
I strategically built walls around it.
This part of me , I feared the most.
Because I knew what she was capable of
and I wasn’t ready for that kind of power.

But she has come out.
Not everywhere.
But in spaces that feel safe enough to hold her.
My mother. My sister. My best friend.

And now, my fiancé, the only man I’ve ever felt 
was strong enough to face her fully. 

But lately… the lion has been stirring.
Not in rage.
Not in destruction.
But done with supervised freedom.

No longer satisfied with showing up in pieces.
No longer willing to wait for permission.

This lion has started showing up in moments that matter, 
when I’m defending my boundaries,
advocating for my worth,
reclaiming what was always mine.

It roared when I negotiated my salary for the first time 
after earning a new promotion.
It stood beside me when I said, “No, I can’t do this.”
And most recently, it padded calmly beside me as I walked into a Honda service department. 

Alone, but not unarmed.

My car had been there for over a week. On Friday, the manager told me it would be ready by Monday afternoon. 
Monday morning came. I followed up. He said again, “This afternoon.”
But something in me knew better than to wait. 
So I took an Uber there and told him, “I’ll wait.” 
He nodded, then walked me next door to the waiting room. 
Said he’d call me when my car was ready.

Forty minutes later…

“Ms. Pitts… I’m sorry, but your car won’t be ready until tomorrow.”

I didn’t flinch.

“Then I’ll need a rental.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have any available. ”

Pause.

“I’m not leaving until I have a car.”

He sighed. 

“Ms. Pitts, I’m doing my best. My hands are tied… I’ll see if I can do a miracle, but — ”

“Great,” I said, cutting in. “I love miracles.”

He hung up.

Five minutes later: “Ms. Pitts, you’re in luck. We have a car for you.”

Of course y’all do.

As the manager worked on the paperwork, he smiled.
“You’re a lucky person.”
 I chuckled. “I’ve been told that.”

It wasn’t luck.

It was about a shift.
A turning point.
The lion is no longer caged.
And I ain’t apologizing for letting her out.

For so long, I let grace lead. And don’t get me wrong, grace has its place. But there’s a difference between grace and submission. 
Between kindness and erasure.
Between keeping the peace and losing yourself to it.

This lion isn’t wild. She’s wise.
She doesn’t attack. She guards.
She doesn’t burn bridges. She builds boundaries.

And in her growl, there’s something sacred. 
The sound of a woman no longer shrinking.

So if you hear me roar these days, don’t confuse it with anger.
It’s just feeding time.
And I’ve kept her hungry far too long.