born from the ache, built from the ash: the autobiography of thtgrl

i was not raised in safety. i was raised in silence, in rooms where softness was punished and survival became instinct. i was adopted at eight, already fluent in abandonment, already rewriting myself to be easier to love. i learned early that sensitivity was inconvenient, that neurodivergence made me difficult, and that quiet compliance was the cost of staying. but even then, something in me refused to disappear. even then, the words began to bloom.

i am thtgrl.inbloom—writer, poet, mother of six (four earthside, two in the stars), neurospicy chaos wrapped in a wildflower crown, and a digital creator who reclaims her body through the sacred lens of desire. i do not fit inside lines. i do not shrink for comfort. i am sharp and tender, sacred and feral, stitched together with ink and intention. i have survived what others don’t speak of. i have loved through grief so loud it shattered me, and still, i rise each day and mother with hands that have built altars out of nothing.

motherhood is not soft for me—it is holy and relentless. i have parented through trauma, through panic, through systems that never saw us clearly. my love for my children is my rebellion. they are my grounding, my storm, my sacred fire. my four living children know a mother who fights and bleeds and shows up even when she is breaking. my two angel babies are part of every breath i take. i mother them all with the kind of love that burns through timelines.

i am polyamorous and demisexual, deeply in love with a wife who steadies my soul and a girlfriend who sets my pulse to flame. i do not love lightly. i do not perform affection. i love like ceremony. like prayer. like truth that doesn’t ask to be proven. my love is fluid, sacred, chosen. and i have stopped apologizing for the way i hold it all.

i am a digital creator. i share my sensuality through onlyfans, not because i owe the world my body, but because reclaiming it is mine alone. my skin is a story. my desire is not shameful—it is revolutionary. i am not performing for the male gaze. i am archiving power, creating from a place of consent, control, and unfiltered expression. this is not for your validation. this is for my resurrection.

this space is not curated for comfort. it is a reclamation. a sanctuary for the messy, the sacred, the undone. i do not write to be liked. i write because it’s the only way i’ve ever survived. i write for the ones who feel too much. for the mothers on the edge. for the neurodivergent femmes who never got to be soft. for the sensual souls still learning to call their body home.

i am not an influencer. i am not a brand. i am a body of work. a living poem. a wildfire wrapped in honey. i am rage that still loves. softness that still fights. i am everything they tried to quiet, now amplified in ink. i am not done becoming—but i’m done pretending to be small.

this is my truth. this is my body. this is my bloom.

with ink + bloom, 🌻