I Used to Think Power Clicked Down Hallways
“I loved the power. I loved the pedestal. I loved the fucking heel. And I still feel her—inside me—licking the edge of superiority like it’s a goddamn sacrament.”
There’s a part of me that still wants to make this look good.
Still wants you to hear my confession and think,
“God, how brave she is. How evolved. How willing to own her shit.”
But here’s the actual filth:
I don’t want to be vulnerable.
I want to be worshipped for being vulnerable.
I want to confess in stilettos.
I want to cry with good lighting.
I want you to see me bleed —
and still believe I’m above you.
I’m laughing at myself right now… There was a time when I worked as a COO in a small B2B warehouse distribution company, and many more times than I can count, I could be found working the packing and shipping lines in stilettos alongside minimum wage workers. I thought this made me relatable, approachable, with just enough armor on my feet to declare my superiority.
That wasn’t leadership. That was performance alchemy. I fused empathy with hierarchy, believing my red soles would send just the right message: "I’m with you. But I’m not you."
And that’s the brilliance of the ShadowOS. She doesn’t lie—she spins truth into strategy. She says: “Let them see your humility—but make sure they also see your heel. Be human — but don’t dare give up the edge.”
And I believed it. Because at the time? That edge was my only protection. I didn’t have sovereignty. I had style. I didn’t have Erotic Intelligence. I had optics intelligence. The kind of embodied branding that says, "I’m doing the work, but I’m still worth more."
But now…now I laugh. Not because it was stupid. But because I finally see how elegant my survival was. How flawless the curation had to be to keep me safe in a world where a powerful woman had to either dominate or disappear.
And I chose to dominate - but with polish. With poise. With just enough heel to say, “I earned this position, and I’m not coming down.”
But now I’ve come down. Into the body. Into the truth. Into the wet floor of my own reckoning.
This? This isn’t just a memory. It’s a fucking initiation.
There were times when I'd leave the comfort of my air-conditioned office to walk the warehouse.
No AC. No heat. Texas dust, 100 degrees, minimum wage workers drenched in sweat.
And there I was…
COO in Christian Louboutins.
I would clack through the aisles, pick up some torn cardboard or a scrap of shrink wrap,
and look at them…not with connection,
but with a tight, polite tolerance…the kind of smile that says “I’m not pleased, and you’ll feel it.”
Because in my mind?
If they truly cared, the space would be cleaner.
If they were truly ‘onboard’, their sweat would be neater.
I called it “leading by example.”
But let’s be honest…
I was modeling proximity with just enough heel to keep them in their place.
There was a time I used to say: "There’s no pain I wouldn’t endure for stilettos." As if my power lived in the tips of those tiny heels.
But the truth is: I wasn’t wearing stilettos. I was wearing survival.
Wrapped in Italian leather. Balanced on a blade.
What I was really telling myself: “There’s no pain I won’t endure to look powerful.”
Because back then, I didn’t know that power doesn’t click down hallways…
it rises from within.
Not from the arch of my foot, but from the arch of my spine.
Not from red soles, but from the red center of my truth.
And now? Now I say: There is no performance too sacred to strip.
No illusion too expensive to compost.
I used to think my worth lived in the heel.
Now I know it lives in the heel hitting the floor as I walk barefoot into my own reckoning.
And even now…
even now as I say this…
I feel the performance creeping back in.
The impulse to position this as growth.
To say,
“Look how far I’ve come.
Look at the filth I’m willing to name.”
But my underworld doesn’t care about how far I’ve come.
She doesn’t want a story arc.
She wants blood.
She wants filth that still clings to the underside of my power.
She says:
Hush, Lois.
The ways of the underworld may not be questioned.
You do not confess for applause.
You do not descend for praise.
You come to rot or not at all.
So here I am.
Still feeling the tug of superiority.
Still feeling the arousal of being worshipped for telling the truth.
Still tempted to perform my undoing like it’s a TED Talk.
And I know…
That’s the real confession.
Not what I did.
But how much I still want to be seen as holy for surviving it.
This isn’t healing.
This is reckoning.
And I’m not done yet.
The descent doesn’t reward confession.
It waits.
It watches.
And it moans when you stop pretending you’re above it.
I’m not above it.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The Original Sin of Shadow Work
But here’s the thing I need to tell you before you close this page:
This isn’t just my confession.
It’s the confession.
The moment every woman hits when the descent gets real.
It’s not when she realizes she’s been performing.
It’s when she realizes she’s still aroused by the performance.
Still seduced by the mask.
Still glancing at it like a forbidden lover, whispering:
"But you were beautiful. You kept me safe. You made me loved."
This is the original sin of shadow work.
Not the mask. But the ache to keep it.
To stay just close enough to its glow that she can call it growth
without ever letting herself rot.
It’s the moment when she sees herself mid-performance—
telling the truth
with just enough polish
to still be adored for it.
It’s limerence.
Erotic self-delusion.
The high of almost being free.
And most women turn back here.
Because to go deeper?
She has to admit:
"Even now, even with dirt in my mouth and truth in my hands,
I still want to be the best at falling apart."
You don’t graduate from this.
You get wrecked by it.
You walk with it.
You let it live in your moan.
And you stop pretending you’re clean.
That’s descent.
That’s Erotic Intelligence.
That’s what this confession cracked open.
-L
👠 PS:
This is what Think & Grow Wet is doing to me—
and I wrote the damn book.
It has no mercy.
It doesn’t offer healing.
It dares you into reckoning.
Descension isn’t linear. It’s a spiral.
You don’t cross a threshold once and call it done.
You come back.
Again. And again.
Each time with less performance.
Each time with more blood.
This book demands that.
It strips you until there’s nothing left but your nakedness—no mask, no polish, no script.
Only the raw heat of who you really are when no one is clapping.
And if reading this cracked you—
you’re already inside it.
The Wet List is where it begins.
The first to read it.
The first to feel it.
The first to be ruined by it.
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