The Visceral Feminine: Returning to the Body That Remembers

It isn't a calling, It's an initiation.

If you’ve just found my work,welcome to Superfreq® — Frequency-First Living.

This publication explores embodiment, fieldwork, and the hidden architecture of identity, behavior, belief, and becoming—decoded through a frequency-first lens.

Let’s get into it.

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The feminine’s return to her visceral, primal, and somatically-rooted intelligence isn’t a calling, it’s an initiation

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Let’s continue our deep dive into the Nervous System Wealth series— Where wealth, power, and intuition begin—not in your mind, but in your body.

Warning, I’m over-caffeinated and underwhelmed so this should be fun.

In today’s online lexicon of pop-psychology-goo, meme-culture, and wellness infographs, most of what’s sold as ‘embodiment’ is still a sanitized, temu version of “doing the work”—like a kombucha-sipping, sage-smudging, trauma-informed Barbie doll pretending to ‘reclaim her power’ between Instagram ads for vibrators and breathwork retreats.

Newsflash: If your ‘shadow work’ never makes you want to scream into a void or question your entire existence, you’re not doing it—you’re just buying a $7 PDF about ‘feminine energy’ from a guru who can’t even spell ‘corporeal.’

Buckle up—because if you think the ‘twin-flame feminine’ industrial complex is a scam, just wait until we autopsy ‘neo-shaman masculinity.’ Spoiler: It’s just repressed men in linen pants LARPing as warlocks, their unprocessed rage seeping into the comments of every post about boundaries—all while preaching polyamory as ‘enlightenment,’ a convenient cover for their inability to commit or stay celibate.

And don’t even get me started on ‘high-priestess business coaches’ who’ve never filed a tax return but swear their 1:1 ‘DNA activation’ container will 10x your revenue. The only thing they’re activating is their PayPal balance.

Now, some might try to lump me in with these clowns—but darling, let’s be clear: I’m not even on their map. I’m a distant signal, broadcasting from the Talieverse, where the air isn’t thick with recycled spiritual bypassing and performative depth. You’ll find me where the margins fray into something far more interesting. Far more real.

The Next target? ‘Dark academia’ spiritualists who treat trauma like a fucking aesthetic—nootropic non-alcoholic “liquor”, leather-bound crystal-adorned journals, and a side of unhealed daddy issues masquerading as ‘arcane wisdom.’

Newsflash: Reading Carl Jung while chain-smoking clove cigarettes doesn’t make you a shaman, Karen. It makes you a Hot Topic employee with a therapy discount.

So what’s real embodiment? It’s the shit that can’t be monetized. The snotty, shaking, ugly-cry in your car after you finally stop lying to yourself.

The rage that scalds your throat when you realize you’ve been gaslit by both patriarchy and the ‘new age cult-like, love and light’ mafia.

The moment your body forces you to choose between another ‘attachment style course’ or actually feeling the feral, ungovernable truth pulsing in your marrow.

If your ‘awakening’ doesn’t destabilize your entire personality and terrify your inner circle, you’ve just bought a $222 self-paced video series on ‘soul alignment’, that will sit in your downloads—taking up space in both your computer and your epigenetic ‘spiritual hard drive’, marked incomplete.

Unfortunately, modern day embodiment is still performative. Still filtered through language. Still hovering around the body instead of living from inside it.

Real embodiment smells like sweat, sounds like a primal growl, and looks absolutely deranged to anyone still playing nice with the algorithm.

And the real feminine? The raw, remembering, self-resourced feminine—doesn’t speak in opaque metaphors.
She speaks in fluidity.

In temperature. In blood, breath, and pulse—she is the raw, unedited firmware of being alive—the only scripture that haven’t been gentrified.

Not the curated ‘mindfulness’ BS sold to you in pastel Reels, but the thud of your own heartbeat when rage or desire hijacks your higher reasoning.

The way your lungs scream during a sprint, not a staged ‘pranayama’ moment. The gut-churn of a truth you’ve been swallowing like a bad pill.

The sweat that stings when you stop pretending you’re above primal need; your pelvic floor gripping with desire to be unravelled, undone, unhooked—relieved from years of your role as ‘Miss hyper-independent’.

That metallic tang of fear when you realize most ‘healing’ is just another closed-loop system—clad in peel-and-stick armor, performative and cheap. Convenience sold as salvation, installation as enlightenment, demolition disguised as growth.

This isn’t about ‘vibes’—it’s about the animal truth that survives every algorithm, every guru, every lie you’ve absorbed.

This isn’t ‘somatic work’—it’s the revolt your cells have been plotting since the first time you silenced them for a paycheck, a partner, or a growth metric hashtag.

The truth is the body doesn’t give a fuck about your enlightenment arc. It knows two languages: survival and surrender.

The primal femme knows her knowing doesn’t come from tarot cards and crystals.
It comes from the womb.
The gut.
The fascia.
The flesh.

She Doesn’t Think Her Way Into Power.

She moves her way there.

Not with scripted ‘boundary work,’ but with the feral, unapologetic physics of instinct. The kind that doesn’t need a podcast episode to explain itself.

She knows when it’s time to go, because her stomach turns to liquid fire.

Not ‘intuition’ as a cute metaphor, but visceral evacuation orders from a body that remembers what her mind tries to gaslight away.

She knows when it’s a yes, because her chest floods with the kind of certainty that rewires synapses on contact.

She knows when she’s been disrespected, because her jaw tightens, her thighs lock, and her vision narrows.

The body doesn’t send memos.

It declares war.

But WE? We’ve been trained to treat these signals like spam folders.

To outsource truth to anyone peddling ‘higher-self’ bypassing.

To dilute rage into abusive biohacking ‘protocols’ instead of letting it torch the lies.

The body isn’t a ‘vessel,” it’s the last unmined rebellion.

And the feminine doesn’t guess. She doesn’t play nice sometimes either.

She feels—with a level of precision that terrifies anyone invested in her self-doubt.

And we’ve been conditioned to override the signals.

To outsource truth.

To temper our emotions— internalizing our “good-girl” programming into high-holy fury. And to package insight into digestible content instead of living it at the level of our sacred DNA—as if wisdom were a PDF and not a seismic event in the bones.

Primal Doesn’t Equal Reckless—It Equals Precision.

And there’s a BIG difference.

The primal feminine isn’t chaos. She’s clarity in motion—a mastery of her own field, rhythm, and discernment.

She isn’t ‘wild’ because she’s untamed. She’s wild because she’s undistorted.

She doesn’t chase—not men, not validation, not the next milestone. She attracts by standing in the magnetic field of her own truth.

Not as a strategy, but as a law.

Her power isn’t loud. It’s inevitable.

Because when a woman returns to her body’s wisdom, she stops asking for permission.
She stops wondering, “Is this okay?”And starts knowing: “Does this resonate with the truth in my bones?”

This isn’t about defiance. It’s about remembrance. And the body doesn’t lie. The mind negotiates; the soul whispers; but the viscera, the biofield, the fascia, declares.

And when she listens?
Life doesn’t happen to her.
It unfolds from her.

This is primal femme energy: a woman who’s danced in the belly of the beast and didn’t come out ‘healed.’ She comes out forged.

She is the sacred mirror, the bridge between worlds: cosmic and physical.

And The beast? The one from of her own subconscious who tried to digest her—
she metabolized instead. She turned its hunger into her compass. Its shadows into her maps.

She faced herself.

Died.

Turned to ash—
then rebuilt the phoenix
from gold dust and glitter, motherfucker.

Not the kind that sparkles.
The kind that cuts.

This isn’t a resurrection.

It’s a reckoning.

They told her ‘rise’ like it’s graceful—
like wings unfold without breaking skin.

But she clawed her way back with hands still stained from her own burial.

Hard-coded knowing? That’s her DNA now.

Resilience? That’s pulsing through generational lineage distortions she just pulverized.

Try to name her ‘reborn.’ She’ll laugh, then show you the scars where the fire started.

Now, when the world demands she shrink, she doesn’t fight. She expands.

Not because she’s unbroken, but because she knows:
a beast is just a paper mâché construct that hasn’t met her fire yet.

This cycle of dying to become her repeats—each return met with sharper clarity, tougher tissue woven, leathern now from withstanding searing betrayal— branded by those who tried to control her. But the fire that scarred also tempered; what they meant to control she alchemized crystalized into a diamond forged from the very pressure meant to break her.

This is where ‘wealth embodiment’ begins.

The Nervous System Is Her Oracle

Every feminine initiation starts with the same question:
Can you be with what you feel without flinching, fixing, or faking?

Not analyzing it.
Not marketing it.
Not managing the optics.

Just being with the full texture of it.
Because when she stops trying to rise above the sensation—and starts dropping into it, that’s when the system resets. That’s when power returns. That’s when wealth truly lands.

Not as reward.
As resonance.

She Doesn’t Need to Be Braver.

She needs to be closer to her body.

Because every answer she’s been trying to manifest, every launch plan, every dating pattern, every financial upper limit, was never in her strategy.

It was in her somatic feedback loop. Her capacity to feel, to track, to orient.

To listen not just to her nervous system, but to her animal.

That’s where coherence lives.
That’s where wealth starts to move.
That’s where God gets in.

Here’s the Truth:

This isn’t about becoming ‘more embodied’.
It’s about becoming more available to the body you already live inside of.

The one that automates existence before you speak.
The one that contracts before the mind can rationalize.
The one that tracks truth at the level of instinct.

The return to the feminine isn’t aesthetic.
It’s visceral.
It’s cyclical.
It’s primal.
And it’s your original wealth code.

This is what we recalibrate in Nervous System Wealth.

Not strategy.
Signal.

Big Love,

Talie

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