Miss OA Journey Inside the Mind of a Submissive
Submission means different things to different people, and its beauty often lies in its elusiveness; it cannot be easily measured, defined, or fully understood.
Some see submission as a weakness, but true submission is a choice made from strength and independence. It is a balance of power; the greater one becomes, the more it enables the other to rise.
Submission and Dominance is actually where power meets power.
It is not something to be forced or explained away, but a deep, instinctual part of some souls. A silent language spoken without words, felt rather than seen.
For many, submission is woven into their very being, their DNA, a birthright known only to a few. To live without, or deny yourself your submission, or Dominance, can feel like living half a life. I know because I’m one of them. I’d rather go without than betray the part of me that makes me feel alive.
What Submission Feels Like
Below are two short pieces about submission. The second is a metaphor, an old music box. Together, they say something about what it feels like to give yourself over.
What it feels like to give up control and choose to kneel
Submission feels like holding your breath underwater just a second too long.
Like opening your throat to say something you’ve never said out loud.
Like wanting to run, and choosing not to.
It feels like soft velvet over a bruise.
Like being looked at until you forget your own name.
Like being opened with nothing but a voice.
It feels like your edges aren’t yours anymore.
Like you’re screaming go, but your mouth whispers stay.
Like begging to be ruined, and hoping someone will ask for everything.
It feels like waiting for a door that might not open.
It’s doing while he watches.
Fetching without being told.
Pressing your palm to the floor just to remember who you are.
It’s looking someone in the eye and deciding: yes, you can take me apart.
It’s blooming like a flower that knows it will never fully close again.
It’s being read before you even speak.
It feels like being wrapped in a skin that isn’t yours.
Like your body can finally exhale.
Like you’ve been waiting to be undone.
He opens my mind before my legs.
He holds the key to the silence between my words.
And in that quiet surrender, I remember who I am.
The Dancer Who Doesn’t Dance
They think I’m still because I’m broken. But I’m still because I choose to be.
I am the dancer who doesn’t dance.
Not for just anyone.
They see the shape of me and think they know my rhythm, soft, giving, easy to move. They think the box keeps me back, when really, it holds the threshold: the knowledge, the power, the choice.
They do not see the music coiled behind my ribs, the choreography inked into my spine, the discipline it takes to stay still when the wrong hands reach for the key.
They call it waiting. I call it devotion.
Because when the right one comes, the one who leads with presence and listens with pressure, who doesn’t pull but draws, who steps in time with me.
Then I will dance.
Not because I was dormant,
But because I was always the dancer.
You just had the key.
The box will open, and the ballerina will dance again, only this time, she won’t be waiting in the dark. She’ll be dancing because you set her free.
