Mystery’s In My Eyes

Sneakers and Stilettos isn’t just a mood — it’s a whole way of moving through life.

See, here’s the thing about being a woman — especially a woman who’s lived, survived, rebuilt, and walked through fire in both sneakers and stilettos.

There’s no mystery about my body. I own my curves. My scars. My strength. My softness. My walk commands attention whether I’m in Jordans or red bottoms. There’s nothing secret about my shape — what you see is what you get.

But the real mystery? The part nobody can Google, scroll past, or figure out from a selfie?

That stays in my eyes.

My eyes hold the chapters I never had to post. The love I gave that wasn’t returned. The nights I cried in silence. The days I showed up anyway. The victories nobody clapped for but me.

You can stare at my body all you want — but if you’re not reading my eyes, you’re missing the whole story.

Sneakers taught me survival.

Stilettos taught me power.

My eyes? They’ll always tell you there’s more to me than you’ll ever know. Because being a woman isn’t about being mysterious in the way the world expects. It’s about being real. Unapologetic. Present. And leaving just enough mystery in your spirit that only the worthy will ever get close enough to learn you.

So yeah… there’s no mystery about my body. The only real mystery? Is in my eyes.

There’s no mystery about my body. Not anymore.

See, life has a funny way of stripping you down to the rawest version of yourself. Especially when you’ve survived things most people wouldn’t even believe. Especially when you’ve had to learn how to love a body that doesn’t move the way it used to… or look the way it once did. For a long time after my injury, I thought my body was the mystery.

Would people still see me as desirable? Would they see the scars? The limp? The hardware beneath the skin? Would they stop at what’s visible — or would they look deeper?

Let me tell you what life — and survival — taught me:

My body is not the mystery. My body is the evidence. Proof I’m still here. Proof I fought. Proof I healed.

But if you really want to know me? If you really want to figure me out? Baby, you better look me in the eyes.

Because my eyes have always told a different story.

*They’ll tell you I’ve loved hard and lost harder.

*They’ll tell you I’ve been underestimated in every room I walked into — until I opened my mouth and made sure they never forgot me again.

*They’ll tell you I’ve walked in sneakers when I had to hustle… and in stilettos when I knew I was untouchable.

My body is not an apology. It’s not a secret. It’s not something to decode.

But my eyes? My eyes hold everything I didn’t say out loud.

Every comeback. Every quiet night I almost gave up. Every morning I laced up my sneakers or strapped on my stilettos and reminded myself — you were built for this.

So yeah, there’s no mystery about my woman’s body.

The real mystery is in my eyes.

And if you’re not paying attention to those? You’ll never really know me.

It took me a long time to be able to say that without flinching. Without hesitation. Without that little voice in the back of my head whispering, “but what if they don’t like what they see?”

That’s the thing about surviving life-changing injuries, heartbreak, trauma, or honestly — just being a woman in this world — you go through seasons where your body feels like a battleground. And then you go through seasons where it feels like home again.

*My body has been both.

*The Story My Body Tells

If you look at me, you’ll see it. The scars. The way I walk. The strength built from rehab, from pushing, from getting up every single time life knocked me flat on my face. You’ll see curves that weren’t always there, muscle where there used to be softness, or softness where there used to be edge.

You’ll see my womanhood — bold, present, and completely unbothered by perfection.

And for a long time, I thought that was the mystery.

Would someone still want me like this? Would they still see me as beautiful, powerful, feminine… enough? But then life taught me something far more important.

My body is not the mystery. My body is the evidence. It’s the proof I stayed. The proof I healed. The proof I fought my way back when I had every reason not to.

The Real Mystery? It’s Always In My Eyes. See, my body might tell you where I’ve been.

But my eyes? My eyes will tell you who I am. My eyes carry the softness I never lost, even when life hardened me. They carry stories I didn’t post online. Nights I cried on the bathroom floor. Days I smiled anyway. Lessons I learned the hard way. Love I gave fully, even when it wasn’t returned.

*My eyes are where the fight lives.

*Where the softness lives.

*Where the real woman lives.

If you can’t look me in the eyes — you don’t get to know me.

Not really.

Sneakers or Stilettos — It Doesn’t Matter.

My walk changes depending on the day. Some days I’m laced up in sneakers, hustling through life, handling business, getting it done with no time for the extra.

Other days? I’m in stilettos — tall, unbothered, feeling every inch of my power, fully aware that I don’t have to chase a thing meant for me.

But whether I’m in Jordans or Jimmy Choos… whether I’m casual or dressed like I’m about to break hearts just walking into the room…

The mystery was never about my body.

The mystery is always in my eyes.

Because you can dress the outside however you want.

But your eyes? Your eyes will always tell the truth about the life you’ve lived.                                             And mine? Mine tell a story of a woman who survived herself. Who fought for joy. Who rebuilt. Who stopped apologizing for existing exactly as she is.

If you want to know me — really know me — stop staring at my body like it’s a puzzle you’re trying to figure out.

Look me in the eyes.

*That’s where the story lives.

*That’s where the mystery stays.

*That’s where the real me will always be.

The Mystery’s In My Eyes

There is no mystery about my body.

It tells you everything you think you need to know.

Skin like armor,

scars like maps,

hips that speak before my mouth does.

You can trace every curve,

measure every line,

count every step I’ve taken —

but that won’t tell you who I am.

Because my body is just the frame.

The bones that stayed.

The softness that survived.

The proof I lived… and stayed living.

The real mystery?

That’s in my eyes.

Look close —

you’ll see the late-night wars I fought alone.

The dreams I buried,

then dug up again with bloody hands.

The love I lost —

the love I still gave anyway.

My eyes hold every version of me —

The girl I was.

The woman I became.

And the quiet storm I’m still becoming.

Sneakers taught me survival.

Stilettos taught me power.

But my eyes?

My eyes taught me grace.

Not the delicate kind —

but the fierce, unbreakable grace

that only comes

from knowing exactly who you are

when everything else is stripped away.

So no —

there is no mystery about my body.

If you want to know me —

really know me —

don’t trace my skin.

Look me in the eyes.

That’s where I keep the parts

no one else could carry.

That’s where the real story lives.

Love that — here it is, finalized and titled your way.

Where The Real Story Lives

There is no mystery about my body.

It tells you everything you think you need to know.

Skin like armor,

scars like maps,

hips that speak before my mouth does.

You can trace every curve,

measure every line,

count every step I’ve taken —

but that won’t tell you who I am.

Because my body is just the frame.

The bones that stayed.

The softness that survived.

The proof I lived… and stayed living.

The real mystery?

That’s in my eyes.

Look close —

you’ll see the late-night wars I fought alone.

The dreams I buried,

then dug up again with bloody hands.

The love I lost —

the love I still gave anyway.

My eyes hold every version of me —

The girl I was.

The woman I became.

And the quiet storm I’m still becoming.

Sneakers taught me survival.

Stilettos taught me power.

But my eyes?

My eyes taught me grace.

Not the delicate kind —

but the fierce, unbreakable grace

that only comes

from knowing exactly who you are

when everything else is stripped away.

So no —

there is no mystery about my body.

If you want to know me —

really know me —

don’t trace my skin.

Look me in the eyes.

That’s where I keep the parts

no one else could carry.

That’s where the real story lives.