The Green Dress Oracle: Why Women Must Stop Giving Their Power Away for Free
I want to tell you about a woman I can’t stop seeing.
She’s sitting under an olive tree in a green dress. There’s a well beside her, deep and endless. Men travel for days to drink from it. They kneel, cup their hands, sip her water. They call her holy. They carve her name into stone.
But when I look at her face, I see it—her cheeks are hollow. Her lips cracked. She’s dying of thirst.
Because she gave everything and asked for nothing back.
That’s the memory in my body when I watch women today. Sitting across from me at this table. Running themselves ragged for people who take and take and never offer.
I’ve done it too. I’ve written posts crafted to please an algorithm that doesn’t even see me. I’ve dropped my price because I was scared of being called greedy. I’ve said yes when my body screamed no. And people praised me for it. They remembered me, they even admired me. But memory doesn’t feed you. Admiration doesn’t pay for bread.
That kind of praise is a slow death.
You know the ache I’m talking about. The heavy chest at night when you realize you’ve given away your best hours for nothing. The silence in your bank account after you poured yourself out on a free discovery call. The sting when someone tells you how “powerful” you are, but they vanish the second you ask for commitment.
And yet you keep saying yes. Because you’re afraid. Afraid they’ll call you cold. Afraid they’ll say you care too much about money. Afraid of being seen as dangerous.
So you stay ornamental. Adored, but unfed.
That’s the obedience you’ve been trained into. The good woman bleeds so she can be called generous. The starving woman is always the “wise one.”
But here’s the part you don’t want to hear: the well is never free.
Every time you let someone drink without offering, you kill something in yourself. A little piece of your voltage drains away. You think it’s kindness, but your body knows it’s betrayal.
Your water costs, not because you’re greedy but because without exchange, the source dies.
If they want you, they bring devotion. They bring an offering worthy of what you carry. If they don’t, they walk thirsty. That is law. That is sacred.
Anything less is starvation dressed up as service.
I know because I’ve buried that woman in the green dress in myself too many times.
And I’ll never do it again.
The well doesn’t move. And the water isn’t free. If you’re ready to charge for your voltage, begin the Obsidian Naming Rite
