Enmeshment Is Ursula: How to Reclaim Your Voice from the Tentacles

Why We Wrote This

She trails her fingers down the curved banister—lacquered oak, cool like the surface of a choice she thought was hers. There’s a wrinkle in her knuckle that wasn’t there before. She studies it, presses her thumb against the softened edge, and for a moment, she remembers scales.

The hallway is too quiet. Her feet hurt on the flagstones, but she doesn’t limp. Not anymore. She just walks the ache into muscle memory.

In the dining room, fifty plates gleam like teeth. Spotless. The gold forks sit in perfect alignment—each one reminding her how well she’s learned to place things exactly where they belong. Especially herself.

That’s when it breaks. Not loud. Just salt slipping down her cheek.

She misses the ocean—not for its beauty, but for its wildness. For the chaos of kelp, the swirling currents, the way Flounder used to look at her like she was the whole story.

She hasn’t laughed from the belly in four years.

She thought she wanted legs. But what she really wanted was to be understood without shrinking.

This is that moment—the mythic break. The first tear in the spell.

This workbook is the sound that rises next. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a hum in the chest that says: No more shrinking.

You were underwater. Now you remember how to breathe.