They say most dreams end before the fall.
Mine didn’t.
I fell.

The air was thick and silent… like even the sky was watching. I remember hitting the bottom hard enough that it should’ve scattered me into nothing. But I stood. Not just in the dream… something in me stood.

When I looked up, an old man was waiting at the edge of the cliff, staring down at me.

He didn’t ask who I was. He already knew.

“Sionna,” he called.
As if the name had always been mine.

I woke up not confused… but called. The name stirred something ancient in my chest. Something not new, but long buried. I looked it up. I wanted to see if the sound had a story.

It did. And the story sounded like me.

Sionna

Sionna was not a queen. Not a warrior. Not a chosen one. She was a woman who walked to the Well of Wisdom not to conquer it… but to learn from it.

She didn’t bring a prophecy. She didn’t offer a trade. She came with hunger… pure and unpolished.

They say she drowned. That she reached too far. That wisdom was not hers to hold.

But they forget that clarity always costs something.

And what frightened them most… was not her drowning. It was her audacity to seek without permission.

I carry her name because I carry her shape. I do not walk through the world demanding answers. I walk toward the well. I kneel. I listen.

They’ve tried to train that out of me. The world wants polish, obedience, scripted questions with predictable answers. But I do not arrive with scripts. I arrive with presence.

Sionna has been misunderstood by almost everyone who’s tried to retell her. They call her reckless. But that’s what they always call women who reach without apology.

They say she died thirsty.

But what they miss is this: she drank. She drank so deeply it changed her shape.

Sionna still scares me. Not because she is wild, but because she was punished for staying open in a world that demands armor.

But then I remember:

She drank…
And I am still drinking.

Her story is not a cautionary tale. It’s a ritual of remembering.

I am Siona. And I still kneel at the well.

🜂 Let them call it drowning. I call it clarity.