3. Bluebeard

The dangerous knowing and the forbidden threshold

There is a door you’re told never to open.
You know the one.
The part of yourself you’ve been warned away from.
The memory. The truth. The question that could ruin everything.

In the story, Bluebeard gives his young bride the keys to all his rooms —
but forbids her to enter one.
Of course, she opens it.
Inside: the bodies of all the women who came before her.
The ones who also trusted him.
The ones who did not leave in time.

This is not just a tale about a murderous husband.
It’s about the moment you stop pretending not to see.
The moment you lift the veil on your own life —
and witness what’s been happening in the shadows.

Every woman I’ve worked with knows this door.
Some open it and find the remains of an old relationship.
Some find the cost of staying silent.
Some find their own instincts, locked away like contraband.

The key in this story bleeds when it’s used —
and can’t be cleaned.
That’s the nature of knowing:
once you see, you cannot unsee.
The blood will tell.

Bluebeard is the part of life that wants you compliant.
That punishes curiosity.
That thrives when you don’t ask questions.
But the women in this story — even the dead ones — leave a map.

If you are reading this, you are holding a key.
You might already know which door it opens.
You might already feel the blood on your hands.

The work is not to keep the door shut.
The work is to open it wide,
gather what’s yours,
and walk out before the lock clicks behind you.

The truth will cost you.
So will obedience.
Choose the one that lets you keep your own life.