The Ferrari Has Feelings

There's a version of me the world has always known — polished, fast, self‑contained, and impossible to catch unless I choose to be caught.

I've lived most of my life as the Ferrari: sleek on the outside, powerful under the hood, and fiercely independent. I learned early that if I kept the engine humming and the exterior gleaming, no one would ask what it cost to maintain it. No one would ask what it protected.

Being the Ferrari became my identity. My armor. My rhythm. My safety.

Men admired the shine, the speed, the thrill. They loved the ride's fantasy, not the reality of the woman inside. And I learned to give them only what they could handle — the exterior. The performance. The curated version of me that kept my heart tucked away behind steel and speed.

Then someone came along who didn't just want to look at the car. He wanted to understand the engine.

He wasn't dazzled by the surface. He wasn't intimidated by the horsepower. He wasn't trying to tame me, claim me, or slow me down. He simply wanted to know what was real beneath the paint.

And that's when the fear showed up.

Because when you've lived your whole life as the Ferrari, letting someone see the woman behind the wheel feels like stripping down to bare metal. It feels like stepping out of the only identity that has ever kept you safe. It feels like risking everything you've built — your independence, your mystery, your fire.

I found myself asking questions I never thought I'd ask:

If I let someone in, do I lose the part of me that has always been mine alone? If I soften, do I become ordinary? If I love, do I lose the woman who built herself? If I let him see the vulnerable parts, will he still respect the powerful ones?

These questions aren't small. They're the questions of a woman who has lived, survived, rebuilt, and risen. A woman who knows her worth because she earned it. A woman who has never needed saving — only seeing.

And yet… something in me wanted to open the door. Something in me wanted to let him in. Something in me wanted to be witnessed, not just admired.

That's when I realized something essential:

A Ferrari doesn't stop being a Ferrari when someone learns how to handle it. It becomes more itself.

Because the right person doesn't diminish your independence — they expand it. The right person doesn't dull your shine — they see the brilliance beneath it. The right person doesn't make you ordinary — they meet you in your extraordinariness.

Letting someone in doesn't erase the Ferrari. It reveals the woman who built her.

And she is worth knowing.

So I'm learning to open the door slowly. To let someone sit beside me without taking the wheel. To let myself be seen without losing the parts of me that are sacred.

My independence isn't going anywhere. My fire isn't dimming. My secret Ferrari — the one that has carried me through every chapter — still exists. She's just learning that she doesn't have to drive alone anymore.

And maybe that's the most powerful thing of all.