What if the Bible told us the gospel of Mary Magdalene alongside Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? What if Lilith had remained Adam’s equal in the garden instead of being cast out as a demon for refusing to submit? How different would our stories be? How different would we be?

When you hit “the wall,” your body is reacting to perceived danger, not actual danger. Your brain can’t tell the difference between physical threat and emotional strain.

What if the neurodivergent mind—creative, intuitive, nonlinear, sensitive, emotionally rich—is not a deviation from the norm, but a return to our true nature?

Sobriety wasn’t just about saying no to alcohol—it was about saying yes to myself. It freed me from the shackles of guilt and shame, giving me the mental and emotional space to build my own business. I stopped hiding behind the mask of drunkenness and started running—literally and figuratively. I no longer spilled my sorrowful guts only to regret it the next day. I learned how to be me. The real me.

You don’t have to fix the world. You don’t have to stay silent either. You just have to tend your own frequency and ripple that out like the revolution it is.

Four years ago, I was in the woods, crying so hard I could barely see the path in front of me. I was pleading—begging—for guidance. Asking God, the Universe, my ancestors… someone… to show me a sign that I would be okay. That it wouldn’t always feel like this. That the ache would ease, the fog would lift, the ground beneath me would stop shifting.

When I finally told a couple of family members what happened to me as a child, I truly didn’t know if they’d believe me. When I told my husband—and he did believe me—I thanked him. I actually said the words: Thank you for believing me.

Your brain is shaped by what you repeatedly experience. If you grew up in chaos, in criticism, in emotional neglect or instability—even subtle forms—your nervous system adapted. It learned to protect you...

But what happens when the political becomes personal? When the conversation isn’t about policy—it’s about rights, survival, dignity?

You felt it. That full-body yes when you saw the invitation, the offering, the opportunity. Your heart skipped. Your shoulders dropped. Something in you whispered, this is for me. And then… the voice kicked in. “Maybe later.” “When I'm in better shape.” “Once I save up a little more.” “I’m too busy right now.” “Maybe next month.” “Maybe when I feel more ready.”

There was a time—before patriarchy, before empires, before ownership—when we lived by the rhythm of we. We survived together. We raised children in circles. We mourned and celebrated and healed in community. We didn’t ask who deserved support—we simply gave it. Because it was understood: what happens to one of us, happens to all of us.

So much of our pain is built on old programming. Beliefs etched into our nervous system, repeated so often they became our truths. And so, healing became a process of reprogramming.

We are being asked to face the consequences of our collective choices—the way we’ve treated the Earth, the way we’ve treated each other, the systems we’ve upheld by participating in them (even quietly, even unconsciously).

And eventually, that pile becomes your life. The running. The noise. The guilt. The pressure. And you can't see the forest for the trees—because the only thing in your line of vision is the pile of distractions you're trying to survive.

It made me realize something important: If I hadn’t stopped and asked myself what was actually making me feel good, I might have missed it completely... I might have kept striving, kept searching, never knowing I was already living pieces of what I’d been seeking all along.

If you don’t know what you love, you’re easier to sell to, easier to control, easier to shape.

When we step outside and immerse ourselves in nature’s wonders, we experience a quiet healing, a balm for the wounds we often carry but cannot name. There is something deeply soothing about the simplicity and purity of beauty—something that resonates with our very essence.

We’ve been raised in a world that treats the Earth like a resource to be used, not a being to be loved. Taught to consume, discard, and repeat—rarely pausing to witness the trail we leave behind. But the Earth is not a backdrop. She is a living, breathing, aching body—and she remembers every choice we make.

When "let them" becomes the entire posture we take toward one another — when we continually let people do whatever they want without any accountability or acknowledgment of impact — something sacred starts to unravel.

But when the economic blackouts began—collective calls to halt our spending in protest of policies that no longer serve the people or the planet—I felt a pull. Not a push. Not guilt or pressure. A pull. A whisper from deep within that said: what if you stopped feeding the system that is starving your soul?