Breaking Open 💫

✨Awakening✨

I was only a child when the world went quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t bring peace—

but the hush of something holy leaving the room.

The wind stopped singing the way it used to.

The trees, once my guardians, watched me with mourning in their limbs.

That was the day I ran.

Through mud, through memory, through mourning.

I ran with nothing but my heartbeat and the whisper of ancestors

in the soles of my bare feet.

I was running from the fire that took my blood.

From the shaking ground where the man who held me once

was taken in flame and silence.

I was running from the hollowness of hands

that used to fold in prayer but forgot how to hold me.

From people who spoke of love

but only stayed when it was easy.

No one could see the girl

with leaves in her hair and ash on her cheeks,

who knelt at the river and begged the water to answer.

“Where is God now?”

I listened for thunder.

Waited for miracles.

But the sky held its breath,

and the only thing that moved

was the ache in my chest.

So I kept running.

But what I didn’t know then

is that I wasn’t running away—

I was running toward something I hadn’t yet remembered.

Because somewhere between the cypress and the stars,

when my lungs gave way and my legs grew weak,

I fell into the arms of the earth.

And She held me.

Not with words. Not with promises.

But with moss and moonlight and the breath of all my grandmothers.

And I finally heard it—

the sound I thought I’d lost when my world burned down.

The voice that left me

was never God.

It was me.

The one who left was the girl

who thought she had to earn her place.

Who thought pain meant punishment.

Who thought her body was cursed

because the ones she trusted couldn’t carry her truth.

I wept until the ground beneath me softened.

Until the sky blinked stars back into being.

Until I remembered that my womb

was not just a wound—it was a well.

A portal. A prophecy.

That night, I did not beg the sky to take me.

I did not pray for someone to come save me.

Each tear a baptism. A release. A remembering.

I was not broken— I was breaking open.

I was not lost— I was returning.

I pulled myself from the roots.

I kissed my own hands.

And I made a promise under the singing pines:

I do not abandon me.

Not when the world forgets me.

Not when the men leave.

Not when the voices go quiet.

Not even when my faith unravels.

I do not run from my shadow.

I do not silence my spirit.

I do not betray my own knowing.

Because I am the daughter of storm and stillness.

The granddaughter of medicine women and bone-keepers.

The girl who once ran for her life

now walks with fire wrapped around her like a cloak.

I am not what was done to me.

I am what rose from it.

And I stay.

Here.

With her.

Always.

Walk Between Worlds 🗺️

 ✨Lifting the veil✨

There’s a little cemetery not far from the hum of town, where the pavement is old and the trees lean just enough to whisper.

It’s not spooky—it’s sacred.

That kind of stillness doesn’t come from silence,

but from watching.

The land there… it watches.

It was one of those days where the air doesn’t move.

Where Wisdom holds her breath.

And so did I.

I went out there to walk—not for steps, but for spirit.

My bones were restless, and my soul was louder than my thoughts.

I took to one of those long rows of cracked pavement that runs between the graves,

like the forgotten aisle of some ancient temple.

I took off my shoes …. And I closed my eyes.

Didn’t need them anyway.

Because in my mind—no, deeper than mind—in my knowing, I saw the feet.

Just a few feet ahead, walking barefoot like me, like those belonged to the dirt same as I did.

The feet moved with that kind of grace that doesn’t come from muscle—it comes from mission.

I told myself:

Just follow the feet, girl.

Don’t look around, don’t drift.

Keep your eyes (closed) on the rhythm of the walk, and you’ll stay centered.

And I did.

As long as I focused on the feet,

I stayed right between the grass.

Right on the path.

Right in the current.

But the minute I took my focus off the feet,

even just a flicker—

I wandered. 

The soles of my feet slid into the grass like I was being pulled sideways by the world.

And I knew right then,

this was more than a walk.

It was a lesson.

So I reset.

Breathed.

Centered.

Eyes closed.

Followed again.

⸻

Then it happened.

Not because I was lost—

but because I wanted to know.

I opened my eyes,

just to check.

I expected grass. 

Headstones. 

The same old stillness.

But what I saw was a collision of realms.

The graveyard was still there—clear as ever.

But laced over it, like spirit over skin, was something else.

A battle.

I’m not talking about drama.

I’m talking about war.

Cosmic war.

There were creatures I don’t have names for—

some looked human, some didn’t.

Some flew.

Some breathed fire.

Some moved like water or shadow or music or something older than time.

They were fighting with swords, with light, with energy I could feel vibrating in my ribs.

And they were everywhere.

Over me, around me,

as far as the eye—or soul—could stretch.

And me?

I was just walking.

In the middle of it.

Untouched.

Unbothered.

Unburned.

Not because I was strong.

But because I was in the lane where those feet had walked.

And that lane—that rhythm of the feet—was protected.

Shielded by something that doesn’t rust and doesn’t shake.

Not even in the fire.

⸻

It only lasted a second.

A breath.

A blink.

And just like that, the veil fell back down like a curtain.

The graves were still there.

The stillness returned.

But I had seen it.

And once you’ve seen behind the veil,

you never walk quite the same.

You start watching where you place your feet.

You start listening for footsteps that don’t echo in the dirt.

You realize there are battles being fought all around you—

and the victory isn’t always in the swing.

Sometimes, it’s in the walking.

The following.

The quiet, steady trust that if you keep your eyes on the truth, you’ll stay on the path set before you.