I didn’t think I would have the time

or energy to write this week. After all my end-of-winter travails, I’m stepping into a brand-new chapter — and I am genuinely excited about it.

I’m currently sitting in an Irish restaurant inside a Best Western Premier. I just finished a swim after a full day of training, and now it’s time to eat, reflect, and apparently… write.

Because this week, I’m becoming a Certified Peer Specialist.

This role requires certification through the Pennsylvania board, and for the most part, my week-long training is like a paid vacation, minus the paycheck. Even typing that fills me with hope. This isn’t just a class — it feels like the beginning of something real.

So what does that mean?

As a Peer Specialist, I’ll be helping people who experience mental health challenges navigate the obstacles of life. And as someone who is, without question, “mental” — with the prescriptions to prove it — I’m uniquely qualified as a peer.

For the first time, it feels like I’ve found work that allows me to use everything I’ve lived through — the hard parts, the messy parts, the “what the hell is happening” parts — and turn them into something meaningful… and yes, financially beneficial.

Finally, a job where my lived experience is not a liability — it’s the entire point.

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So what was I doing before?

Whenever I answer this question, it sounds vague and slightly unbelievable, but here goes:

I’ve been working primarily as a Psychic Advisor, Medium, Coach, podcaster, and writer. Over the past year, I made most of my income as an Ayurvedic Marma Touch and energy practitioner.

Which is basically therapeutic bodywork — gloves on, clothes on — considered medical treatment, but not covered by insurance. Which probably explains why I was paid so poorly.

I loved the work. Truly.

But love alone doesn’t build a future.

It barely paid the bills, and it didn’t allow me to expand my education, prepare for rainy days, or even receive treatment myself. I was also effectively tied to one doctor — which meant my livelihood depended on her health, schedule, and decisions.

So I spent a year figuring some shit out.

And now… I’m here.

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This week, I’ve been learning about the history of mental health care — and it’s both sobering and inspiring. In the 1700s, anyone considered “mentally defective” — or even physically different — was often hidden away in institutions and subjected to horrific treatment for life.

If I had been born back then —

rich and white, I likely would have been tucked away in a “disappointments room” if we were poor, I would have wound up in a dungeon like in the movie Shutter Island. Lord knows what would have happened I were Black and crazy in those days.

What’s remarkable is that the progress we see today didn’t just happen.

It was fought for.

Mental health patients and their families wrote, organized, advocated, and demanded change. Their courage created policies, protections, and entirely new ways of thinking. I am a direct beneficiary of their sacrifices and struggles.

Because of them, I can’t be hidden away.

I’m being trained.
I’m being hired.
I’m being empowered to help others.

And maybe most importantly — I’m still building something of my own.

T-shirts, books, workshops, retreats… cults — the possibilities are endless.

If you had told me years ago that I would one day be grateful for my mental health struggles, I would have suggested we trade places immediately.

But today, I see it differently.

What once felt like chaos now feels like initiation.

What once felt like limitation now feels like purpose.

What once felt like survival now feels like direction.

Nothing short of magic — and a lot of hard work — has lifted me toward an empowered and radiant future.

A future where I help others and build something meaningful.

To #LiveInLightened
And stay #SpiritualAF

Saturday, I went to a No Kings rally.

A protest to show the government that the people are… less than thrilled.

That’s putting it lightly.

I’ve been expressing my disgust the way I usually do—through writing, through reposting, through commentary. But this time, I wanted to be in it. Not just observing. Participating.

Now let me say this first.

Most Black people I know sat this one out.

Why?

Because we already knew what voting for Trump would mean. None of this is surprising. We’ve seen this before—historically, structurally, repeatedly.

And also? Because with the rising tide of persecution and detention of people of color, if a protest turns—even slightly rambunctious—the likelihood of who gets targeted isn’t random. It’s predictable.

But as many of you know…

I live a little dangerously.

So naturally, I decided to FAAFO.

Neon green and orange signs and all.

The original plan was Quakertown—my freedom-fighter friend Bev warned me it was going to be no joke, especially after the Quakertown Five made headlines. But Bev had to work, and I was not ready to fight for freedom at 9 a.m.

So instead, I found a 3 p.m. rally in Doylestown.

My new friend Lex invited me, and suddenly I wasn’t going alone.

That mattered.

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I’ve done protests solo before—and I would again—but there’s something about having someone beside you. A witness. A co-conspirator. Someone who will, quite literally, fight if needed.

Lex had my back.

When I voiced my hesitation as a Black woman, she didn’t minimize it. She said she’d protect me. That she would fuck anyone up if they tried to mess with me.

She is now my spirit animal.

When we got to the courthouse plaza…

I was stunned.

At least a thousand people.

And it was beautiful.

And also—

Gray.

So much gray.

The protest was overwhelmingly made up of boomers.

And listen—I love my boomers. They raised a generation of hard, resilient, take-no-shit humans. People still know not to mess with Gen X.

But somewhere along the way, the Boomer generation told us Xers to go forth and multiply… and I’m starting to wonder if that’s where all our energy went.

Because where were my peers?

I reached out. I invited people.

Silence.

And I don’t want to believe that my generation—the one raised on Rage Against the Machine, Tool, System of a Down—is now content to scroll, complain, and spectate.

I don’t want to believe we’ve swallowed the narrative that protests don’t matter.

But a lot of us have.

And we don’t even want to admit it.

Still—I found myself surprisingly at ease.

Snug as a bug in a rug in a sea of silver foxes and cougars.

There were even a few Black folks there.

And across the country, the numbers mattered.

Eight million people showed up.

Not the twelve million organizers hoped for—but enough to signal something.

Enough to say: we’re not all asleep.

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Now May 1st is coming.

A call for a general strike.

No work. No school. No spending.

A collective refusal to participate in a system that prioritizes profit over people.

And here’s where it gets uncomfortable.

I’m starting a new job in April.

So I have to ask myself:

Am I really not going to work on May 1st?

Will my peers forget? Shrug? Decide their individual action doesn’t matter—and click “Buy Now” anyway?

Will we leave this fight to aging boomers—people who could literally break a hip out there—while the younger, fully capable generations sit on the sidelines, paralyzed by apathy dressed up as practicality?

I don’t know what will happen.

But I know this:

I will keep showing up the way I know how.

I will write. I will speak. I will bear witness.

And when I do step out into the street—when I stand shoulder to shoulder with people who still believe this country can be better—

I’ll be there.

Masked.

Loud.

Head on a swivel.

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The last person was finally gone.

The room settled into that strange, padded quiet—machines breathing where I no longer had to. The steady chirp of the heart monitor marked time like I had something important to do.

Who knew dying would take so long.

I had said my goodbyes. Done the rounds. Closed the loops.
And still—there I was.

Waiting.

The curtain had rustled earlier. A nurse had come and gone—soft hands, softer voice.
All the words that meant:

we’re ready when you are—planning on going before shift change?

I couldn’t say much back. Didn’t need to.
It was my party. I could do what I wanted.

I was sleepy.
Comfortably numb with drugs.
Beautiful drugs.

I watched the light shift in the window.

It felt like the end.
Not dramatic.
Just… dimming.

“Ahem.”

Loud. Obnoxious. Persistent.

I didn’t move.
I really couldn’t.

A woman in white stood at the end of the bed—demanding my attention like she had been there the whole time. A polite distance away, as if my death could stain her Tom Ford pantsuit.

Untouchable.

“You were so gifted,” she said, voice smooth and certain, like she was stating the obvious.
“You could have shaped nations. Changed the world—if only you had given yourself fully.”

A slight tilt of her head sent her diamond drop earrings catching the sunset.

“Given yourself entirely. To the light. To the work. To what you were meant for.”

“Oh, please—”

A voice from the corner. Dark. Unimpressed.

A shape peeled itself out of the shadows.
Gray. Black. Heavy.
A hoodie. Slacks. Menacing accessories.

She stepped forward.

I knew this witchy bitch.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” she said, wry amusement curling at the edges.
“She would have cracked. Spectacularly.”

Another step into the soft light.

“She couldn’t even keep her own life clean.”

Suddenly—she was in my face.
Too close.

She leaned in and whispered, conspiratorial—

“You were messy as hell.”

Then gliding toward the woman in white—

“She should have been a maid,” she laughed, bracelets jangling.
“Constantly cleaning shit up. Damage control.”

I had hoped dying would be quieter, without the scathing commentary.

I let out a long breath—hoping it might be the last.

It wasn’t.

“You could have been extraordinary,” the woman in white continued, as if nothing had interrupted her.
“Disciplined. Refined. Beyond the needs of the body.”

A soft, pitying smile.

“Wasn’t the food of the spirit adequate sustenance?”

A bark of laughter.

“Adequate?”

She was perched at the foot of my bed now—a dark, weighty presence settling in.

“There is nothing on this planet that would have ever been ‘adequate’ for you.”

The bitch would use air quotes.

Leaning closer—slow, deliberate—

“One was too many. A thousand was never enough—you learned that, right?”

Not waiting for an answer.

“You tried indulgence. Then deprivation.”

A noisy shrug.

“You never got it right—yet you called it growth.”

I winced. That landed.

The monitor kept chirping—steady, indifferent—counting down what was left of me.
I wished it would just stop.

With perfect poise and just the right amount of scolding, the woman in the ludicrously expensive suit said,

“You knew better.”

Her voice dropped. Not kinder—just quieter.

“The love of the Universe is the only unconditional love but you kept returning to people.”

God, I loved that suit.

“And she refused to be what people needed her to be,” the other one snapped.

Swinging her crossed leg—jostling my bed—she examined her nails.

“She refused to bend. Refused to stay.”

Abruptly stilling, she leaned closer and accused:

“And then you acted surprised when you were all alone.”

My vision blurred.

I remembered.

The conversations.
The choices.
The losses.

I could not become what others wanted and remain myself.

The murky bitch knew that.
And liked to forget.

“You were meant for more,” the sharply dressed woman said, almost sadly, gliding closer to my head but still keeping her distance.

“For leadership. For impact.”

A faint smile.

“You could have changed everything.”

“I’ll give her that,”

the other one said, snark curling through her voice.
“If you really believed all that stuff you wrote and said, you could have worked harder.
Been sharper. More disciplined. More ambitious. More—”

Her voice trailed off.

I was about to thank the Universe for her silence when she suddenly leapt from the foot of the bed and was back in my face again.

“But you didn’t. And you weren’t.”

She clearly was not concerned with the personal space of a dying woman.

Something shifted in her face.
Not approval.
But not quite contempt either.

“You wanted to do things your way.”

If I could have sat up, I would have.

Instead—I laughed.

As in life, I always managed to laugh at exactly the right—or wrong—moment.

I had imagined the end differently.

An IMAX experience with Dolby surround sound.
A sweeping montage.
A final, meaningful review.

Instead—this.

A tête-à-tête with the two versions of me.

Neither of whom had ever had to live a single day of my life.

Now, better late than never, I saw:

They were formidable.
Loud. Convincing. Relentless.

And I had given them so much power—over and over again.

They spoke truth.

I wanted what the woman in white promised.
To be extraordinary. Untouchable.
To wear beautifully expensive clothes.
To be right.
To change the world.
To embody something pure by rising above… everything.

But I knew that could never happen.

And I liked the one who had no problem getting into my bed.

The bitch.

She was fierce.
Aware of my failings, my indulgences, my stupid mistakes.
She knew where I would fall short, give in, abandon myself.

And yet—

she was also unfailingly protective and loyal in that toxic, dysfunctional way.

It was maddening.

A Sisyphean task—trying to reconcile them both.
Trying to be effective.
Trying to be enough.
Trying to become something that could satisfy either of them and finally shut them up.

Then—something inside me softened.

Warmth spread through what was left of me.
Not dramatic. Possibly divine. An… ease.

My assignment, in this skin, was to be human.

To strive, stumble, take, give, stop when needed, and persist when I could.

It was not to be perfect—but to do my best. And my best was always on a spectrum.

I had shown up.

I inhabited every moment I could—with synapses firing, nerves tingling, spine flexing, heart breaking, and body decaying.

My mistakes became boons. My boons made me sharper, more precise—more me.

And through it all—

I existed.

Relentlessly.

My voice, once my unfailing strength, was now small and thin from dying.

I managed to exhale one final shape:

“Thank you.”

My best frenemies dissolved back into wherever they came from.

And I closed my eyes—for my next big adventure.

Read Ilona’s post here!

The Pebble in Your Shoe

She's Been Waiting to Meet You

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a month ago · 37 likes · 40 comments · Ilona Goanos

There was a time

when I believed in interdependence the way fairy tales teach you to believe in love.

Not as a skill. Not as a negotiated agreement. Not as a conscious practice.

But as an inevitability.

I absorbed it from television shows, Disney movies, books, religious teachings, and prosperous neighborhoods where everyone appeared aligned and supported. The message was subtle but constant: we belong to one another. People partner. Communities protect. Effort is mutual.

I did not question it. I inherited it.

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The Myth We Inherited

When I was young, the stories all ended the same way — with collaboration rewarded and isolation corrected. If someone struggled, someone else stepped in. If there was conflict, it resolved through understanding. If you showed up with sincerity, the collective met you there.

That mythology formed an expectation: that maturity meant deeper partnership. That adulthood meant shared burden. That growth meant mutual investment.

But adulthood did not unfold that way.

The Betrayal of the Narrative

At some point, I began to notice something disorienting.

People were not automatically invested in one another’s becoming.

There was no collective obligation to support growth. No default setting of reciprocity. In many cases, there was no interest.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply… absent.

And that absence felt like betrayal — not because someone promised something and withdrew it, but because I had been operating from a script that was never universally agreed upon.

The disillusionment wasn’t about other people failing.

It was about realizing I had built expectations on inherited mythology.

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The Fragmented Collective

We live in a culture that praises community but structurally rewards isolation.

Everyone is juggling multiple plotlines — work, health, family, finances, survival. There is no singular protagonist arc like in the stories. There are dozens.

Interdependence requires bandwidth.

Bandwidth requires stability.

Stability is increasingly scarce.

So what we often call “community” is proximity without responsibility.

Connection without investment.

Conversation without collaboration.

The Reckoning

This is the quiet reckoning:

Interdependence is not automatic.

It is chosen.

It must be negotiated, clarified, and reciprocated.

Not everyone wants it.

Not everyone can sustain it.

And that is not a moral failing.

It is information.

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What We Build Now

The real shift for me has been this:

Instead of assuming mutuality, I assess for it.

Instead of expecting partnership, I clarify capacity.

Instead of dissolving into disappointment, I build from sovereignty.

And here is the hopeful part — this shift has not made me cynical. It has made me precise.

Recently, I entered a connection differently. I did not assume shared vision. I did not project future collaboration. Though it was difficult, I asked direct questions. I named my needs. I listened for congruence instead of chemistry.

Some people quietly stepped back.

One person leaned in.

Not dramatically. Not with promises. But with consistency.

That experience changed everything.

Because real interdependence did not feel like a fairy tale.

It felt calm.

It felt negotiated.

It felt mutual.

Interdependence, when balanced, is stabilizing — and stability is powerful.

But sovereignty must come first — standing firmly emotionally, financially, and spiritually, capable of withstanding collapse when others cannot meet you.

Otherwise, we are not collaborating.

We are hoping.

And hope without discernment is just another inherited myth.

Discernment, however — that is where chosen partnership begins.

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There’s something unsettling—but telling—

about living in a world where your nervous system relaxes most fully during eleven seasons of a zombie apocalypse.

I used to scroll Instagram to unwind. Porch-package thieves getting caught. Ferrets doing ferret things. Low-stakes chaos. Then my algorithm went feral, and now it’s a steady diet of Epstein files, the Heritage Foundation, ICE raids, and the persistent awareness that most of us are one bad week away from being deeply unprepared for a real crisis.

So yes, I rewatch The Walking Dead. Not because I want the world to end—but because, in many ways, it already feels like it has.

Here’s why a fictional apocalypse is starting to feel more coherent than real life.

1. Accountability still exists

In The Walking Dead, you can exploit people for a while—but not indefinitely. Eventually, the group pushes back. Or the environment does. Or your cruelty simply catches up with you.

Justice isn’t perfect, but it’s not abstract. Consequences are visible. Accountability isn’t delayed for decades or buried under legal process—it arrives, sometimes brutally, but undeniably.

Compare that to real life, where power often insulates itself indefinitely and “eventually” starts to feel like never.

2. Reproduction isn’t treated as a moral obligation

When survival is the priority, no one demands an explanation for why you don’t have kids. Children aren’t status symbols or proof of adulthood—they’re a logistical reality that requires resources, protection, and consent.

No one is policing wombs. No one is romanticizing sacrifice. Parenthood is a choice with consequences, not a mandate wrapped in shame.

That alone feels radical.

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3. People are valued for what they can do—not who they are

In the show, immigrants and people of color aren’t treated as threats or afterthoughts. They’re integrated, relied upon, and given full story arcs. Skills matter. Adaptability matters. Community contribution matters.

In a survival-based system, exclusion is inefficient. Bigotry is a liability. Competence wins.

It’s worth asking why this logic makes perfect sense in fiction—and remains controversial in reality.

4. Money loses its meaning

Once the system collapses, hoarded wealth becomes useless. What matters instead: cooperation, skill-sharing, mutual defense, and a basic agreement not to be an asshole.

Life becomes smaller, harder—and strangely more honest. No billionaires abstracting resources. No endless upward extraction. Just people negotiating how to live together without destroying one another.

It’s grim, yes. But it’s also clear.

5. The choices are visible

The villains in The Walking Dead—like the Saviors—aren’t subtle. They’re armed, coercive, and explicit about exploitation. And because of that, the options are clear: resist, submit, escape, or fight back.

In real life, systems of domination are murkier. They wear suits. They speak in policy language. They outsource violence and call it order. The choices feel thinner: comply quietly, resist and be punished, disappear, or hope it doesn’t touch you.

Ambiguity becomes its own form of control.

So no—I’m not rooting for a zombie apocalypse.

But I am saying this: when fictional collapse feels more navigable than real systems, it’s worth asking what that says about the world we’re currently trying to survive.

Because if a show about the undead feels more humane than reality, the problem isn’t the fantasy.
It’s the structure we’ve normalized.

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about intuition and crumbles because writing has been hard lately—apparently I needed a challenge.

Life has been life-ing.

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When I got sick this winter, I realized my neat little life had some holes in it. Nothing like an unexpected act of nature to show you where your defenses aren’t actually defending.

During Snowmageddon 2026, ( post forthcoming)

I learned that my “dream job” was only a dream then—not necessarily for now, or tomorrow. Pipes burst and flooded my apartment twice in three days. Then I tweaked my back on what had become an ice rink in my garage.

Plans, relationships, and my future were salvageable but kept crumbling the moment I touched them.

My body resisted, but intuition knew—so I surrendered.

I doom-scrolled about the state of the world

—Epstein, ICE, the Heritage Foundation, doomsday prepping. I soothed myself with The Walking Dead because at least I wasn’t scavenging for food or fighting off zombies. Lying on my grounding mat, trying to heal my aching back, I was reminded again—a quiet nagging beneath my screaming ego: surrender.

Then I looked at my fridge: eggs, butter, condiments.
My wallet: five dollars and a debit card begging to be used.
My stomach: craving everything.

My pants: tight.

My week: full.

And I remembered.

I went to the grocery store and bought a bag of apples.

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I chopped them up. I mixed flour, butter, and sugar—pantry staples—and made an apple crumble, eating it straight from the dish with deep appreciation.

Because this, too, is surrender.

I may not have what I want, or even what I think I need, but I know—bone deep—that I’m going to be alright. Better than alright. I’m going to be great.

This is my turn to stretch, to lean, to grow, and to let life be what it is. Intuitively—before evidence, before reassurance—I know the rough stretch ends. It always does.

And if surrender sometimes tastes like apple crumble, then surrender is worth practicing more often.

Warm, full, and steady—
for my spiritual, mental, and emotional health.

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It’s the third week of January

and 2026 has not filled me with the thrill of adventure I hoped it would.

Which, if I’m being honest, is irrational.

I have said — repeatedly — that winter is a time for reflection, hibernation, and rest. And yet I wanted the opposite. Momentum. Expansion. A clean, explosive takeoff into the new year.

Luckily, the Universe takes special care of babies and lunatics, and has given me exactly what I need — not what I want.

Some of you may have noticed that the blog posts and podcast episodes haven’t resumed their usual rapid-fire rollout.

That’s not an accident.

It’s because I can’t. Not right now.

Between shadow work, writing boot camp, fighting off sickness, and enduring (then actively dismantling) my inner critic, I’ve been required to slow the fuck down. To tend the soil so that when planting season comes, something can actually grow.

And in that slowing, I learned something important — about how I live, and about how I write.

I learned, in order to survive, that it was essential to assess situations quickly and take action without delay. Speed mattered. Lingering didn’t feel safe. There wasn’t much room to monitor or stay with sensation, emotion, or internal response.

Those things were present — but only as data points, not states of existence.

That pattern shaped my writing more than I realized.

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By not staying with sensation, feeling, or observation, I was skipping over the very place where nuance lives — where insight can emerge without being forced into meaning. I was jumping straight to conclusions, fixes, and summaries.

And then this landed for me:

That habit was adaptive.
It wasn’t a flaw.
It was intelligence under pressure.

You learned to register change fast and move immediately because lingering once carried risk. When harm is possible, speed matters more than nuance.

So your system optimized for early detection, rapid adjustment, and minimal exposure.

That’s not pathology.
That’s survival literacy.

What’s happening now isn’t that I’m “doing it wrong.”

It’s that I’m operating with a high-performance reflex in a low-threat environment — and the reflex is outrunning the moment.

My body learned to notice, fix, and move.

This work is teaching something else: to notice, stay, and let meaning emerge.

That middle step — stay — was never safe before.

So when I feel the urge to jump to conclusions, interpretations, or protective narratives, that’s not impatience.

That’s a well-trained nervous system closing the loop early.

This writing pattern turned out to be a shadow I didn’t know was a shadow. Jumping straight to resolution. Treating states of being as problems to solve instead of moments to inhabit.

And here’s the reframe that changed everything:

Staying longer with what has changed is not the same as staying in danger.

Exposing sensation, emotion, even simple observation — on the page or person to person — has uncovered a vulnerability that requires gentleness. And trust. And grace.

I’m good at one of those things.

I’m still learning the others.

So I’m sharing this not to ask forgiveness for producing less content, but to offer you something more intimate instead: the truth of what it looks like to stay when your system learned to survive by moving fast.

For those of you who have been here, committed to #liveinlightened and being #spiritualAF, know this:

This is my Luminous Reckoning.

Not the polished insight.
Not the triumphant return.

An offering, not an assignment:

You’re allowed to take longer than you think you should — especially if moving fast once kept you safe.

You might gently ask yourself:

Where in my life do I move quickly not because I’m impatient, but because staying once carried risk?

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a hothouse orchid.

The kind that needs just the right temperature, humidity, and sustenance to grow.
Without those things, I don’t simply die — I languish.

I languish in the knowing of what could have been:
radiant petals, expansion, a life fully lived.

That’s the thing about orchids.
You have to get it just right.

I wish I were a daffodil.
Or even a tulip.

They’re easy.
You stick them in the dirt, ignore them for a while, and they emerge anyway.

They just do — simply because.

I have spent much of my life treating myself like a tulip,
hoping that quiet, cold earth would be enough.

It isn’t.
Not even close.

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I need a lot just to be —
and sometimes that makes me angry.

I need sleep.
Lots of it.
Sometimes more than once a day.

I need food — not much, but variety.
Different flavors and textures to keep me from drifting into a binge.

I need soft voices and happy voices, angry voices too.
Hearty handshakes.
Surprising hugs.
The occasional pat on the ass.

I need warmth — lots of it —
but not the kind that constrains or limits my movement.

I need stability and surprise, fun and quiet.
Chaos and order — in that sequence, weekly.

I need.
I need.
I need.

I am not a tulip.
I am not a daffodil.

I am a complex organism that requires tenderness and care —
more than an ice cube once a week.

Knowing this has been this week’s revelation.
Accepting it may be this lifetime’s reckoning.

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As I narrow in on my desires this year,
I’m learning more about myself than ever before.

I see how much I still need to learn —
and embrace —
in order to bloom not just effectively, but radiantly.

It makes me smile, just a little, to realize I’m not “too much.”

I’m just an orchid.

Tulips and daffodils are beautiful — they make my heart sing.
But understanding that I’m an orchid — the unicorn of flowers — explains a lot.

And it gives me permission to seek the care I need to bloom.

I’ve been thinking about what happens when systems are built for tulips and orchids are asked to adapt. More on that soon.

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As we come to the end of this calendar year,

I find myself reflecting on my life and what I have learned. The thought that has stirred me most—and kept me awake at night—is this: it is likely that I will be alive ten years from now, at age fifty-five.

When I allowed myself to imagine what my life might look like then, I noticed something unexpected. I no longer felt consumed by fear about whether I could survive. For the first time, I could imagine a life shaped not just by endurance, but by achievement.

For the past four decades,

I have lived in a literal holding pattern—holding on to my sanity, my sense of self, my ability to work, my capacity to belong. Every facet of my life was tinged with the fear that I would fail to manage these essential parts, and that failure would be punished with real suffering.

Every birthday wish, every opportunity, every small blessing carried the same plea: don’t fuck it up. If I could just keep it together—pay the phone bill, have enough gas, stay employed, maintain connection—then maybe I could justify my existence.

But in these past few weeks, as I’ve reflected on the year behind me, I’ve realized something quietly radical: those fears, while still present, are no longer the driving force of my life.

I have reached a place where

I genuinely believe I am capable—through effort, through support seen and unseen—of receiving what I need to make it through each day.

I have been given my daily bread.

I trust my ability to connect with other humans. By releasing rigid expectations of how I should be treated, I’ve discovered confidence in my side of the equation. I show up honestly. I am desirable in my truth.

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I also know now that as long as I have hands, legs, and a functioning mind, I can create revenue—through my own offerings or by serving others. There is always a way for me to participate in my own well-being.

With the fear of survival finally loosening its grip, I have space—real space—to dream of a future devoted to purpose rather than mere existence.

And that scares the shit out of me.

The fear whispers that this confidence is temporary, or poorly timed. That I’ve misread the moment. That I should return my focus to vigilance and basics. This is the old voice—born of ego, core wounds, and loyal shadow-demons that once kept me alive.

I listen to them.
And then I choose to act anyway.

The deeper fear is this: that I won’t know what I want. That I lack the practice of dreaming. That faced with too many possibilities, I’ll freeze—terrified of choosing wrong.

Because to dream is to risk failure.

And even worse—to risk success.

I have never been this woman before.

Much of my fear, and much of my joy, comes from knowing there is no roadmap for the path I’m walking. There are markers, yes—wisdom to heed—but the way forward is not predefined.

The tension of this moment is cultivating parts of me that survival never allowed. The parts long hidden beneath hyper-vigilance.

For the first time, I am living—not just managing. I am experimenting. Innovating for the sake of beauty. Creating to please my eye, enrich lives, and craft a legacy.

Everything I have lived has led me here.

And through the fear, I will walk.
Through the fear, I will learn.
Through the fear, I will learn to love my humanity.

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The emotional weather this week is… complicated.

Everyone wants to feel grateful — or at least pretend they do — but the truth is, everything feels hard right now. Life takes more effort than it used to. People are exhausted, stretched thin, and doing their best to squeeze meaning out of situations that feel more like obligation than celebration.

Prices are high. Traffic is feral. The government is running shenanigans. Some of our friends fear deportation. And the “be grateful!” messaging plastered everywhere only intensifies the ache.
The truth is: people are tired, scared, hopeful, lonely, overwhelmed… and still trying to show up.

This isn’t just this generation. It’s all of us.
Trying to make the most out of a shitty situation while hoping the next few weeks might bring a spark of relief.

And layered on top of that?
The social pressure to perform gratitude.
The façade of magnanimous holiday spirit.
The temporary cultural amnesia around race, gender, politics, and the state of the world — as if November magically neutralizes everything complicated.

No one knows what’s true.
No one knows what can be trusted.
And many people don’t know whether they can meet the demands life is asking of them.

So if gratitude feels heavy this week, you’re not alone.
You’re simply honest.

When You Don’t Feel Grateful — Don’t Fake It

When gratitude isn’t available to me, I honor it.
I sit with the data inside the discomfort.

Those feelings contain valuable information.
They’re not moral failures — they’re messages.

Sometimes I need to see someone worse off than me to re-anchor perspective.
Sometimes I just get through the day, trusting my mind will change tomorrow.
Sometimes it’s just one task at a time — get home, don’t cause harm, get to bed, try again in the morning.

Gratitude isn’t a performance.
It’s a natural byproduct of clarity, rest, and truth.
And some days? Truth is all I have.

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The Holiday Room Where You Feel Like a Stranger

Many holidays, I feel disconnected — not because I don’t love my family, but because I know they’re not my safe place.

They don’t know me the way my chosen family does.
And sometimes it feels like they don’t care to.

It hurts. It’s real.
And underneath that sadness lives a longing:
I want them to be a safe place. I want them to want to know me.

Every year, I have to sit with the resentment that flares when I accommodate their needs more than they accommodate mine.
The inequity of those dynamics stands up tall during the holidays.

But so does the truth:
They’re not as bad as I sometimes feel they are,
nor as good as I wish they could be.

And like me, they are doing the best they can with what they have.

The Bullshit Myth of the “Seasonal Miracle”

I don’t buy the holiday myth that compassion only counts this time of year.

The “Christmas miracle” conditioning — that special magic is possible now, that kindness suddenly matters now, that people should finally be on their best behavior now — drives me wild.

Magic happens all year.
Respect and kindness shouldn’t be seasonal.
And transformation isn’t a holiday special.

This isn’t a Hail Mary moment for redemption before the new year.

This is the culmination of a year’s worth of personal work.
A time to honor what you’ve learned,
what you’ve survived,
and what you’re choosing differently.

Tradition isn’t a cage — it’s an optional ritual.
And you get to outgrow the ones that no longer fit.

What I Want You to Remember This Week

You are allowed to behave in a way that lets you sleep peacefully at night.
You are allowed to prioritize feeling good in your own skin.
You are allowed to take your time with whatever emotions show up.

Everything you notice is information — not a command.

There is no need for impulsive action on emotions that are simply asking to be witnessed.

The Hard Truth I Learned About Belonging This Year

The more I feel good in my own skin, the more connected I feel to the world around me.

When I like me, I trust that others might too.
When I dislike myself, I assume everyone else will find a reason to.

Perspective shapes belonging more than circumstance.
And perspective changes — always.

My job is simple:

• Tell the truth to at least one trusted person.

• Let people who love me offer their wisdom.

• Don’t act out in ways that cause harm.

• Wait for the emotional weather to shift.

• Start again when it does.

You won’t feel like this forever.
And you won’t be this version of you next year.

The Spiritual Angle (Mel-Style)

You can get through this week while maintaining your integrity.

It might not feel good,
but you do not have to perpetuate harms — to yourself or others.

Discomfort is not failure.
It’s information.
It’s transformation beginning its slow turn.

This week isn’t about gratitude.
It’s about honesty, self-respect, and sovereign presence.

A Quiet Offering for Your Heart

You have permission to examine what shows up.
To honor it.
To treat yourself and others with respect and kindness — to the best of your ability.

Feel what you feel.
You are not breaking.
You are healing.

And your healing is vital to your life force.

For as long as human culture has existed, society has tried to explain women —

to categorize us, label us, rationalize our existence in ways that fit systems never designed with us in mind.

And the moment a woman’s fertility shifts, the world doesn’t try to understand her.
It tries to place her.
To define her usefulness.
To decide what she’s still “good for.”

In that scramble, one explanation has taken root across both science and culture:

The Grandmother Hypothesis.

The Myth of Utility — What the Grandmother Hypothesis Gets Wrong

The hypothesis suggests women live long after their reproductive years because grandmothers help raise grandchildren.
So nature “keeps” them around.

It sounds flattering at first — a scientific gold star for being helpful — but look more closely:

It still frames women’s longevity as valuable only when it serves someone else.

It reduces the post-fertile woman to a:

• helper

• caretaker

• emotional engine

• biological bonus round

Its underlying message?

“You can live longer… as long as you’re useful.”

This isn’t just a scientific oversight.
It’s cultural conditioning — the reflexive expectation that women must serve to deserve space.

But the hypothesis fails to consider something far larger, far wilder, far more evolutionary:

What if women outlive their fertility not because they care for others —
but because the pause transforms them into something evolutionary itself?

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The Evolution They Forgot to Consider — The Pause as an Upgrade

Perimenopause, menopause, and post-menopause are not signs of decline.
They are stages of adult development unique to women — not mirrored in men, not echoes of adolescence, not breakdowns.

When my own body began shifting, I didn’t feel deterioration.
I felt refinement.

The pause brings:

• hormonal recalibration

• emotional clarity

• sensory sharpening

• bullshit intolerance rising like a tide

• intuition strengthened

• energy redirecting toward meaning over maintenance

These aren’t “symptoms.”
They’re upgrades.

Women in this transition become:

• clearer

• braver

• less socially conditioned

• less tolerant of exploitation

• more aligned with their inner authority

Women become less influenced by reproductive hormones — and more influenced by truth as it presents itself directly, individually, unapologetically.

And that is what makes the world uncomfortable.

A woman resonating with a value system not rooted in outside approval cannot be managed.

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The Discomfort With Women Who Age Into Sovereignty

Cultures built on managing women destabilize when women reach a life stage where they cannot — or refuse to — be managed.

A woman in the pause is:

• harder to manipulate

• harder to placate

• harder to silence

• harder to distract

• harder to push into unpaid emotional labor

She sees systems clearly.
She reads people instantly.
She acts with precision.

This is why peri-, meno-, and post-menopause become culture’s favorite catch-alls of dismissal:

Strong emotions? Must be hormones.
Boundaries? Must be declining desirability.
Refusing to play small, perform softness, or tolerate nonsense? Must be imbalance.

It’s easier for society to blame hormones than to acknowledge reality:

The pause marks a consolidation of a woman’s power —
and that threatens hierarchies dependent on her pliability.

The Truth Beneath the Pause

The purpose of the pause isn’t to prepare a woman to raise someone else’s children.

It prepares her to step into her next incarnation.

The post-fertile woman is not diminished.
She is distilled.

A woman who:

• sees in wider arcs

• loves with sharper boundaries

• moves with cleaner motives

• recognizes herself without apology

• speaks in her true voice

A woman does not outlive her fertility because she becomes less necessary.

She outlives her fertility because she becomes more whole, more discerning, more disruptive, more creative, more influential — more fiercely human — than any hypothesis has dared to name.

Her longevity isn’t a biological afterthought.

It is an evolutionary strategy.
It is the point.

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We spend half our lives

chasing the version of ourselves we thought we were scripted to become — the one promised by movies, television, and storybooks, where love is tidy, purpose is obvious, and healing happens in thirty minutes or less.

Many of us were raised to believe we should be managing it all with grace, certainty, and clarity — and that we’re failing at life if we can’t.

That belief didn’t come from nowhere.

We were raised on a steady diet of stories that implied that, to “win” at life, we must achieve linear and coherent order in every facet of existence. In those worlds, problems were clear, resolutions satisfying, and every character knew their role.

Needing an escape,

many of us turned to those same stories — TV, movies, and books — for comfort. Instead, we immersed ourselves even deeper in the illusion that linear and coherent order was possible. Unknowingly, we doubled down on the programming — the coercion and manipulation — that ultimately helped us deny our own humanity.

But real life doesn’t follow a script.

The Universe seldom creates anything with straight lines. And the hangover from believing that “life should” is starting to ache in our bones.

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The Illusion of Should

We know TV, movies, even memoirs aren’t real, yet they still colonize our subconscious. They teach us to measure our worth by how closely our lives resemble a story that makes sense. Somewhere along the way, “linear and coherent order” shapeshifted into a thousand tiny directives—the shoulds.

I should have it together by now.
I should be happier.
I should know what I want.
I should forgive faster, heal quicker, move on already.

Every should is a tiny whip, dressed up as wisdom.

It sounds virtuous, responsible, adult—but underneath it’s just the illusion tightening its grip. The “shoulds” are how the illusion polices us. They keep us performing compliance instead of embodying alignment and truth.

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When reality doesn’t match the script,

we feel defective and betrayed. To hide the shame of our imperfection—and our imagined fault in that betrayal—we try to control the damage, the narrative, the perception of our lives. The “shoulds” whisper that if we were better, calmer, more disciplined, we could make it all line up.

So we censor our thoughts

internally and hide them externally. We isolate, afraid to enter a scene without knowing the lines or the dress code. We lie to avoid misunderstanding or the exposure of an unpopular truth. We rehearse versions of ourselves and refuse to engage until they’re flawless.

The “shoulds” call it adulting, responsibility, winning—but it’s really fear masquerading as purpose.

And here’s the cruelest part:

the “shoulds” don’t make us better—they make us brittle. They fracture our authenticity into smaller, more palatable pieces. We confuse control with connection, order with safety, perfection with peace.

Control becomes the hangover cure that keeps us sick.

Reclamation

Depleted, discouraged, disappointed, and exhausted, our despair becomes holy. The realization hits: no amount of striving, self-recrimination, or isolation will ever make the illusion manifest. The “shoulds” never will—and that’s when the gift of desperation enters. We finally become willing to surrender and embrace what actually is.

We give ourselves permission to

loosen our grip on the “shoulds” and the ideals that only exist in film, TV, and books. We forgive ourselves for hiding from the wreckage, denying that the solution was there all along—waiting for us to look at it, sort through it, and dig our hands into the mess. Slowly, we begin to perceive the pinpricks of light and hope that glitter through our perspectives as we empower ourselves to cease management and start participation.

Sovereignty is born

when we remember alignment is more effective than control. When we choose the messy because it yields our truth and reveals our courage. Sovereignty is reclaimed when we find the levity in the wreckage that often resembles our lives.

So forgive yourself for loving

your shows, your stories, your escapes— they taught you how to dream. Just don’t let them dictate how you live. Release the illusions, again and again if you must.

Then gently choose an act of reclamation.

Something rooted in surrender, acceptance, levity, or curiosity until what’s left is the truest version of you and your life feels like your own: imperfect, sovereign, loving and free.

I heart ♥️s ! I hope you like this post!

There’s a lot of talk right now about the loneliness epidemic —

how people, especially men, are feeling increasingly isolated, disconnected, and unseen. But loneliness isn’t new. It’s just louder now, echoing through a culture that’s more connected than ever and somehow still starving for intimacy. I’ve felt that ache too — the kind that sits somewhere between your ribs and your throat, whispering that this is your lot in life, what you deserve, your penance for some slight or misstep in your lifetime.

But what I’ve learned, slowly and sometimes painfully,

is that being alone is not the same as being with yourself. What we call loneliness is just an invitation into deeper presence. One feels like punitive absence. The other — the grace of presence.

Being with yourself requires initiation —

and it can be uncomfortable as hell. At first, it can feel like being lost in a bad neighborhood, surrounded by a gang of hoodlums dressed in the rival colors of your thoughts. You’re destined to belong here, but first, you have to get jumped in. These thoughts will pummel and kick you; they’ll try to annihilate you until you realize — they are you.

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This is where a positive and supportive belief

about your place in the world — preferably one where you understand that you are guided, protected, and loved simply because you exist — shows up. Amid the slaps and cuffs of your own mind, you begin to see that these thoughts aren’t here to destroy you but to teach you. To show you avenues of choice, renewal, and revitalization.

Eventually, things begin to soften.

You start to see that what lives inside your head isn’t your enemy but your greatest lesson. And in order to keep those lessons, you’ll want to share them. Because every time you share, you witness yourself again — and each time you do, you learn how to drop the pretense, allow your mental neighborhood to be gentrified, and live in a place of mindful action rather than protective performance.

When you finally start to make peace with your own company,

something mystical happens — you realize you were never actually alone. There’s a quiet hum beneath everything, a frequency of presence that’s been waiting for you to tune back in. Call it God, Buddha, Satan, Science, the Universe, your higher self — whatever name doesn’t make you throw up in your mouth a little bit.

The label doesn’t matter; the feeling does.

It’s that subtle recognition that you are being witnessed, guided, protected, and even amused by something bigger than your own mortality. And once you perceive that slender thread of connection, even for just a breath, you can allow loneliness to transform into sacred solitude.

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The physical abatement of loneliness begins when,

upon truly witnessing yourself, you realize you are a part of this world — not apart from it. If you’ve had the courage to brave the gang in your own mind, then the gangs of humans outside of it are going to be a cakewalk. Start by identifying your own interests and curiosities, then seek out others who share them. That’s how connection begins — through resonance, not performance.

But again, this takes courage.

It’s perfectly fine — even sacred — to enjoy and thrive in your newfound solitude. Still, the lessons you’ve learned in that quiet are meant to be shared. What you’ve discovered about yourself has value, and that value expands through communion. So persevere, stay curious, and diligently search for the niches that fit your fancy. Because each time you step toward others with authenticity, you honor the truth that healed you: connection is just presence, multiplied.

The Hard Work of Connection

That forming connections with ourselves and with other human beings is hard work — requiring courage, grace, and perseverance — cannot be overstated. As adults, we’ve outgrown the luxury of making convenient, fast friends just because we share a class, a grade, or even a neighborhood.

As children, we were blank slates.

Now we’re coated with experiences, behaviors, and beliefs that shape our personalities — and not all personalities mesh easily. So yes, we must use discernment and approach new interactions with curiosity and compassion.

If we persist, we are almost always guaranteed

to find at least one person with whom we can enjoy meaningful connection. This, in my opinion, is the antidote to the growing wave of loneliness — particularly among men. You don’t need a cabal of characters to feel the benefits of belonging. Sometimes all it takes is one person — someone with whom you share mutual resonance and recognition — to change everything.

Someone who helps shoulder the weight

of bachelorhood, fatherhood, manhood, humanity. Someone to bounce ideas off of, to stretch you emotionally, physically, vocationally, and spiritually. Someone to share downtime with — a phone call, a walk in the park, a meal at the end of the week. Small, frequent moments of connection designed to heal, uplift, and empower.

Loneliness will still visit from time to time —

that’s just part of being human. It’s designed to strip us down so we can rebuild connection with ourselves and create purpose-full connections. When we do, we learn to meet humanity with softer eyes and steadier hands — to stop begging to belong, and instead recognize who belongs with us.

So choose to release the idea of being alone —

or feeling lonely — as punishment. Instead, let it be your greatest teacher. Allow what you discover to be a pathway to your greatest good — toward a more empowered, joyful, and purposeful life as you #LiveInLightened and #SpiritualAF.

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When I used to think of ritual,

my mind went straight to secret societies like the Illuminati or the witches from Hocus Pocus. Rituals were for the chosen ones — the kind of people who floated three inches off the ground, spoke in light language, and probably glowed in the dark.

I was not that person.

But here’s the thing: I am full of ritual.
And surprisingly? They work.

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The Three Keys to Ritual

• Intention – Why am I doing this? Even admitting I’m confused and seeking clarity is still intention. Honesty carries power.

• Consistency – Not every day, not every cosmic event — just a steady rhythm that shows devotion to yourself and Spirit.

• Trust – If you don’t trust that your rituals connect you to something greater and serve your highest good… then why bother?

Ritual isn’t about being a scholar or an acolyte. It’s about showing up honestly, giving your actions weight, and trusting the Universe to meet you where you are.

My Everyday Rituals

They’re not dramatic. No secret languages, no ceremonial robes. But paired with intention and consistency, they root me, heal me, and keep me connected.

The Shower Conversation

Every morning, Spirit and I meet in the shower. It’s my listening space. No shower = no grounding. I come out cleansed, but also clear.

Salt-Water Cleanse

After readings or heavy social energy, I pour salt water over myself to wash away what isn’t mine and restore what is. Simple. Powerful. Done.

Before-Work Centering

Reading a page of inspiration and praying the St. Francis prayer before seeing clients keeps my ego in check and my energy from draining. Without it? I end the day fried. With it? I end the day, braised or lightly seared.

FaceTime Connection

Every night I video call my friend and her family. It’s chaotic, imperfect, and sometimes just me listening in. But it’s ritual. It tells me: I’m loved. I belong.

The Evening Rubdown

Oils, magnesium, maybe a massage tool. Sometimes just a quick rub on my hands and feet. It’s not vanity — it’s self-respect in action. My body is sacred housing. This ritual tells the Universe: I am aware of my worth.

Vitamins, Meds, Supplements

No incense, no chanting. Just respect for where I’m at in life and the tools that keep me steady. Daily, consistent, intentional.

Why Ritual Matters

Ritual doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to look holy, mystical, or impressive. It just has to be yours.

Ritual makes me feel empowered, vital, and connected — without pretending to be more than I am. Just by showing up, acting with intention, keeping consistency, and trusting the process, I find myself closer to Spirit than I ever imagined.

So I’ll ask you: What are your rituals?
What small, consistent acts root you, connect you, or remind you that you’re alive and worthy?

Because you don’t need light language or levitation to live a life full of magic. You just need willingness, consistency, and trust.

Share your rituals in the comments —

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It’s 5:00 AM, and I’m awake again —

only four hours after publishing what I believe is one of my greatest blog posts, The Master Plan, Again.

I’m awake because I realized I may have had my last full night of peaceful sleep earlier this week, before my restless mind pieced that essay together — and before I grasped the implications of what it might mean for me to write it.

In The Master Plan, Again,

I laid bare how Trump 2025 is repeating Hitler’s fascist blueprint. I wrote it because if someone like me — a brilliantly minded but mostly unknown woman — can see the writing on the wall, then I have a responsibility to call it out. That’s what it means to fulfill my purpose: to bring light, to stand up for good instead of numbing out to bullshit.

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And so here I am, leveraging this insomnia to chronicle the fear that’s now running through me.

I am the quintessential American. Someone who doesn’t have much but has enough to get by. I’m not famous, not powerful, but I was raised on history, art, and media that taught me what freedom means. The songs of Hamilton still echo in my head. The images from Roots shaped me. The tragedy of Anne Frank still hits my emotional body like a sledgehammer — as it did in grade school.

The truth is this: I’m afraid I could be disappeared. Killed. Silenced.

My words might only survive if they’re found — and only if there’s still an uncensored internet to hold them, because I’m not writing in a physical journal.

All of this because I am, again, the quintessential American. Born in the ’80s, told I could be anything, do anything, because we lived in the “freest nation in the world.” I had the right to free speech, to worship as I chose, even to carry a gun.

Who knew that same child would live long enough to see those rights challenged, eroded, maybe even eradicated — and to feel the bone-deep fear of their loss?

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I can’t sleep because, as an ordinary American

who built a life in spite of a troubled past, I now carry a responsibility. I have to use everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve survived, to create my version of the American dream. To find happiness, experience love, and to give back as a healthy, contributing member of society.

And in doing so, I may have painted a target on my back.

That realization broke my heart after just three hours of restless sleep.

I woke up crying,

knowing I had to write to my representatives, to the Obamas, even to John Stewart — to let people with more power than me know what is happening. But I also know the odds of being heard are about the same as winning the Mega Millions.

So I am writing this instead.

I write knowing that as a quintessential American, I often live with the illusion of being seen, heard, or valued. That I can only rely on my strange, eclectic faith — part Pagan, part Judeo-Christian, part Hindu, part Tolkien — to give me the hope that my actions matter in the grand scheme.

And maybe I’ll never sleep well again. Maybe that’s the price I pay for living childfree in a world where lineage is legacy.

When I die, I may leave only those closest to me to celebrate and mourn me.

If that’s the case, I want them to be able to say I was a warrior — that I did not allow the world to subjugate my mind, body, or spirit.

That would be nice. But right now, it still feels awful.

If I were disappeared or killed, I would want it to be a rallying cry — for people to rise from our knees, because that’s where we’ve been far too long.

I want the world to know there was a “regular schmegular” American who fought for the same freedoms her ancestors fought and died for. I want the world to know Americans still know how to cowboy — or cowgirl — up: full of grit, substance, swagger, and yahoo.

Getting this out brings a little relief. Maybe I’ll grab a couple hours of sleep before going to work as a healer. But first, I’ll draft those letters to my congresspeople, to John Stewart, to the Obamas.

Hell, I’m the quintessential American. And even though I may never win, I still play the Mega Millions.

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I got an article from Politico (Politico) that yanked me straight into a rabbit hole of terror.

Because I am SpiritualAF, I trust the Universe to bring me the news I need to know. This week, that news was jaw dropping.

Trump’s Pentagon and UN speeches weren’t just political theater. They carried the same echoes I grew up learning about in grade school — not Churchill’s rallying cries, but the “sieg heils” of Hitler’s Third Reich.

Authoritarianism is defined as “a political system characterized by the consolidation of power by a single leader or small group, which emphasizes control and order over individual freedoms.” That was Google AI’s definition, and it’s exactly what I was reading in Politico, hearing in Trump’s speeches, and catching in the commentary that followed. Disguised with words like protection, strength, rescue, and order, authoritarianism slips past us because we laugh, dismiss, or gaslight ourselves into thinking we’re overreacting.

But we’re not.

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How to Hijack a Nation: The Playbook, Then and Now

In 5 already executed steps.

Tile 1: The People Want a Dictator — JK, Not JK

In 1932, Hitler’s man crush and eventual ally Mussolini wrote in The Doctrine of Fascism (Fordham Sourcebook):

“Never before have the peoples thirsted for authority, direction, order, as they do now.”

Perhaps if Hitler had known Mussolini once dismissed him as a “mad little clown,” he might not have been so eager to justify consolidating power as if it were simply answering the people’s needs. But either way, Mussolini gave him the playbook.

Trump has joked — not really joking — about being a dictator, at least for a day (Reuters). He insists people “love it” when he flexes power. It’s the same move Mussolini pulled almost a century ago: authoritarianism masquerading as service. Then they try to tell us dictatorship is democracy — because we “asked for it.”

That’s not democracy. That’s rape culture.

It’s the same old play: blame the victim, crown the abuser holy.

Tile 2: The Devil Made Me Do It

Turning cruelty into morality is what authoritarians do best. Misery, fear, and harm — wrapped in the trappings of “sacred duty” — bafflingly become a righteous act of providence. Strip away the poetry, and what you’re left with is just abuse. But cloaked in the language of morality, it gets rebranded as virtue, even necessity.

Hitler wasn’t vague about it. In Mein Kampf he proclaimed:

“Therefore, I am convinced that I am acting as the agent of our Creator. By fighting off the Jews, I am doing the work of the Lord.”

The Dark Lord.

Not many people know this, but Hitler claimed to be Christian AF — he wrapped his violence in sermons and scripture, presenting himself not as a tyrant but as a chosen instrument of God. He said things like:

“My feelings as a Christian point me to my Lord and Savior as a fighter … who once in loneliness … recognized these Jews … and summoned men to fight against them.” (speech, 1922 Fordham Sourcebook)

Fast forward to today, and the remix isn’t even subtle. At the United Nations, Trump declared that illegal immigration was “unfair, unsafe, and unsustainable.” He didn’t stop there — he actually told other countries they were “going to hell” because their immigration policies weren’t as harsh as his. And in other speeches, he’s warned that migrants are “poisoning the blood of our country” (AP).

Just like Hitler wrapped hatred in holiness, Trump dresses cruelty in patriotism and moral authority. Ripping families apart, caging children, building detention centers — these aren’t presented as brutalities, but as moral obligations. He sells it as virtue, as if America will collapse if it doesn’t purge the “outsiders.”

But here’s the real kicker: America was built on the backs of outsiders. Everyone but the Indigenous people are outsiders. Immigrants are not the poison in America’s blood — they are its blood.

This is how authoritarianism slithers into the bloodstream: it tells us that harm is healing, cruelty is justice, and exclusion is entitlement. Hitler called it God’s work. Trump calls it protecting America. Different pulpits, same sermon. And when cruelty gets sanctified as virtue, there’s no limit to what can be justified in its name. That’s not morality. That’s evil.

And evil doesn’t stop with sermons — it writes itself into law.

Tile 3: The Master Plan, Again

Authoritarianism isn’t just slogans — it’s a manifesto in motion and a master plan being built out in real time. Hitler had Mein Kampf and Generalplan Ost (Master Plan for the East). Mussolini had The Doctrine of Fascism. Today, Project 2025 (Heritage Foundation), Schedule F, and the policy talking points repeated on stage serve the same function: they’re the blueprint, the idea that becomes law, budget, and brick.

And while we were shopping, scrolling, commuting, and getting lost in the legalese, cages went up. Tens of billions in ICE funding (CRS). New and expanded detention facilities — some in remote corners of the country, some in repurposed prisons. The Speedway Slammer in Indiana (DHS), the Cornhusker Clink in Nebraska (DHS), and Alligator Alcatraz in Florida (DHS).

Call it what you want, but they’re building cages, not castles.

The physical infrastructure for mass removal is already here.

And once the stage is built, the script gets rewritten.

Tile 4: The Switcheroo

It is really hard to spot and capture a thief because they look normal. Just a normal-looking dude wearing Ray-Bans, casing the joint in an unmarked van (NYT). Sure, that’s the fifth time he’s circled the block, but maybe he’s just looking for parking. Nothing to see here, everything’s just fine. That’s exactly how authoritarianism works. You know something’s off, but you just can’t put your finger on it until it’s too late.

Authoritarianism succeeds because on the surface everything looks fine — parliaments, courts, inspectors, all still official, all still legitimate. Hitler didn’t bulldoze the Reichstag (Germany’s parliament); he kept it, just rewrote the rules until it answered only to him. Both Mussolini and Stalin gutted their governments, stacked the seats with yes-men, and called it democracy. And that’s how you hijack a nation.

Today, civil servants are being swapped for frightened loyalists, and elected statespeople are being replaced by incentivized sycophants. The scales of justice? Screwed — because there’s always someone’s thumb pressing down on the weight. And all this while the White House has already threatened mass firings of federal workers as part of its shutdown plan (Reuters).

The same tricks are playing out in real time: inspectors general fired or forced out, watchdogs muzzled, public servants shamed until they quit or bent the knee. Civil service jobs threatened with Schedule F (Brookings). Politically motivated judges stacked in our courts. And here’s a big one: on September 5, 2025, Trump signed an executive order restoring “Department of War” as a secondary name for the Department of Defense — not just branding talk anymore, but bureaucratic reshaping. (whitehouse.gov)

It’s not a coup with tanks; it’s a heist with pens and paperwork.

And every heist needs muscle. Enter the enforcers.

Tile 5: Secret Police State

Authoritarianism grows teeth and builds muscle by having its own enforcers. These boots on the ground silence dissent and enforce with fear and violence.

Hitler had the Gestapo and the SS. Mussolini had the Blackshirts. Stalin had the NKVD. These weren’t just police; they were political weapons. Their job wasn’t public safety — it was ideological enforcement. They existed to hunt “enemies within,” to silence opposition, and to make sure the leader’s will was felt on every street corner.

Now look at us. ICE raids neighborhoods like they’re storming foreign soil (NPR). Federal agents in unmarked vans disappear protestors in broad daylight, like ghosts with badges. Entire cities are told they “can’t protect themselves” and need tougher hands, harder boots, more batons. It’s the same playbook: dress it up as security, sell it as rescue, but what it really is is fear in uniform, violence on retainer.

Authoritarianism thrives when cops aren’t enough — when the leader decides he needs his own personal army. Not neutral. Not accountable. Just loyal. That’s how democracy dies — not with a declaration, but with men once trained to protect you, now sworn to protect his ego at the cost of your freedom.

And if that sounds too dark, remember: knowledge is still power.

Closing

I wish I had a plan to stop this crazy train to hell. The only power I have is WiFi, this iPad, and the stubborn desire to call out injustice, hatred, and plain old bullshit.

Thanks to my friend Ilona’s provocative Substack post (The Pebble in Your Shoe) for inspiring me to share these thoughts with you. I learned as a kid that knowledge is power, and I learned a lot while crafting this commentary. I also learned that you can’t keep anything unless you give it away. So now I’m passing this knowledge on to you.

Because here’s the truth: we’re not imagining this. It can happen here. It is happening here. Sharing that knowledge might not give us a perfect plan, but it gives us power — the power to see clearly, to refuse silence, and maybe to help each other weather the storm.

Perhaps if you share this post, we might find the power to come up with a plan. Maybe not. Maybe we’ll just help each other weather the storms. Either way, I won’t stop speaking up, living In-Lightened, and being SpiritualAF.

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Silence only feeds the playbook — so don’t stay quiet.

In a previous post, I wrote about facing death and the idea of a “good death.” But death isn’t just an ending; it’s leverage. It’s a mirror. And if we let it, it can teach us to live with more urgency, more courage, and more joy.

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My Friend, the Warrior

I have a friend with stage 4 cancer—spine, pelvis, arm. He recently fractured vertebrae and is in treatment. On paper, it reads like a death sentence.

Is he sitting around waiting to die? Hell no.

He left the job that starved his soul. He keeps the plans he’d keep if he were healthy—and adds more. He still goes to concerts and refuses the wheelchair row. He gives his time to family and friends, unapologetically.

His philosophy is simple: living fully is the best medicine.

He knows he may transition sooner than he expected, but he’s intent on leaving this earth having done the most good he could—living with integrity, willingness, open-mindedness, and compassion. That’s a warrior’s life. And when the time comes, he’ll meet a warrior’s death—defined not by defeat, but by the courage to live fully until the very end.

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Mortality as Leverage

Here’s the invitation: you don’t need a diagnosis to live like this. Mortality already put a clock on the wall. Let it focus you.

It’s not about cramming your calendar; it’s about becoming more present, more compassionate, more honest with yourself.

I’ll be real: I wrestle with this. I pressure myself to do more, create more, achieve more. When I miss my own (sometimes absurd) benchmark, I label the day a failure. Tonight, I hoped to write two posts and finished one. My first instinct? Failure.

But mortality reframes that.

If I want to earn a good death, I don’t want to die disappointed in myself. I want to die with contentment and pride for what I did do. That means practicing contentment and pride now.

The “never enough” program is sneaky. Society scripts it in all of us. Uprooting it is part of my preparation for a good death—not a list of accomplishments, but a posture of self-respect, trust, and grace.

And here’s where the leverage sharpens:

mortality asks us to live in alignment, not just in reaction. That’s why I encourage people to name their personal code—the set of values and choices that anchor how they want to live now, not someday.

My personal code is exemplified in the way I treat myself today. If I practice compassion now, I’ll carry peace into my final moments. If I practice pride and trust in my choices now, I’ll know I lived fully—not perfectly, but fiercely, and with integrity.

The Ripple Effect

What remains after we pass is the energy of our choices—how we kept our homes, treated our friends (and our foes), showed up to our work, tended our bodies, told the truth.

My friend reminds me daily: legacy isn’t only what we leave; it’s what we’re transmitting right now.

Living—truly living—toward a good death is easier when our values match our behavior. That’s why I return to the idea of a personal code—our reasons for living, expressed in how we live.

Back in the day, families had coats of arms—symbols and words that declared their values and their valor. If you designed your own, what would be on it? What phrase would capture your way of moving through the world?

Those old crests shaped generations—for better or worse.

Some never evolved and turned harmful in new contexts. That’s the caution—and the opportunity: we can choose to redesign our coat of arms so our choices ripple outward with a more affirming impact. We’ve all seen the opposite: cruelty, injustice, and indifference echo through generations.

This is why we must strive to live well now—to heal wounds, take risks, connect deeply, create chaos and beauty. In doing so, we craft the memory others will carry, the story they’ll tell, the hope our energy plants in those who remain. And that energy will impact their lives and affect their choices. That’s the gift—and the challenge—of the death mirror.

Final Word

This isn’t about glorifying death. It’s about honoring life enough to let death be our teacher.

My friend is teaching me in real time. I suspect he’ll keep teaching long after he’s gone.

So here’s the mirror death is holding up right now:

If today were your last, what part of yourself would you finally stop holding back?
And if it isn’t your last (which, statistically, it probably isn’t), what tiny act of courage can you take today—so the ripple you leave is one you’re proud of?

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My favorite thing to cause is a ruckus.

Whether I’m writing, healing, speaking, or channeling, I drag the sacred and the profane out of hiding and throw them into the flames—irreverent, raw, and radiant AF. And now all of that fire is about to take a new form.

At the core, my work has always been freedom—emotional, spiritual, physical. Helping people to stop playing small, claim their sovereignty, and live with more radiance, clarity, and courage.

Many of you have read my blogs, tuned into my podcasts, or sat with me in a reading or workshop—and you know by now that nothing is off limits. The perverse, the irreverent, the beautiful, the messy—it’s all sacred, all divine, and all part of bringing us closer to the light that’s our birthright.

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And all of it has led me here.

A crossroads. Do I fade quietly into obscurity, or do I go ballz to the wall—hurling my truth from the rooftops?

From the windows

to the wall,

I’m leaning in

till the sweat runs down my ballz—

and here lies the reckoning.

A Luminous Reckoning that demands we stand for something or fall for the bullshit.

I’m claiming the right to be loud, messy, radiant, and unapologetically myself—to speak, to create, to love who I already am. Encouraging, leading, urging those who are called to my work to join the conflagration and hone the impact their existence has on the world around them.

But this work can’t thrive on just the page or in a private session.
It needs a mic, a beat, and the weight of audio to carry its fire into your ears, your heart, your bones.

I offer to you, Luminous Reckoning—

my new podcast, dropping this fall.

There will be laughter, tears, some yelling, and maybe blood (mostly metaphorical).

By sharing my triumphs, train wrecks, doubts, rage, and laughter, I hope to ignite a spark that not only helps us cope, but pushes us to thrive in a world drunk on power games, performance, consumption, compliance, and control.

This is the beginning of something bigger—
a movement toward more, to feed those starving for empowerment.
A call to seize, examine, hone, and leverage our existence—
to redefine the human in humanity.

Let’s fuck around and find out.

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So stay close. Subscribe. Comment. Share.

Be ready to tune in when we light this shit up in just a couple of weeks.

And don’t worry—I am determined to do it all. In-Lightened with Mel will still drop Friday mornings, and The Juicy Bits on Tuesday mornings.

And if you’re looking to go deeper—yes, I’m available for hire. My services are all about the cohesion and healing of mind, body, and spirit. Check out my website for more.

This reckoning is Luminous AF—get your sunscreen and enjoy the blaze.

Luminous Reckoning. Coming soon.

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There’s nothing like a trip to the doctor

to drag your mortality out of the shadows and shove it under fluorescent lights. At my age, old aches resurface, scar tissue reminds me of wounds once healed, and pain feels less transient. The truth is—birth was always a one-way ticket to death. Entropy is baked into the deal.

So why live at all?

That question came up in a conversation about death the other day, and I realized: the very act of facing death clarifies why we’re here.

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Why We Don’t Talk About It

As a culture, we dodge death. We speak around it, whisper about it, or only acknowledge it when someone else is grieving. But death is the one promise we’re all given. And the more we avoid it, the less we learn from it.

What if we looked it in the eye instead? Not to conjure it, but to let it fuel life. To make us savor the meals, the conversations, the dreams we’re brave enough to chase.

The Warrior Way

Warrior cultures—like the Vikings, the Samurai, or countless Indigenous traditions—spoke about the honor of a good death. Protecting your people. Standing for what matters. They were celebrated for it in song and story.

Today? We sing about fame, money, and clout. A far cry from honor and glory.

I don’t want a death that’s just a cliché—old age, surrounded by family. I want one marked by courage, excitement, and as few regrets as possible. And if that’s the kind of death I want, I have to live that way now.

Living Toward Death

Preparing for death isn’t just about wills and insurance. Those are smart, yes. But the deeper preparation is in how we live:

• Facing fears so they don’t own us at the end.

• Building relationships that matter more than our worries.

• Living so fully that when fear of dying arises, we can laugh and say, I’ve been facing fear all my life. This is no different.

Legacy of Energy

What happens to us after death? Science says maybe 22 grams leave the body. Physics shrugs. But I believe our energy remains in our legacy—our memories, our creations, the ways we’ve loved and impacted others.

That’s what we leave behind. That’s the real afterlife: the ripple effect of how we lived.

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The Call

Death is unpredictable. I know this from sitting with my surrogate father as he passed. Each breath felt like it could be his last—until it wasn’t. There’s no timeline, no guarantee.

So why not live like we could die at any moment? Not by blowing money on chaos, but by:

• Eating like your body deserves tomorrow.

• Calling the friend you’ve been meaning to call.

• Showing up instead of procrastinating.

Because if squirrels know their purpose—gather nuts, prep for winter, survive—then so should we. And unlike squirrels, we get to rewrite ours at any time.

Final Word

Death isn’t just the end. It’s a mirror. It’s the reminder that living with courage, contentment, and excitement now is the only way to ensure we die well later.

So the question remains: What’s your purpose? And is it worth living—and dying—for?

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P.S.

This reflection is just the beginning. In a follow-up post, I’ll share more about the intimacy of dying—what I’ve witnessed, how death mirrors the living, and why the ripples of our legacy may matter more than we realize. Stay tuned.

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Seventeen years free and clear of f*cking around and finding out.

Back then, I was a hot mess on the fast track to degradation, despair, and death. Every year around this time, I stop to honor how far I’ve come. And to be honest? I’m not as far as I thought I should be. But I’m a hell of a lot farther than I thought I could be—and definitely farther than I ever imagined in the grand scheme of things.

These days, regret doesn’t weigh me down the way it used to.

I embraced a set of principles that promised me this: if practiced, I would not regret my past nor wish to shut the door on it. And for the most part, that has become my truth.

I’ve learned that to move forward, I have to embrace my past. I have to look it square in the eye—and then give it a big-ass hug.

Why?

Because wishing it were different is futile. Acknowledging it as the fuel that got me here, to this moment in time and space, is far more beneficial.

Take the times when I was shunned and put down. They taught me that I cared too much about other people’s opinions, that hurt people hurt people, and that fear is a powerful drug.

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Or the times I left jobs or got fired. Those taught me that I thrive in environments where I can bring my whole self—where diversity, creativity, and flexibility are part of the culture.

And heartbreak? God, heartbreak was its own teacher. It showed me I had so much to learn about love—love for others, yes, but also for myself. It taught me that I am desirable, and that I have a responsibility to advocate for a love that feels right to me, not one that just looks good on Instagram.

Everything I’ve experienced has neither been purely good nor purely bad—

even when it came wrapped in pain. Every experience has been an opportunity for growth and magic. And that’s why I choose to embrace my past. Without it, I wouldn’t be me: working smarter instead of harder, enjoying the woman I am today, and staying excited for the possibilities of tomorrow.

Here’s to 17 years of becoming, unbecoming, and becoming again. May we all learn to hug our past selves and thank them for getting us here.

If this resonated with you, hit subscribe to In-Lightened with Mel. Share this post with someone who might need a reminder that the past doesn’t define them—it refines them. Together, we burn through the bullsh*t and live radiantly.

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