Perhaps another pair of eyes could inspect this delicate matter from up closer?

My new client is an energy practitioner herself.

She had already recognised a bitch was energetically trying her. She knew how to protect herself.

Had her own wards, understood transmutation, had successfully used her practices before and was perfectly capable of doing plenty of this work without me.

Then life began moving at approximately 700mph.

Two weeks before our session, she had been kicked out of her father’s house. Then came a serious accident that left her with an injured wrist while another person involved hit his head badly enough that she thought she might watch him meet his ancestors in Spirit.

She was 29, entering her Saturn return, reconsidering her work as an energy practitioner, planning to leave the area she was living in and generally standing inside one of those spiritual crossroads (I should take a shot for every time a client mentions that word to me) where twelve areas of your life begin shedding their skin simultaneously.

Meanwhile, she had taken a conventional job for stability. The job was in a place she described as notoriously haunted. Spirit just wouldn’t leave her alone, clearly.

At some point between rushing out of the house, working, surviving and trying to reconstruct her life, the daily protection practice disappeared.

“I know I should be.”

Girl.

Unfortunately, psychic ability does not come with an immunity package. I learned this myself when I was being repeatedly hit with black magick and briefly developed an unhealthy degree of spiritual arrogance, thinking to myself:

I am powerful. Surely I do not need to do all this cleansing and protection every fucking day. How uninspiring.

My guides said get up, girl. You are dreaming if you think we’re letting you go anywhere more exciting before you become undefeated at foundational work in magick.

Two months of consistent cleansing, protection and shielding later, my field was stronger, my life had recovered and, interestingly, blessings began arriving without me spending that period concentrating on attraction work.

Protection work had become manifestation work by removing what was interfering with the life already trying to reach me.

So when another practitioner comes to me saying she knows the tools but stopped consistently using them, I know exactly which classroom we have entered.

She had originally booked a short session because she wanted an initial push and some clarity before deciding whether deeper work was necessary.

I asked what she actually wanted from our time.

Consultation? Protection? Cleansing? A little energy work?

Because people frequently arrive telling me what they think needs fixing and approximately ten minutes into the conversation I am internally rearranging the entire treatment schedule. My job is partially figuring out the order of operations.

Her immediate question was whether everything happening around her was her own karmic material surfacing, spiritual interference, or a combination of both.

She felt spiritually blinded despite normally being highly intuitive. There was also another spiritual practitioner in the picture. A former friend and business partner.

They had practised together, shared a business and still had practical ties being dissolved. The financial debt between them had been settled. Her belongings had been returned. The business was being formally closed. Shared bank accounts would be shut afterwards.

Energetically, however, my client did not feel finished. She told me that whenever this woman re-entered her sphere, shit seemed to go down.

There had also been behaviour throughout the friendship that she now experienced differently in hindsight: her former friend becoming interested in her apparent luck, gradually adopting elements of her personality and even dressing more like her.

Interestingly, once my client physically separated from the relationship, her money started increasing again.

I am always more careful once another identifiable human being enters the energetic equation.

There is a difference between cleansing whatever is in somebody’s field and deciding that another person is responsible for putting it there. I wanted to know what material ties remained, what my client actually believed was happening and whether anything still needed to pass between them materially before I touched the relationship energetically.

Especially because my first instinct was return-to-sender work.

I have absolutely no moral objection to returning harmful energy to wherever it originated. It became one of the practices that ended my own spiritual warfare after weeks of simply cleansing and protecting myself while somebody kept their ability to swing at me.

At some point, repeatedly mopping the floor becomes less compelling than turning off the fucking tap.

But my client was still dissolving a business with this woman. So I did not want to throw metaphysical explosives into a situation that still required boring human administration.

We discussed cord cutting. Freezer work. Transmutation. Stronger return-to-sender work if it ever became necessary. Then I asked whether she was experiencing depletion through her sacral or womb.

She immediately told me that thinking about this person was making her nauseous through the lower abdomen.

Her sacral had already been giving her trouble. She had also recently developed symptoms consistent with a possible yeast infection despite being unable to identify an obvious reason for the change.

Obviously, physical symptoms have physical causes worth treating as such. Energetically, however, the location mattered to the work I was doing.

My original plan had been basic cleansing, protection and shielding. Now I wanted to see what her sacral was hiding.

The thirty-minute consultation quietly became an hour. Sometimes even practitioners need a helping hand. And sometimes the practitioner needs an extra thirty minutes because you mention your womb at minute 31.

I began with the distance Reiki symbol, cleansed both spaces with Source white light and brought in the Keeper of the Grounds to stabilise whatever we moved into physical matter.

Then I built protection. First came the blue Arcturian seal, aligning the session with our individual highest timelines, Earth’s highest timeline and Source’s divine law.

I separated our fields so we could work without unnecessarily exchanging material. Six Arcturian guides stationed around the session.

Angelic protection symbols. Then Silver Dragon. Silver Dragon came into my own practice after a particularly severe period of spiritual warfare, and I use that guide and their offered frequency-charged tools when ordinary energetic boundaries are simply not enough for what I perceive in a field.

I placed the metallic shield over the existing Arcturian structure and then repeated the protection specifically around my client.

I gave those protections two weeks before my energetic signature would begin dissolving. I have no interest in making a client energetically dependent on me.

If I strengthen your field today, I would much rather teach you how I did it so that by the time my contribution disappears, yours has become strong enough to replace it.

She was getting homework.

Morning and evening protection. Ten or fifteen minutes if she could manage it. Thirty seconds if that was genuinely all she had. Arcturian protection, angelic sealing, Silver Dragon when necessary, always establishing exactly which spiritual intelligences were permitted into the field before inviting anybody in.

Borrow my tools. Borrow the guides willing to work with you. Then learn to hold the architecture yourself.

Once she was protected, I went into the sacral.

Dai Ko Myo first for the material I associate with karmic, ancestral and older energetic residue. White and Black Dragons for cleansing. Archangel Michael joined the work.

I began pulling energy from the womb and sending whatever no longer belonged there down into Earth for transmutation.

Then my attention moved abruptly to her left ear. She laughed and told me she had been clearing an unusual amount of earwax for the past several days.

Of course she had. In my work, ears frequently become involved when somebody is struggling to receive guidance clearly. I had expected interference around her third eye because she had already told me she felt spiritually blinded.

Her third eye itself looked surprisingly ordinary. The sacral told a different story. The left ear was also involved. Then I found a smaller amount around her solar plexus. Identity.

That was when the earlier conversation about the former friend imitating aspects of her personality came back into focus.

I was pulling energy from the solar plexus while thinking:

Were you trying to energetically become this woman? What a weird fucking way to pass the time.

Then we had a decision to make. I could place a stronger return-to-sender mechanism around her field so that anything harmful directed towards her would immediately be returned to its origin.

Or we could transmute it. My client barely needed the sales pitch.

“Is there any way to do that plus transmutation where it makes me more pretty and makes me lose weight?”

A woman after my own heart. Yes.

Although her field had already received enough architecture for one day, and I was not about to turn her aura into a metaphysical Christmas tree because we wanted every possible blessing immediately.

So I made her choose. Health, money or beauty. She needed money because she wanted to move. Beauty was naturally tempting. But her body had just survived an accident, her wrist was injured and her sacral was symptomatic.

Health took priority. For now.

I placed the transmutation symbol I use around her field with one instruction: if harmful energy reached her, it would become additional fuel for her health, vitality and recovery.

Then I paired it with a healing symbol I had recently begun working with and concentrated both around the sacral.

If something attempted to siphon life force, fabulous. Thank you for your contribution to the healthcare fund.

Around that moment she felt pinching through her right ovary. I continued clearing.

Then she said something that made me stop.

“It felt like you pulled out a leech.”

That was very close to how the remaining material felt to me. More came through the left side of her heart and crown, which I continued removing before sealing the work.

At that point, I deliberately abandoned the cord cutting and freezer spell we had discussed earlier.

We had chosen transmutation. I wanted to see what that architecture did before stacking three more psychic operations on top because our lack of patience took over.

Spiritual practitioners are particularly vulnerable to doing seventeen things for the love of the game. Restraint is half the practice.

I sealed her chakras with angelic protection, ran Atlantean charged-water frequency through the upper system for regulation and the Keeper of the Grounds energy of stabilisation through the lower body.

Then I counted her back. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The second I said one, something enormous crashed outside my house.

Welcome back to Earth. She returned feeling lighter, although there was still movement through her stomach that she felt she needed to process.

I gave her my read of what we had actually found. Most of the interference I perceived had concentrated around the sacral.

There had been some material around the solar plexus, which I associate with identity.

A smaller obstruction through the left side of the throat, which in my framework affects receptive expression: you receive something to say, suppress it, and potentially interrupt whatever was supposed to move through that expression.

Some crown involvement. The left ear. But she was far less psychically blinded than she had feared.

The information was still there, her system was just too exhausted to process it. And she needed to protect it.

Then, as we were discussing the transmutation symbol, she recognised its shape. I had described it as something resembling an hourglass: two triangles meeting in the centre.

She reads Norse runes.

“Dagaz.”

She explained that Dagaz carries transformation: day becoming night, one energetic state becoming another, the entrance into a new period.

I had originally received the symbol intuitively and had simply been using it because it worked in my practice.

A little wink from Spirit, no less.

Towards the end of the session, my client returned to the question of what should happen to anything still being sent her way.

She was no longer particularly interested in punishment. She needed her own life to improve.

She also desired to move within roughly a month and a half. Resources were required. Her body needed to recover.

“Let me just benefit.”

And almost immediately afterwards, while she was speaking about receiving, a notification appeared on her phone.

“Received.”

We both started cackling. Because this is where my philosophy on spiritual warfare has eventually landed.

I can spend all day creating elaborate plans of destruction dedicated to my enemies while essentially remaining energetically organised around a spiritual leech I am trying to unlink myself from.

Or, once I am sufficiently protected, I can become oriented towards what I am building with the energy that remains mine.

My client arrived after an accident, displacement, an exhausting job, a dissolving business relationship and a period in which her own spiritual maintenance had fallen behind because ordinary life had become overly dominant.

She left with protection already sitting around her field, a transmutation structure concentrated on healing, her sacral substantially cleared within the limits of the session, practical tools she could repeat without me and a plan for what I would prioritise next if she returned.

Protection first, health, then resources. And finally, location and Earth Star work when her system was ready to start asking where on Earth she actually belonged next.

Sometimes the most useful thing I can give another practitioner is enough clarity to know which operation comes first.

And occasionally, a way to make your enemies accidentally contribute to your recovery.

Very community-minded of them.

For 1:1 energy work, multidimensional healing, intuitive channelled sessions and spiritual consultations, send me a DM. My current offers are pinned in my Threads profile.

I spent the first forty minutes removing spiritual interference, discovered her life-force energy was barely flowing through one side of her upper body, and eventually found multiple old timelines still lodged in her field, obstructing her Higher Self from moving inside her human vessel more permanently.

We never actually got to the money work.

Or so I thought.

Forty minutes in, we were still cleansing. This was particularly offensive because it genuinely felt like ten minutes had passed.

My client had come into the session after a period of major energetic upheaval caused by yours truly through the energy work that her guides absolutely tricked me into performing sooner rather than later. They were done coasting. 

We had already done extensive clearing in our previous session, particularly around her upper channels, and she had described that one afterwards as practically an exorcism. It needed to happen. 

This time, I expected less spectacle. Famous last words.

I cleansed both physical spaces with Source white light, brought in Keeper of the Ground to stabilise the work into physical matter, placed Arcturian protection around us, separated our fields, stationed six Arcturian guides around the session and established the usual parameters: whatever happened could only support her nervous system, physical body, energy body and physical circumstances.

No destabilising upgrades for entertainment, I beg. Then I invited her Higher Self and whichever guides met those requirements.

Immediately, my right ear started hurting, which indicates Spirit communication.

Before I could get anywhere near money, her guides started pulling my attention towards her hands. Both of us began feeling sensations in our right hands almost simultaneously.

I was trying to prepare her system for financial work. Her guides, however, expressed a different interest.

“No, let’s download her abilities.”

Bitch. I am used to last minute schedule changes in this work though.

This client and I have an unusual amount of overlap in the spiritual lineages that appear through our work. Atlantean energy in particular comes through strongly for both of us, alongside draconic and mermaid currents, so I had already suspected that some of the work I normally facilitate for her would eventually become work she was being pushed to access herself.

Her body nodded in approval. 

Before you build financial stability, the body has to be able to hold your regular, ordinary stability.

I normally find that cleansing pulls me towards the upper channels first. With her, I was instructed to start at the bottom.

Her Earth Star felt relatively fine. Her feet were energetically wobbly, however.

Almost immediately, pain began moving through my body as I worked through her feet and lower legs. I brought in White and Black Dragon energy alongside Dai Ko Myo, which I use when the material feels karmic, ancestral or connected to older energetic architecture.

Her legs started burning. So it comes as a surprise to no one that she told me she had recently been experiencing a very specific nerve-like sensation from the knees down.

Then her hips lit up followed by her thighs and knees. Areas she had already been having physical trouble with independently of the session.

Most of the obstruction was concentrated on the side I associate with execution. She mentioned she was receiving ideas constantly and struggling to execute them.

And here we were, supposedly preparing her for money work, spending an unreasonable amount of time clearing the energetic pathways through which she actually does things.

So before introducing financial stability, I brought in the green Lyran stabilising frequency I use to help prepare the nervous system for greater energetic capacity.

I still wasn’t channelling raw money frequencies for her. That’s my kink, but it had to wait its turn.

I was trying to make her body capable of holding ordinary stability first. Vanilla, but absolutely necessary.

There’s very little point in energetically expanding somebody’s financial reality while their system is still organised around disruption and conjuring chaos. You can throw as much manifestation work at that structure as you fancy. We must make peace less sus first for it to stick.

Then an ant materialised from underneath her and bit her left hand. We were working on her hands. Of course.

The money session became an execution session. Her palms became one of the most stubborn areas in the entire session. I kept returning to them.

Clearing, stabilising, removing incompatibilities. 

At one point she mentioned that her first proper job had been as a lifeguard because her mother wanted her to start making money.

Finally, a financial clue. We had technically reached the money work. Just nowhere near the way I had planned.

Her lower back and hips required more work. Her right ribcage pulled me into what felt ancestral. Then the energy moved into her neck and jaw.

That was when the session began changing shape again. I started getting the impression that we were preparing her for greater visibility, particularly through speaking and video.

The obstruction around her jaw sat directly in the pathway I associate with external execution.

Her body had clearly decided to turn my money session into a business consultation conducted entirely through energetic anatomy.

Then the upper channels, which had initially appeared clear, began revealing what they had been hiding.

Her right ear repeatedly blocked followed by an obstruction in her sinuses and a persistent pain in her jaw.

The entire right side of her head became, spiritually, a bitch to work through. We had more interference-based metaphysical upper chakra dirt to shovel through than I originally thought we will need to.

Forty minutes into a money session, I was still removing interference.

At forty minutes I checked the time. “What the fuck?” Neither of us could believe it. I hadn’t even begun the work I had planned.

But I wasn’t going to force money frequencies into a field that still had plenty of interference attached to it. That’s me willingly feeding the demons instead of the intended recipient. Her. 

So I strengthened the protection instead. I brought in Hekate and Archangel Michael. Added a Silver Dragon shield. Used White and Black Dragon currents again for cleansing. Placed further protective seals around the areas that kept becoming affected.

Then the woman sprawled across the table of my psychic operations asked me to check her physical eyes. We had worked on her third eye previously, but not the eyes themselves.

She had recently experienced two episodes of sudden anxiety about going blind, each followed almost immediately by strangely specific imagery involving blindness appearing in whatever she happened to be watching. Conversations, songs, tv shows. 

It’s an intimidation tactic from the forces that benefit from siphoning your energy - so that you are too spooked to remove them from your field.

I began clearing around her eyes. More energy moved. Her ears responded again with her sinuses following suit. At this point, the entire sensory architecture of her head seemed involved.

I had previously picked up clairalient potential in her — psychic information received through smell — and she told me that her sense of smell had, in fact, recently begun behaving differently.

So now the session had travelled from money, to execution, to visibility, to spiritual interference, to psychic smell. Perfectly normal Tuesday at the office.

Eventually, I brought in Red Dragon energy. I usually associate this frequency with life force, and I tend to work with it lower in the body. This time I was being directed to run it through her throat and the right side of her upper channels.

I had never used a draconic activation there before. Her right ear remained stubborn. I was cleansing while simultaneously restoring life-force flow, and eventually something changed.

The flow of energy was slowly being restored. And suddenly the earlier theme made considerably more sense. Execution.

She had the ideas and the flow of higher dimensional information was never the issue. The energetic movement between receiving an idea and actually putting it into matter was where I kept encountering obstruction.

Which is rather relevant when somebody wants more money. Money rarely materialises because you had a fabulous idea and admired it privately.

Once the flow strengthened, I moved into nervous-system regulation with the Atlantean charged-water frequency I use for precisely this purpose.

Her system had just undergone a considerable amount of work. I wasn’t interested in continuing to excavate simply because we had booked a session of a certain length.

Her nervous system needed to catch up. And it took its sweet fucking time.

We were already more than an hour into the session when my left palm began itching so intensely that it became genuinely irritating. Then the other one joined.

My client pointed out the obvious folklore: an itching left palm means money is coming. Which was amusing considering the money session I had failed spectacularly to conduct.

Perhaps Spirit was telling me to stop worrying about getting to the planned work. Perhaps clearing everything preventing her from holding and executing within a more stable reality was the money work.

Either way, I still had one problem. Something wasn’t completely clearing. So I asked my Higher Self what I was missing.

And that was when I saw the timelines. What I perceived was a collection of old timelines still lodged through her field.

Some appeared connected to material we had already discussed around parallel lives and past-life experiences. Others simply felt obsolete.

They were creating energetic traffic. So I shifted the work again. Using the timeline work I had recently been developing, I asked our Higher Selves to collaborate in removing whichever timelines were no longer supporting her current highest alignment, with very specific instructions that the process could not destabilise her nervous system, physical body or physical circumstances.

The response was immediate. Pain through my eyes and the left side of my body. More movement.

And then I saw her Higher Self above her crown. “Let me come in.”

I had spent over an hour trying to clear something that did not appear to be merely sitting on her system.

There was too much old architecture still occupying space inside it. So instead of continuing to remove indefinitely, we began bringing more of her back.

I guided the Higher Self down through her body. Feet, hips, sacral, solar plexus, where I placed my highest-timeline alignment symbol because this was now very clearly identity work. Then heart, throat, third eye, crown. Her whole body began shaking.

I protected the newly integrated layer with Silver Dragon energy and sealed the work so the old material we had just removed could not simply reclaim the available space.

As soon as the process completed, the enormous pain I had been feeling through the receiving side disappeared.

After nearly an hour and a half of repeatedly wondering why one area would clear only for another to announce itself, I finally felt finished.

My client’s response was considerably less poetic. Her head felt “more balancedly clogged.”

Fair enough. We grounded and regulated.

We never did the money work. At least, not the money work I had planned.

I never got to sit there peacefully introducing financial frequencies into her chakras and calling it a day.

Instead, we worked on stability and execution upon the request of her Higher Self. The hands through which she creates. The jaw and throat through which she speaks. The sensory channels through which she receives information.

Life-force circulation and removal of old timelines. And eventually the relationship between her current embodied self and her Higher Self trying to occupy more land in her own energetic real estate.

By the end, my interpretation of the interference we had spent so long clearing became so simple. If this bitch has a full self, we’re fucked.

No wonder the session refused to move according to my agenda. This is also why I don’t force a predetermined protocol onto somebody’s field simply because they booked me wanting money, love, visibility or anything else.

I care about the requested destination. However, what holds more significance is discovering what their system says has to happen before it can safely get there.

Sometimes I can put the money timeline directly into the solar plexus. Sometimes I spend an hour and twenty minutes trying to reach the solar plexus and discover an entire energetic motorway accident on the way. Both are money work to me.

One simply makes a better story.

For 1:1 energy work, multidimensional healing, intuitive channelled sessions and spiritual consultations, send me a DM. My current offers are pinned on my Threads profile. 

One particularly explosive awakening — and I shall insist upon the pun — arrived when Hekate taught me how to have vaginal orgasms at the grand age of twenty-nine. Until then, I had assumed such miracles were reserved exclusively for women personally anointed by the thumb of God. Apparently, my number had finally been called.

Coincidentally, my (non-religious) prayer life had intensified shortly before my foray into energy work, witchcraft, working with deities, and yes, eventually, vaginal orgasms and sex magick.

But before we proceed any further into the affairs of my vagina, we must rewind the clock.

Hekate’s first request upon arrival had little to do with pleasure. She instructed me to cut ties with my karmic family, bringing to an end the destruction my soul had volunteered to absorb in the name of its own ascension.

Karma had sown plenty. It was time for the harvest.

My mother and my father had to exit my life. Their purpose in it had been served. At thirty-one, I know there is no unfinished conversation requiring my return to either of them.

The inverted family structure I inherited could only be reversed through choices made deliberately where theirs had been accidental. My parents chose a slower pace of evolution. I respect their decision. I simply have somewhere else to be.

Hekate required the old timeline dissolved before she would initiate me into witchcraft. And before anyone accuses me of sacrificing my family at the altar of money and power, Source preceded her. God was my first spiritual contact, taught me how to work with Spirit guides, and handed me the assignments around which my practice is still built. Everything else cascades from there.

Hekate then hurried me towards securing the financial independence required to exit the karmic family system entirely. Those endeavours have been well and truly documented across my Substack.

Which brings us, at last, to the business of pleasure…

Hekate employed a collection of entirely human men to awaken her lessons of sexual alchemy, buried deep within the womb of a witch and cloaked in ancient sleep.

Read more

One of my regular clients came back into session with the house about to go up for sale, her patience for misaligned work almost entirely gone, clothes suddenly no longer feeling like her, and a growing suspicion that she might eventually want to leave the country altogether.

Our first session had already given her substantially more energy. She started posting on Threads, writing on Substack and practising magick again. She felt more positive and more alive in her body.

Now the physical architecture around that body was beginning to look wrong.

“I want my life to be my own now.”

Keywords from your highest timeline trying to reach you. Through the quantum first.

The first session had already moved a lot. The next thing that came up was money because she was extremely stressed about it, so we worked on that briefly as well.

Now the next layer was obvious. She wanted enough material stability that she could stop building her entire life around survival.

She had already begun noticing strange little shifts around receiving. Friends paying for dinner, people helping her with things around the house, someone sending landscapers over because, in her words, it was one less thing she had to think about.

At one point she said she had realised she had actually been provided for throughout this entire nightmare.

My client had also spent most of her life struggling to receive. And at this stage, I am very used to seeing the same thing happen in women where money work immediately becomes receptivity work because technically, sure, you can keep grinding for every dollar if you want. By all means.

But if life is already attempting to teach you that support can arrive through people, opportunities, gifts, reduced expenses, a man, a client, a random payout from eight months ago, a house, a job you actually like, then I am not going to force Spirit into payroll just because capitalism has given us Stockholm syndrome.

Last time, we had selected $1,000 a week. She came back saying that suddenly felt too small. I love when my clients reach further for the stars, so I happily obliged.

The first number that had actually come to her was $7,000 a month, but then the human brain stepped in immediately with the usual nonsense.

How would I even make that? I did not finish college. No degree in sight. What exactly am I supposed to do?

I know this pattern extremely well because I once spent an entire year in overdraft while insisting my business would eventually work because I knew what I was capable of and refused to go backwards.

Humiliating on a human level. Spiritually, unfortunately, very educational.

There is something about people who know they are supposed to build outside conventional systems where eventually life corners you hard enough that your gifts stop being a hobby you can push aside.

You either use them or continue pretending stability means having a job you hate while your soul silently dies in fluorescent lighting.

She had reached a milder version of that threshold. She was already publishing and thinking about business.

Considering whether she even wanted to remain in the United States long term. Debating eventually relocating somewhere warmer and easier on the wallet. Perhaps, where an ambulance ride is not a financial event.

She had relatives offering her somewhere to stay, but hated the town and did not want to surround herself with the “life is hard, work harder” frequency she was actively trying to leave.

A woman from her writing group might have a basement available. The house sale was moving. There were also investment ideas floating around. Money manifestation work had already begun independently.

Readers were apparently telling her a man was coming into her life. I laughed because at this point I have learned not to exclude men from financial architecture either.

Sometimes the money comes through business or work. It can also arrive through somebody simply loving you and offering financial support, resources, and investment. I have personally stopped arguing with the delivery system.

We just needed her body to become capable of receiving more without treating every form of support like an accounting error. So we went in.

I established the same protection architecture I use before every session. Source’s white light through both spaces. Keeper of the Grounds into the physical environment.

Arcturian protection around the shared field, separate protection around mine, six Arcturian guides on the perimeter, Silver Dragon shielding over the working.

Everything connected to her highest timeline, mine, Earth’s highest timeline and Source’s divine law.

No destabilising upgrades or major spiritual activations for the sake of entertainment. Her system only received what it could actually hold.

Then I went straight to the solar plexus. That was where I had already been seeing her higher self before we even started. Standing in front of her, one hand over the centre of the body, almost like she was saying, yes, this is the identity now.

So I constructed the sequence there. Highest-timeline alignment. $7,000 a month. Fehu. My channeled money symbols. Cho Ku Rei to strengthen the current.

And then Green Lyran frequency because the word that kept coming up around the entire session was stability. Not money through chaos.

Also we don’t want the money arriving because something catastrophic happens. I’ve seen it before.

Stability is the most ordinary, yet significant frequency I channel. The solar plexus accepted it easily.

What surprised me was the root. Her identity or life force were no longer giving her trouble. But the root was much smaller than the rest of the system.

And suddenly the whole thing made sense. Of course money had been such an anxiety point. Of course housing felt enormous. The idea of the next chapter kept collapsing under the weight of “but where am I going to live and how am I going to pay for it?”

Her upper system was ready to move, yet the foundation still expected the floor to disappear. So I stayed there. Very gently expanded the root.

Filled it with the same $7,000 timeline and Lyran stability. Let the body begin adjusting to the possibility that financial security might become something normal rather than something briefly visited before the next crisis.

Then the right ear started flagging. This happens constantly during money work and I find it hilarious at this point.

People cannot hear the next instruction. That is often literally where it shows up. Right side means execution in my work, so I knew she was still going to have to act on something.

There would be a practical decision, an idea, a message, a conversation, or something else representing action in the physical reality.

We cleared the ear. Then the left side started going off. Hand first. The receiving hand. There was considerably more energy sitting there than I expected.

She had already told me receiving had been difficult for most of her life, so this was hardly a plot twist. I cleared the hand.

Then the sole of the left foot started itching through my own body. Then the knee. Then the arm. The receiving channel was basically lighting up from top to bottom asking to be dealt with.

Which made sense because she had already been forced into receiving over the last year. Meals, money, practical support, people taking things off her plate.

I kept opening that side and sending the money timeline through it. Not only so she could receive money, but so she could receive whatever form of stability the money was trying to arrive through.

Because sometimes somebody sends you $500. The rent could also disappear. Or you could meet someone who offers you a room for $750 instead of paying $2,000 for an apartment.

A spontaneously paid expense. Something of the sort. Money has many costumes. Her job was to stop rejecting half of them because they did not resemble employment.

Then we moved into the Earth Star. That chakra interested me because her living situation was completely open and yet it did not feel distressed.

It felt almost dormant. Waiting. Like there was already a location decision somewhere ahead, but she did not need to know it yet.

That lined up with the conversation perfectly.

Maybe she stays in New Jersey for now. Perhaps, a move was on the horizon penciled in for later, a different city, or continent. It did not matter for now. I did not force an answer.

I sent the timeline into the Earth Star and let the chakra hold it. 

The heart came next. There was some resistance there around suffering. Nothing overly dramatic. Just that old programming around life being hard and work being harder and apparently if you are not exhausted you have committed a moral failure. Removed.

The heart received the timeline too. Because I do not care how much money somebody makes if their emotional body still believes misery is evidence of virtue.

Then throat. Visibility. Writing. Spiritual work. All the things she had already started doing.

There was some heaviness around the back of the neck, and because that area has repeatedly shown up in people doing spiritual work, I cleared what I could and shielded it properly.

Arcturian protection. Silver Dragon protection. Angelic seal. Archangel Michael and Gabriel invited to assist if anything external tried to interfere.

I did not turn it into a full spiritual warfare detour because we had twenty minutes and I was there to finish the money architecture.

Then the third eye. This is where the right-ear situation became relevant again. I placed Sei He Ki for clarity. She needs to see the next action and recognise it when it arrives. That is all.

I do not need Spirit to hand somebody a business plan in PDF format during a Reiki session. A lot of this work unfolds afterwards.

Someone reaches out. An idea lands. You suddenly know which thing to sell and how. You look at one town and feel nothing, look at another and feel your whole body light up. 

A conversation that seems irrelevant becomes the beginning of the next six months. That is usually how the bridge reveals itself.

By the end, I had sent the $7,000 timeline through the entire system and then grounded it back down again.

I am not interested in money sitting beautifully in the crown. I want it in matter.

Root, Earth Star, legs, feet, bills, housing, physical decisions. Then we stabilised everything. 

Lyran green through the whole body. Atlantean charged-water frequency through the upper channels.

Keeper of the Grounds through the lower body. When she came back, she said there had been a loosening.

Less tension and tingling through the left side. The body felt calmer. That was enough.

She had started this process months earlier depleted, overwhelmed, financially frightened and consumed by a family situation that required almost all of her energy.

Now she was publishing and doing magick again.

Questioning her entire relationship with work, the country and the wardrobe. Investigating the amount of money she had previously considered “enough.” And preparing to sell the physical structure that had held the previous chapter of her life.

All signs my work has successfully landed in her energy body. That is what timeline movement actually looks like most of the time.

You rarely wake up inside the new life. The old one just starts becoming increasingly impossible to tolerate.

For 1:1 energy work, multidimensional healing, intuitive channelled sessions and spiritual consultations, my current offers are pinned in my profile.

He had recently undergone an entity clearing after being told there were attachments sitting around his throat and third eye. The clearing worked. He felt joyous afterwards, considerably clearer, and then curiosity got the better of him again.

His particular spiritual talent involved entering other people’s energetic fields.

Useful ability. Terrible hobby when you have not yet learned how to close the door behind you.

He would look into somebody’s field, perceive whatever was sitting there, then apparently discover that some of what he had been observing had followed him home. He had already learned this lesson once, received a clearing, promised himself he would stop and then promptly found himself doing it again because the pressure to look kept building.

I understood the problem immediately. Telling somebody with genuine psychic curiosity to simply stop exploring is approximately as useful as telling a Scorpio not to investigate something suspicious.

They will nod respectfully and resume fifteen minutes later.

I would much rather teach somebody how to operate the ability without turning their energy body into public transport.

He came into session wondering whether something had attached itself again.

There was anxiety around his throat, third eye and sacral. His jaw remained chronically clenched. His thinking had become noisy enough that he struggled to distinguish intuition from mental confusion, and his psychic sensitivity had intensified to the point where being around other people felt invasive.

He was also becoming increasingly aware of a false identity built around appearing normal. Walking outside barefoot could trigger an immediate internal response of: people are going to think I’m weird.

He wanted authenticity, but some part of the body still understood visibility as danger. That gave me considerably more useful information than another conversation about entities would have.

His lower energetic architecture was nowhere near as developed as the upper one.

I recognised the pattern because I had lived through a much more severe version of it myself. My own solar plexus once had the structural integrity of wet cardboard. Severe social anxiety, very little internal authority, enormous psychic sensitivity and nowhere near enough embodiment to hold any of it comfortably.

So I knew where this was going.

He had booked thirty minutes because money was tight, which meant I had to make a decision quickly about what would produce the most useful shift without attempting to remodel his entire chakra system before the clock ran out.

His third eye won.

I established the usual protections first.

Source’s white light through both physical spaces. Keeper of the Grounds anchoring the working into matter. Arcturian shielding around the shared session field and another seal around me so his energy remained his and mine remained mine unless an exchange served both highest timelines.

I connected the work to his highest timeline, mine, Earth’s highest timeline and Source’s divine law, then cloaked the session from anything that did not belong there.

Because he had already experienced problems with unwanted spiritual contact, I also introduced Silver Dragon shielding.

That particular protection came to me recently as something closer to energetic metal than ordinary lightwork. I see it as a translucent silver architecture around the field, considerably less permeable than the protection I use casually every day.

I explained that he could use it himself, particularly before sleep or before doing anything spiritually adventurous.

If the soul insists upon fucking around, the least we can do is provide appropriate protective equipment before it finds out.

Then I went into the third eye expecting to discover whatever entity he feared had returned.

There was some residual energetic material there, but nothing remotely proportional to the amount of psychic distress he was reporting. No significant attachment made itself obvious to me.

The chakra itself was simply operating at an absurd volume. 

He had already experienced what happened when somebody cleared the third eye and left it fully exposed afterwards: suddenly he could feel everything. People, fields, and energetic noise. Information he had no framework for interpreting yet.

His body could not relax around the amount of perception pouring through. So I treated the third eye like a volume control.

If ten represented the degree of psychic sensitivity he had been operating with, I brought it down to approximately five and placed a two-week limitation around the adjustment.

I had no interest in permanently suppressing an ability his soul quite obviously intended to develop. I wanted the rest of his body to catch up.

For two weeks, the third eye could remain quieter while we strengthened the structures responsible for making psychic perception tolerable in a human body.

I placed angelic protection around it, followed by Arcturian frequency and Silver Dragon shielding.

His throat received the same treatment because it carried that same quality of being excessively exposed.

Then I began drawing the energy downward. This is a correction I suspect many psychically gifted people eventually require.

There is an enormous spiritual appetite for climbing. Crown, third eye, higher dimensions, astral travel, Spirit contact - everybody wants to climb the staircase to heaven. 

Meanwhile, the root has received no maintenance since approximately 1997, and the solar plexus is frightened of ordering coffee incorrectly.

The upper and lower architecture have to know each other.

I brought in Red Dragon life-force current together with the golden earthly frequency of the Keeper of the Grounds and moved both from his Soul Star downward through the crown, third eye, throat, heart, solar plexus, sacral and root.

The solar plexus immediately became one of the main priorities. That chakra carries identity and personal authority in my work, and his own language had already exposed the weakness there.

He feared appearing strange and did not entirely trust his perception. He worried about harming people through his own energy because he did not yet understand how to handle it.

His spiritual abilities had developed faster than the identity responsible for wielding them.

I expanded the solar plexus gently. Enough additional capacity for him to inhabit himself with less constant surveillance of how the outside world might respond.

Then I moved to the root. Again, only a small expansion.

His system did not need another dramatic opening. It needed enough physical safety that consciousness could stop living almost entirely above the neck.

That, to me, is where a surprising amount of psychic anxiety originates.

A very open upper body combined with a weak root can make ordinary existence feel spiritually hostile because there is nowhere inside the person that feels sufficiently solid to receive everything they perceive.

He mentioned his jaw again as we were working. The clenching had been persistent, and he connected it himself to the activity around the third eye and spine.

There was more movement through the upper channels, but the session was already approaching its limit, and I refused to leave him half-open simply because another interesting layer had presented itself.

So I began closing. Atlantean charged-water frequency went through the upper body to calm the nervous system around what had shifted.

The lower body received the Keeper of the Grounds current again. Then I sealed every chakra, with particular attention to the upper channels, so the previous energetic material had fewer opportunities to wander back into spaces we had just cleared.

When he came back, he said he felt better. Then he specifically mentioned confidence.

That made sense because we had barely touched most of the field. The solar plexus had received perhaps a few minutes of direct work, yet his body noticed it immediately.

That was the piece I wanted him to take seriously. His curiosity had convinced him that the next stage of spiritual development involved learning how to perceive more.

From where I was sitting, his development currently required learning how to remain entirely himself while perceiving what was already there.

There is a difference.

Psychic access without sufficient embodiment becomes exhausting very quickly. You begin receiving information you cannot sort, entering spaces you cannot protect yourself inside, feeling energies you have not yet learned to distinguish from your own and eventually becoming frightened of the very abilities you were desperate to awaken.

Then people assume the gift itself is dangerous. Usually the architecture around it simply needs work.

I told him to use the shielding practices from the recording rather than abandoning his abilities out of fear.

Arcturian protection for daily use. Silver Dragon shielding while his field remained particularly sensitive.

Clear alignment conditions before interacting with anything beyond his own field. And, for the moment, considerably less unsolicited astral tourism through strangers.

The last part may prove difficult. His soul appears nosy. Mine is too. I understand.

The goal is not to turn somebody spiritually gifted into a person who refuses to look beyond the material world because one entity frightened them once.

I would rather build enough sovereignty underneath the gift that eventually they can look wherever their work requires without losing themselves in what looks back.

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Ordinary tiredness didn’t quite cut it. This was the tiredness where you begin wondering whether somebody, somewhere, is chewing on your life force with a straw.

She had recently detonated her entire life - left her marriage, sold her house, and moved from America back to England. Suddenly acquired an enormous amount of freedom and very little idea what she was supposed to do with it.

She had resources and options. She had been a working artist for around twenty years and was now looking at properties that could function as both home and studio.

On paper, beautiful.

Energetically, she was standing in the foyer of a new life with all the furniture still wrapped in plastic.

“I’m usually very good with my intuition,” she told me. “I’m getting nothing.”

That interested me more than the tiredness.

Because when somebody who can normally hear herself clearly suddenly goes dark at the exact moment she needs direction, I want to know whether something is blocking the signal, whether the nervous system has simply had enough, or whether the soul is withholding the next instruction until the body catches up with what it has already survived.

She had already done the large, dramatic part in the form of ending the marriage, crossing the ocean, and closing the chapter unfit for the next phase of her evolution.

The problem was that she had no idea what she was building next. Naturally, my first instinct was: excellent, let’s align the next timeline immediately.

House. Studio. Land. Purpose. Location. Go.

Spirit, once again forced to parent me through my own work, said absolutely not. Her system needed stabilising first.

She had spent the previous year dismantling an entire life, grieving a close friend who had died suddenly, moving countries, and attempting to make decade-long decisions from inside a body that was very obviously asking everybody to stop submitting planning applications for five minutes. 

Fair enough. Then she said something that changed the session completely.

“I don’t feel like all of me is here.”

Ah.

Now we were getting somewhere. She had undergone soul-retrieval work before. Her childhood had been chronically traumatic rather than organised around one spectacular event.

Her mother, she said, was a malignant narcissist.

Then she gave me one of the best descriptions of childhood energetic suppression I have heard in a session.

“I feel like a bonsai tree.”

Constantly pruned and made small. Corrected back into shape every time too much of her natural self attempted to emerge.

There are forms of trauma that fracture the soul loudly. And then there are childhoods where little pieces of you simply learn to leave the room.

A thousand tiny evacuations instead of one great departure.

Clip.

Clip.

Clip.

By adulthood, the person looks functional enough. Meanwhile, half the original architecture is sitting somewhere beyond immediate reach, waiting for the environment to become safe enough to return.

That suddenly made her exhaustion far more spiritually interesting.

I established the session through the same security apparatus I now use whenever there is even a possibility of multidimensional work.

Source first. Keeper of the Grounds anchoring the physical space.

Arcturian protection around the working and another seal around myself so I was not casually borrowing somebody else’s childhood trauma for the afternoon.

Cloaking. Six Arcturian guides around the perimeter. Silver Dragon shielding because soul work does not require spectators.

Her higher self supervising the entire operation. Then I checked the field.

No obvious entity or major black magick. No grand spiritual enemy crouched behind her third eye. Which, frankly, was refreshing.

The heart spoke first. There was grief there, but not where I expected it. The marriage was largely complete emotionally before she left.

Her friend’s death wasn’t. That pain still lived in the heart. So I cleared what wanted to leave and brought in the Pink Dragon current I use for high-frequency love.

Not to bypass grief. To give the heart enough of something else to hold while grief moved through it.

Then her left side began speaking - her forehead, jaw, neck, shoulder. The usual suspect indicative of a blocked receptive channel.

I work with women all day long and at this point I would be more surprised if the left side arrived completely unobstructed.

Money, love, nourishment, support, visibility, pleasure, receiving without immediately performing a small administrative task in exchange. The usual female inheritance.

With her, though, the frequency felt very specifically connected to love.

Not the romantic variation. More so love as an available condition. Love from friends. Love through community. Love through land. Love without auditioning for it.

Her old life had taught her to shrink around another person. The next one appeared to be asking whether she could remain fully herself and still be met.

Then I returned to the third eye. That was where the tiredness had been hiding.

At first it gave me very little. Then it opened and would not stop releasing.

Her forehead tingled while I cleared it. More energy came. And then some.

There was so much accumulated material sitting around perception that I stopped caring about every other exciting thing I had planned.

This is where people misunderstand energy work. Sometimes the glamorous thing is the least useful thing in the room.

You can activate somebody into twelve dimensions if you like. If their third eye is congested enough that they cannot tell whether they want to live in Brighton or Mexico, perhaps we should begin there.

Eventually it lightened. Only then did I feel comfortable touching the missing-soul material.

And this retrieval looked unlike the others I had recently done.

Sometimes I see one major soul aspect. A child or a teenager. An entire version of somebody standing elsewhere in time, waiting to be collected.

This client appeared in particles. Ash was the first image. Tiny fragments suspended around her. 

Not one self to retrieve. More like the residue of years spent becoming less visible than she actually was.

So I opened the crown very gently and began calling back only the portions of her original soul essence that met the conditions we had established.

Highest timeline. Earth’s highest timeline. Source’s divine law. No distortions or attachments. Nothing the body was not ready to hold.

No heroic reunion requiring three days of ego death afterwards. Just the amount of herself she could safely become responsible for now.

The particles started descending. And then they shifted. Butterflies.

The pieces that had first appeared burned out and scattered suddenly looked alive, childlike and playful.

Something in the symbolism made me laugh because it was so literal. The bonsai tree had apparently had enough.

Her body began tingling. The returning essence moved through the crown and then dropped quickly through the rest of the system.

Third eye, throat, heart, solar plexus, sacral, root, Earth Star. I wanted that energy grounded immediately.

The left leg activated. Receiving in matter. Then the right hand. Execution.

That combination told me almost everything. She was being prepared to receive more of herself and then do something with it.

When the current reached the sacral, I placed clarity there. That chakra matters enormously in my work around creativity and mission.

For somebody whose life had moved between music and visual art, and who was now trying to understand what the next creative incarnation wanted from her, I cared far more about restoring that current than forcing a five-year plan through the crown.

Let desire speak first. The strategy can arrive later. Then her ears became hot. That was the body saying enough. So I stopped.

This is part of the work people rarely discuss because everybody loves spiritual escalation until the nervous system starts invoicing you.

More is not automatically more powerful. Sometimes the most advanced thing I do in session is stop.

I closed the crown and moved immediately into stabilisation. Atlantean charged-water frequency through the upper system.

Keeper of the Grounds through the lower body. Lyran stabilisation. Then Red Dragon life force, called back from above and below to meet through the sacral.

Her field began feeling noticeably fuller. We could have ended there.

Then Earth Star started asking for attention. She had been looking at houses in England while openly admitting she was not even sure England was where she wanted the next decade of her life to happen.

A minor logistical detail. The Earth Star concerns belonging and location in my work. Land and community. Where the next chapter can actually anchor.

I placed clarity there and introduced two currents. High-frequency love, then Lyran belonging.

No instruction to buy, stay, or move. Just enough amplification that the correct land could become louder.

Then Mexico came into my awareness. She immediately said, “I love Mexico.”

Right.

I did not tell her to sell everything again and board a plane because Spirit had mentioned Mexico through an energy session.

First, you watch and wait. You observe whether the place starts following you.

Whether conversations appear. Perhaps, someone sends you a listing. Or maybe you randomly meet somebody who lives there.

Does your whole body soften every time you imagine waking up there? Reality is extremely capable of confirming its own instructions if you give it five minutes.

I kept the Earth Star work light because we had already done enough.

Then I returned, again, to the third eye. Still the diva of the session. More clearing, stabilisation, and grounding.

Seal everything, close the working, bring her back. When she opened her eyes, she was tingling everywhere.

Then she told me she had slipped into a dream. She walked into a room. There was a long table with flowers and food served. Preparations for some kind of gathering were underway.

That image stayed with me more than anything else. Because she had arrived feeling empty, unclear, and feeling parts of herself missing.

And somewhere underneath all of that, her consciousness wandered into a room where something was already being prepared.

As though the next chapter had simply not finished laying the table yet.

She told me the session felt energising. Her body felt as though it had been filling up.

That was exactly the result I wanted. I told her to do very little afterward.

Eat, drink water, ground and sleep if the body demanded it. Also soak in a salt bath.

And pay attention to the tiny impulses that begin appearing once the larger energetic obstruction is gone.

Go there. Text her. Look at that town. Pick up the paintbrush or play that song. Book the strange little trip.

People imagine a highest timeline arrives carrying trumpets. Half the time it starts as an urge to leave the house on a Tuesday.

She had come asking whether something external was stealing her energy. Instead, we found a body that appeared ready to receive more of its own soul back.

For 1:1 energy work, multidimensional healing, intuitive channelled sessions and spiritual consultations, my current offers are pinned in my profile.

I began deconstructing the energetic architecture that revealed itself towards the end of the previous chapter, so I shall presume you’ve already walked with me through the first two parts of this story. For my more practically inclined witches, I deliberately scattered glimpses of my own practice throughout those pages, leaving its fullest expression for this final chapter.

In truth, it bores me. I spend my days laying those bricks. So whenever I emerge from beneath the scaffolding, I insist on being entertained. I have little desire to remain inside grimoires. I prefer the places where dimensions blur, where theory becomes lived experience, and where, every so often, I part the curtain between my scalpel and those — fortunate or unfortunate — enough to find themselves at the receiving end of it.

If you’d like more precision, book a session. Speaking the instructions is far easier for me. If I am to slow down my thinking into typing, I must find ways to amuse myself. So stories it is. And this one just took a turn for the worse.

I won’t sit here and lie to you that me and a pack of cigarettes didn’t have a few close encounters with God during those first couple of weeks. But even in my weakened state, I understood my soul’s assignment. I knew I held greater power through my connection to Source — a current she could have drawn from too, had she chosen to. She refused, persuaded by the entities surrounding her that human representatives of that force were the closest equivalent on Earth.

That is the tragedy of some forms of black magick. It functions as an inversion of Source’s architecture. It denies God while sanctioning the theft of light. Unable to recognise the work they came here to do, its practitioners wander further and further into denial. God is dead. If it were among us, none of this would be permitted. So the karmic wheel continues to squeak, accumulating debts for everyone still determined to keep it turning.

I knew I hadn’t recognised my assignment to the land and the community when I first arrived. After all, this corner of Costa Rica sits directly on my Saturn IC line. It took the better part of a year to decipher the lesson hidden within that placement. Saturn governs our sense of home — but not before putting it through trial by fire. Education first. Comfort later. This planet does not care for entertainment.

The foundation is tested for sturdiness. Mine was weak. I assumed Saturn was bound to lead me to my soul family at first. The first batch I encountered proved to be faulty and passed their expiration date within a span of a few months.

Such happenings forced me to return to the familiar confines of isolation. Once again, I assumed this was Daddy Saturn’s prescription. I was wrong. Saturn had never asked me to live at either extreme. Surprisingly, the not-so-gentle ruler of my existence requested a rendezvous somewhere in the middle.

Dedication to my craft without withdrawing from the world. A heart capable of remaining open without surrendering itself entirely. Saturn sought balance. One of the most difficult assignments of human existence, isn’t she?

Yet without her, Saturn would not release me. Having spent all thirty-one years of my life beneath Saturn-governed skies, I had begun to suspect the old headmaster was rather reluctant to sign my graduation papers. Its farewell gift — the promised send-off to greener pastures once I graduated from Saturn’s school of alignment, or death by trial — was laying the foundation of balance.

No sacrificial lambs were necessary to achieve greatness, apparently. Then and only then would Saturn permit my departure towards kinder skies such as my homes at Mercury, or dare we dream, Venus or Jupiter lines at its various, less stern crossovers with Neptune, Sun, Moon, and yes, even Saturn itself, this time in a supporting role rather than the lead. Ease instead of relentless discipline in search of that damn wandered-off balance that left me a few lifetimes ago.

I bear Saturn no grudge. I merely wish the examination had been open-book. On the path to greatness, they rarely are.

As I practised cleansing each day alongside my White and Black dragons, occasionally calling upon the violet flame, I began to understand Source had been preparing me for work extending far beyond myself. This was to be my first. No prior warning. One is expected to perform while the arrows are already in flight. Your enemy doesn’t typically deliver a handwritten invitation to duel ever so politely. He usually drags you from your bed in the dead of night with a greeting of a knife resting against your throat.

So I surrendered to the work. Initially, every cleansing was born of desperation

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So when the tail end of the cleansing ritual — aimed at collapsing my next-door neighbour’s favourite pastime of throwing hexes at various members of our community — tightened around my soul and spun my heart into an immediate web of envy, I knew better than to hyperventilate in public. My jealousy was palpable.

And it’s not because we’re seeing each other in this lifetime. No. We’re aware of one another, but the jury remains very much out on our long-term compatibility.

Well, this line is ageing rapidly as I edit the first draft. But I reserve the right to remain silent until further notice.

It’s the soul’s memory that got me fucked up. Even with my human amnesia lifted, I tend to have a firmer grasp on matters of the heart that stretch across time and space, untouched by the current reality.

For the moment, however, I am not yet at liberty to disclose the full history of our souls, lest he wander into my little corner of the internet and read my writing. Give me a couple of months. After all, I picked up my digital pen to document convoluted multidimensional threads exactly such as this one, staring me right in the face. Once I’ve untangled the lot, the tea shall be spilt.

Let’s return to the night of the ritual.

Once we retreated to the safety of my friend’s casita, I allowed a legion of demons to pass through my psyche yet again for the purposes of one tiny exorcism. Metaphysical Stockholm syndrome, one might claim, but I am perfectly capable of distinguishing between the occasions that call for passive observation of entities having their way with me and the moments that demand I strike back.

Apparently, the lifting of the curse required me to get triggered over a man. So I submitted.

By five in the morning, once my delusion had passed, I felt as though the spiritual washing machine had put me through enough spins for one night. Dreamtime was overdue.

The following morning, I couldn’t believe my mirror.

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It did, as a matter of fact.

Signs follow, they do not precede. The prophecy and the conflict.

A few months ago, I made a prediction on social media that a woman was soon to enter the timeline of one of my landlords here in Costa Rica. I was told by my local land Spirit guides that this connection would permanently alter the trajectory of both their business and romantic destiny.

A specific date was whispered to my ear to accompany this eerily specific prophecy.

April 26.

Around that day, I was told a witch was to take up residence next door, replacing the drug dealers.

Yes, I had a disagreement with the property owners after discovering they had moved people of questionable character into the community while operating under the charming assumption that the rest of us would not notice their chosen vocation.

We must cite irreconcilable differences with regard to our respective definitions of safety, protection, and acceptable neighbours in a community space. Especially one inhabited by women.

Their primary concern appeared to be: “How does she know what they do?”

Obviously, not spoken to me. It is simply what I heard. The signs of their activities were invisible to the human eye, at least.

I just know things I need to know at the precise moment the knowing of them is required.

In my world, information arrives when it becomes spiritually necessary, not when it is intellectually desirable.

My question was considerably simpler: “How the fuck do you comfortably lie to the face of a witch?”

They both knew perfectly well what I do. One was reasonably acquainted with my practices, so a sequence of decisions in this range of stupidity surprised me.

A few days after the whispers of yet another witch joining the community reached my ears, I met her. There are now three of us, witches, living side by side beneath the same patch of Costa Rican jungle.

Our first encounter involved an invitation to a witchy circle organised in honour of the Scorpio full moon — a women-only gathering, entry granted exclusively through whispered recommendation, conveniently tucked just behind the communal living quarters.

The first event ever held in that space.

The prophecy was unravelling right before me. Business-adjacent, at least.

Love had also been mentioned. Great love, in fact. For a select few. Time would have to settle that particular dispute.

Regardless, I am not a prophet. That’s a man’s occupation.

I am a witch. And an oracle.

Spirit told me she would change everything, neglecting to specify in which direction.

Attempted robbery, or how to know it’s time to begin casting.

I knew she was casting against me almost as soon as she finished settling in and brushing the last cobwebs out from beneath her ceiling.

Efficient.

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Should you not have yet feasted your eyes upon Part I of this story, I would strongly recommend you do so. Otherwise, you will miss the amusement in observing every last reserve of common sense temporarily vacate my premises.

We left me at the point of entrusting my identity to the man, assigned at birth, with no other evidence to support that theory, who had already demonstrated a remarkable inability to deliver on his monetary promises. It took me an embarrassingly lengthy minute to arrive at comprehensive, unencumbered conclusions about his questionable character. The clock, however, refused to strike that minute while I continued to part with my most valued possession — time — for an unreasonably long stretch of matter.

In my case, sense has a tendency to arrive fashionably late. I remain convinced my Spirit guides devise obstacles to throw my way purely for the purpose of thickening the plotline. By all available evidence, they have proven themselves rather successful in this endeavour — as you may have gathered from my social media posts and Substack confessionals.

They had to carve an author out of me by any means necessary. Without original, lived stories, does one even deserve the title? I must have selected the most colourful human experience package in the waiting lobby of the ethers, skimming over the fine print without bothering to have ChatGPT explain the clauses in mundane detail.

After agreeing to allow the masculine-presenting creature in question to open seven trading accounts in my name for a generous compensation of $200 to run his bot trading experiment, we arranged a meeting at his house to proceed.

Like an idiot, I left his place without securing access to those accounts. Meaning the male-presenting organism who had already vanished with my money once for three consecutive weeks was now free to trade under my name.

The longer I sat with what I had just done, the heavier the state of affairs felt. The venture I had carelessly agreed to participate in once again entangled me deeper inside the web of his financial lies and schemes, offering little in return beyond a measly $200 and a complex, multiple-layered Machiavellian strategy I was forced to devise to avoid bruising his ego while waging one battle after another to retrieve my original investment.

Time wasted is the highest-valued commodity on Earth. Collecting my interest is only just.

My intuition felt almost unreasonably certain of the necessity of my personal involvement on both occasions, which leads me to suspect the strings of fate deliberately dulled my critical thinking ability somewhat for a purpose yet to reveal itself. For what other reason did I find myself still clinging to the hope of recovering my $3,000 — now converted into a lesson — while agreeing to further his gambling, now committed under my name rather than continuing to soil his own?

If he possessed the capital to fund seven accounts to test his “new and improved” trading strategies, why on Earth then did he need to sluggishly stagger his repayments to me over a period of five months instead of simply returning my money immediately, as any individual not committed to taking me for an idiot would?

Furthermore, he lied to me. Seven trading platforms would not accept his Canadian ID, yet, apparently, would most happily welcome my passport from the Europe area, as he explained with utmost sophistication. I didn’t catch this particular fabrication until the handover was complete and he began his second act of vanishing into the distance with even more of my belongings.

In conclusion, he violently exercised male audacity to its fullest extent, staking his claim on my failure to notice a million tiny inconsistencies scattered across his narrative, conveniently veiled by the money involved. His delusion met my stupidity and, for a time, they paired rather well. Until my foolishness wore off and the cunning witch returned with vengeance.

Respect was no longer the dominant currency of exchange, for God knows, I had paid far more than my share. It was time to try my hand at something more incisive, such as a fear-tinged introduction to the consequences of his actions. And perhaps the summoning of Spirits to retrieve the sense I had regrettably misplaced somewhere within his elaborate web of lies.

Immediately after setting up the accounts under my name, an idea dawned on me that the general energetic protection surrounding my persona would benefit from the accompaniment of cleansing and transmutation protective warding. A witch who regularly disrupts the order of the cosmos would be ill-advised to exercise anything less than excessive caution.

Still failing to draw any connection between the two events, I proceeded with my practices.

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Not metaphorically in the slightest. I lost $3,000 to a questionable investment, only to later recover $5,000 through the exact same catastrophic turn of circumstance that temporarily shifted in my favour beneath the stubborn hand of magick.

I still wouldn’t undo it. The ordeal gave birth to my transmutation ward.

For an entire month, I refused to transmute the situation in my karma-polluted mind, absolutely devoted to the experience of defeat. I occupied myself with increasingly elaborate internal monologues consisting of cleverly cursing my adversary, who put me through emotional and financial turmoil, meant to slap their Higher Self directly back into their bitch ass human body.

Eventually, my sanity wandered back home long enough for me to cast a spell or two. I immediately emerged slightly scorched but victorious, clutching a transmutation blueprint I now intend to parade before the entire world. My enemies have succeeded in activating my alchemical abilities. For that, I remain eternally grateful.

It all began during my vacation to Costa Rica, originally intended to confirm my growing suspicions that my next set of soul lessons is buried somewhere along the coastline of Uvita. Among other curious characters orbiting that particular timeline, I met him. The infamous trader. Not a single whiff of a bad vibe, initially.

How deceptive.

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Most people are under the impression that prayer is harmless.

It isn’t.

What I’m about to show you are specific moments — not spiritual theories or recycled wisdom — that revealed the underlying structure through which reality organises itself. Through repetition, error, and consequence, I now use that mechanical understanding to observe the interactions between prayer and the pre-existing architecture of physical matter.

I didn’t arrive at that understanding gracefully. Let’s just say this is a far more contained version of the original psychosis.

It began as all soul contracts do. With disproportionate intensity. Directionless and entirely uninterested in logic. With an aggressively persistent urge to plough through unexplored terrain for metaphysical research purposes.

By the end of Part II, I left you standing at the precipice of what could very reasonably be labelled a breakdown.

You wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But you wouldn’t be right either. Source’s diabolical plan involved a forced reconnection with my abilities — and empathy, my most sharpened double-edged sword, was the chosen delivery system.

Yes, I am aware of how that sounds.

That could be interpreted as something bordering on the edges of narcissism for the most eagle-eyed readers, yet an absolutely politically correct sentence to leave you with.

Look at me, the poor, confused, used and abused empath.

My decision I left you with at the end of Part II of this word saga was to ignore the utter hopelessness of my reality at the time, and instead, conduct a manifestation experiment of praying

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Each time I persuade myself that the story living inside me may find a summer home away from its owner in a single Substack article, I inevitably meet you at Part II. Occasionally III. For a neurodivergent brain, what begins as a singular storyline soon gathers seventeen characters and thirteen additional plotlines that refuse to stay outside the door. And what type of host would I be if I denied them the hospitality of my mental space and its expression on the page? And so I invite you to follow me through the corridors.

Even the relevance of every detail isn’t immediately clear, your subconscious mind, tethered to your Soul Star chakra, understands perfectly well. Just ask yourself how you feel when you reach the end of each article. Perhaps slightly bewildered, yet somehow more spiritually expanded inside the convoluted universe of my mind and all its multidimensional stories I attempt to translate here.

Yes, I enjoy bypassing the mind and speaking directly to your energetic system. I speak to your energy body. Attempts to address the mind alone have rarely proven successful.

Spirit guides on the other side communicate in the exact same manner — through dreams, intuition, and subtle guidance. You cannot begin to perceive these signals — until you begin interpreting reality itself, instead of confining your reading to billboards and neon signs only.

And this is precisely how prayer eventually revealed itself to me — not as a linear instruction manual, but as something spoken through symbols, stories, and energetic language.

Notice — such clarity rarely arrives in a direct form unless these crafts are practised daily. Even then, the veil never lifts in its entirety. You are only ever a witness to what the human mind can safely perceive. Because the raw material of the astral and higher-dimensional planes is not safe to be consumed in one undiluted gulp without preparation. That’s poisonous.

Neurodivergent minds often operate in several dimensions of thought at once. Now that my psychic abilities are for the most part steadily contained and under scrutinous development, receiving information from multiple planes of reality has become far more manageable. Linear minds might struggle with my texts — because at first glance, very little appears to make complete sense.

The moment one thread begins to take a recognisable shape, onto another story I go. I have learned not to medicate that, but lean into it.

Why are you taking me there? Where are we going?

And so I take you with me. Some things are better in pairs.

If you’re familiar with Haruki Murakami and his style of magic realism, you may recognise the influence his narrative structure has had on my writing. Never leaving the reader entirely satisfied. Using just enough symbolism for the subconscious to grasp the meaning, while gently unsettling the beginning-middle-end ego’s expectations to prevent easy digestion.

Read me like one of your French circles. I am an infinity. I communicate like the aliens in the film Arrival. Viewed that way, I might begin to make sense. Because I have no end or a typical architecture of linear expression.

Learning how to pray — and writing instructions for it — is no exception. I teach through stories. Instructional manuals have never held my attention. My sentences need to sit somewhere near fiction if they are to satisfy me. I write for myself — and you are welcome to read it. That’s what fiction does. Non-fiction tends to face the world, promising resolutions. Unfortunately, that does very little for my dopamine-seeking brain.

My prayers led me to write this article in this exact form. And so I stopped questioning God after a while and unleashed my full spectrum onto you.

And while my relationship with prayer eventually became deeply personal and mystical, it did not begin in a vacuum.

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Contrary to rumours, witches do turn to God in prayer. Often with considerably more dedication than your parish priest, I’m afraid. Only not the God brandished so confidently by Bible-touters. A different Creator, indeed. A singular, uninterrupted stream of truth.

Because we do not believe — no, we know from experience — that pious shame robs us of agency. It is simply a rhetoric aimed at disconnecting us further from the most immediate Source of wisdom: the body. Quite contrary is our lived, embodied reality, in fact. Touching yourself might transport you to heaven considerably faster than any cathedral could carry you, provided your intention and awareness allow for it.

But this article isn’t quite erotically themed. I appear to have deviated from the topic at hand in my fourth paragraph, no less, in a very neurodivergent fashion. I simply cannot help myself. All deviations lead to the same Source. I promise.

Just letting you know. In the unfortunate event you have succumbed to the propaganda. I should hate my readers burning in hell for sins invented entirely by their under-exercised mind.

I was introduced to the concept of prayer during one of my now rather predictable, once-a-quarter ego deaths, which eventually culminated in a full year of karmic unravelling from familial structures. Spiritual isolation. The peculiar phase of life when humans stand secondary to Spirits.

Source, along with its bodiless creations, finally reveal themselves after first stripping life of human interruption. For some of us, flesh must meet Spirits directly — an intimate gathering reserved only for your human and their wisdom. Which turns out to be yours, but you only find out later.

A proper closed-book examination rarely provides the length of its duration. Nor do you immediately realise that your ordinary human existence, as you’ve been accustomed to knowing, has been brought to a halt. So that the true power of your Spirit may be carved into your bones. So you could remember where it came from.

And, naturally, so introductions to your most formidable allies and enemies may begin.

Through the confusion and the rather Earth-shattering revelations regarding the true nature of reality, still you walk. You continue placing one shaky foot in front of the other while the false Gods you once confided in fall apart at your feet. You watch them wither and die. And in the wreckage, a peculiar certainty emerges. You are on your way to meet the Creator.

Then, quite suddenly, you meet the one who has been waiting for you your entire life. Source. You’re late. And arrogant. Where were you through all of my deaths?

It summons you at last. But listening, you see, is a dying art.

And so Death follows — again and again — until the pits of hell finally succeed in teaching you.

Perhaps, you’d like to see the Sun for a change? A conscious choice — not one you beg for.

Source does not rush its ordinary students. Unless you happen to carry heavy-duty spiritual contracts of mass scale due to affect millions and alter planetary frequencies at large once activated.

Then, my darling, you are in trouble.

Mission instructions lost in suffering, you’ll be dragged through the valleys of Death as many times as necessary — all for a privilege of a brief chat with your Creator.

Don't you remember who you are?

In my darkest of hours, shortly after abandoning my survival job in the United Kingdom and boarding a one-way flight back home following a sudden, violent surge of angel numbers

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My friend’s former partner regrettably belonged to that particular category of unlucky individuals.

The aftermath of my friend’s energy work session, detailed in Part I above for your reading pleasure, wasted no time in unfolding. She woke as if she had just survived war. In truth, she had. Well, of course, her ex didn’t fancy parting ways with her delicious life force energy, so a more than gentle push was employed to hasten the matter. I have little tolerance for squatters.

What I did not foresee, however, was how violently this disconnection of supply would ripple into our inhabited reality.

Our next meeting found us at the beach on Christmas Day, beneath twenty-eight degrees of tropical Sun.

Can you see my abs? she asked by way of seasonal greeting.

I cannot. I consumed ten thousand calories yesterday. Feeling chunky right now is an understatement.

I had warned her that the nervous system, when relieved of a prolonged strain, often retreats to a gentler, parasympathetic rhythm. Her particular physical body obeyed this law with dramatic sincerity — she took to sleep for 10-12 hours during the days that followed, devoured an ungodly amount of calories, shocking for her slim frame, and even developed a mild cold. I felt a degree of responsibility, of course, yet my observations remain consistent. Most individuals who require a cleansing of an entrenched, stagnant energy experience similar symptoms.

A deliberate stillness to make sure the newly calibrated body remains in pristine post-operative condition. Hospitals require it, so why shouldn’t soul surgeries treat their patients in a similar fashion? Bed, high-calorie consumption, and patience are the usual prescribed treatments to allow higher currents to stabilise within organic tissue.

Human bodies are an entirely three-dimensional tool that Spirits don’t bother with. They are slow. And we, as souls inhabiting this structure for the duration of a reincarnation cycle, must respect and work around their limitations if we are to incorporate higher-dimensional energies for their swift assistance in overcoming our troubles.

A few days following my first Christmas in a bikini, the groupchat was restless. It was Saturday, and we all desired to simply get out of the house on the hunt for an adventure. A party found us and — as a surprise to no one — he was there. The man, for the lack of a more fitting word, whom I had recently exorcised out of my friend’s energy field.

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Now, as a witch — and overall multidimensional being who remembers her non-human origins (and yes, you may too if you cease pretending) — no man can ever claim to have experienced the grace of occupying the title of my ex, of course. But my friend had acquired one of those pesky inconveniences.

I recently exchanged nine months of rain, cold, wind gusts and dutifully grey skies of Lithuania for the heat — and surprisingly dewy breath — of Costa Rica. A storyline to be documented and reconciled with on my Substack once I decide how I’m treating each individual character it insists on casting.

What degree of truth can I stomach escaping my private reality and entering public knowledge? Gatekept behind a paywall, yes, yet still, most inconveniently, taking up residence outside my mind.

Terrifying, for we are now crossing into the territory of me telling tales about people who might discover and read my work — individuals who inhabit my current reality. I’m no longer in touch with a single soul written about in my previous Substacks. Lived, memorialised, and died — those timelines have completed their run. Now, I am tasked with living alongside my characters while documenting the turns of events as we collectively watch them unfold.

That, I reckon, is the precise measure of pain I am willing to administer into my existence. Dishonest art doesn’t deserve her name.

So while that marinates in the fridge of my subconscious, we turn to other matters —no less metaphysically curious. Such as yet another freezer spell and energy work session that sent this man into a well-deserved, though unexpected, momentary loss of decorum, otherwise known as a crash-out, culminating in a public vow to leave my friend alone.

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It’s not a sort of thought your predictable inhabitant of this planet permits themselves. Certainly not when it concerns one’s own mother.

Should you find yourself momentarily discombobulated — wondering as to how on Earth I came to entertain unseemly constructs so treacherous to the conditioned idea of well-trodden family structures, may I politely point you towards Part One and Part Two of this tale.

Even so, the aftermath of any spell remains invariably the most intriguing turn in the sequence of events. You, the conjurer, along with all those implicated, are granted front-row seats to the ethereal meddling you have so daringly set loose.

Intoxicating. And perilous, if discovered by hearts and minds severed from Source.

I did what any sensible woman with a taste for danger would do — I surrendered to the pull of uncharted waters, plunged headlong and swam for my dear life. Only then did my conduct in the physical realm resolve itself into something almost scandalously apparent.

A few well-aimed exchanges with ChatGPT later, what had once presented an impossible inheritance dilemma suddenly began behaving herself at last. My mother and I, you see, inherited my crossed-over grandmother’s apartment together — an ancestral deadlock clearly intended to strong-arm spiritual growth. For nearly a year, it functioned as a prison. The spell slid a key across a table. All that remained was for me to turn it to pry the door open.

Previous explanations have already been given, but allow me to refresh your memory, as the kindness of my heart has no bounds — and these affairs are thick with metaphysical and material consequence with the introduction of every new paragraph.

I returned from the UK immediately after my grandmother’s passing, just as my mother came into full possession of a most convenient weapon: my recent and final theatrical departure from the job market in pursuit of my coaching work. She wielded it accordingly.

Accompanied by an inconvenient brush with financial reality, it was a rather aggressive response to a soul’s call — one delivered before I’d constructed a three-dimensional foundation capable of bearing such ambition.

My lineage and highest timeline guardians braced for this apparent recklessness — and the apartment revealed itself as a dwelling for a lost soul intent on returning home, bearing gifts Earth was quite overdue to receive.

My mother kindly agreed — insisted, even — for my return required her consent, the apartment being a shared possession. Not long after, her maddening attempts at exile and sabotage surfaced with theatrical predictability, now documented in messages sent to my stepfather and me, and the internal records of our local police station. Evidence accumulated quietly, waiting. The spell illuminated that particular direction. And more than that — it handed me the exact legally supported play-by-play through which I could secure my freedom, establish a degree of financial stability, and shut this karmic door for good.

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Forgive me, then. I make a far better ally than adversary. Though make no mistake, I perform every role with equal precision if the script so requires.

As cast in this play, my mother awoke supposedly no longer hosting the company of white horses, her breath fresh from — at the very least — the spirits of the liquid variety. Yet lifetimes of unquestioned access had made them inventive; when denied obedience, they simply devised new instruments of punishment for their conspiratorial family members who must be stopped by any means necessary.

By morning, photographs of her bruised, battered neck were submitted to the hospital, accompanied by claims of a “close, yet conveniently unnamed family member” being responsible for the evidence of the alleged monstrosity landing on their desk in that same breath.

Perhaps, memory refused to serve her this time — it would hardly be her first categorical stomping of feet — so, with well-practised ease, she fabricated her own story, and with it, the “evidence”, as per usual.

Last night’s spectacle could have remained a private humiliation, confined to family memory and a handful of ill-fated medical and police professionals. But you see, once an individual produces “evidence” of abuse, the law is now bound to open a formal investigation, summon witnesses, and determine whether a crime has occurred, regardless of the witnessed unreliability of the self-proclaimed victim and her poorly performed role.

The concepts of mother and victim were always inverted in my reality. From the moment I dared my first childish no, I was ushered into a house of lies and instructed to call it home. To be raised on inversion is to be slowly dismantled. It took its toll and completely destroyed my budding sense of self, and with it, my mental and physical health, now on a rapid mend despite my mother’s continued attempts to undo me.

And for that, Spirit exacted a price. Not one I would call sufficient, in my current view of reality, but the disentanglement from the socially acceptable concept of mother alone is worth its weight in gold. And that is precisely what followed. Gold. Money. Transfers.

How?

Well…

The police investigation called in my brother, my stepfather, and, for reasons no one could adequately explain, me.

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A small disclaimer before we proceed: I’m hardly the weather-worn kind of witch whose decades of practice involve sacrificial rites, midnight herb hunts, or crystals quarried from the planet’s farthest bones. Nor do I chart the heavens before every flick of my wrist.

My credentials are mostly chaos and curiosity. Call it beginner’s luck, if you like — though I suspect it’s something older that answers when I whisper.

I tend to roll the dice when Spirit resorts to screeching her lengthy nails on the chalkboard, paired with occasional infernal screams from the void, to divert my attention from the mundane to the numinous.

I must confess, before you accuse me of falling victim to coincidence or my cleverness for bearing sole responsibility for my outcomes — I brew my luck in-house using my own special recipe.

The fine print of my title claim involves daily energy work practice. Meaning, casting acts as the culminating all-party signature of the contracts I spend my days and nights negotiating in the ethers. So when I reach the brink of a decision, signalling it’s time to reap my harvest, Spirit simply treats it as a permission slip to call upon their operational executives. The fieldwork gets stamped and finally approved by Earthly — and not-very-much-so — participants. The reckoning unfolds.

My first spell was cast out of necessity. Gods love a good old cornering when a knife is due to be twisted.

My mother by title, tormentor by trade — though mother feels far too gracious a title for a creature so bitterly scornful and spectacularly unwell — made a habit of breaking in, yes, lawfully, to the apartment that belonged to both of us.

Time after time, without any consideration for human decency or mature communication — something she made a habit of ever since my childhood spine of smoke, overly empathetic nature, and zero energetic boundaries — which took me 30 years to burn to ash — enabled her victim narrative to walk many miles, growing confidence in the unbrokenness of the journey.

I pitied her once. My blindness allowed the connection to live. My newfound seeing threatened to end it, alongside her carefully constructed ego of “everyone’s evil and conspiring against me, thus I have every right to treat them as such, because they deserve to be wounded for not feeling sorry for me, and thus, not simply handing me my wishes after I consistently, without fail, unleash storms of obscenities in their direction, condemning every life choice, imagined, witnessed, and distorted, that they took the liberty to make, because the threads of madness spun by my mind’s infernal inhabitants are undeniably true and the world must hear them at once and many times over”.

Her entity attachments hadn’t yet experienced the displeasure of the introduction to this version of me, who demanded acknowledgement from not even remotely cloaked beasts in her psyche. Born from the loins of potential exposure, their fury was deranging.

Such is the concept of mother I have arrived at 30 years of age, after prying my third eye wide open. She wasn’t a human to me anymore. I started thinking of her as a haunted timeshare for low-level entities. How could she be a mother with so many holes in her auric field left unsealed, hardly any soul left for that body to house?

I could have saved her, and many attempts were made over the years. Nothing else was present in our relationship — just a trauma bond that expired after I healed and started seeing through the cracks of her victimhood — especially the lies of abuse by my stepfather’s hand that was only raised in her demon-infested mind, suffering from never-treated borderline personality disorder and a strong case of textbook narcissism.

My soul always held onto the inkling of truth; thus I maintained the relationship with my stepfather. He, in fact, is the only member of my family left with whom I’m still in contact. Ironically, no blood binds us — my soul left no stone unturned with that wayward concept of family she wanted me to unearth. My mother’s deliverance, however, was never mine to instigate, respecting the long-winded pilgrimage to madness her soul has insisted on completing.

With surgical precision, patiently severing the umbilical cord across every dimension, this version of me collected evidence. Just in case proof of her attacks, lies, mental derangement, and stalking comes in handy one of these days. And the case has presented itself, eventually.

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He wore many masks: my French husband — and centuries later, a hypnotist I met on LinkedIn, of all places.

It was my first descent into flesh. An oracle, thrown in without training wheels. My guides and I wagered my Spirit strong enough to ground my soul’s codes on a new planet mid-timeline split, during one of the most crucial eras for Earth.

Greater wisdom has walked the Earth than the decisions we made. Bloodshed testified.

Our first shared lifetime as a soul pair. Father and daughter. Ego at a sword fight with the Spirit.

Guess who, in the end, wore the crown?

In Atlantis, he was my first in all ways but one he prized above all else.

And given how patriarchy remains subconsciously shadowing the bond between the sexes, your guess about the first he thought he was owed — and robbed of if not gifted — will not fail you.

Rage begat the fall. He was one of many pieces, funnelling the distortion into the collapse of a civilisation. Atlanteans mastered the art of drawing ether into Earth. Yet the rulers of Earth will never permit the mistake of such grandiosity again.

These days, Earth purges channel thieves, if you haven’t noticed. Those who force instead of listening no longer wait several lifetimes for karma to trail their footsteps. She’s a sharp shooter now. Cause and effect breathe down your neck in close quarters, unlike Atlantis, where Spirit let the game play long before pulling the plug.

Civilisations collapse by men such as he.

The Ten Kings.

We could blame him as one of the chess pieces in Atlantis’ demise, but the roots reach deeper soils. Souls are only allowed to incarnate into a place carrying a vibrational frequency match of their own essence. Lock must find key. Otherwise, it’s beyond — or beneath — their pay grade. Higher galactic councils dare not rouse Death so carelessly as in prior, more ill-fated ages. Unless the greater play of cosmos demands it.

Following the round table talks in the ether — heated discussions, I’m certain — he and I chose the Atlantean dynamic. And every other birthed from the chain of misfortunes that followed.

That lifetime — and the fragments that surfaced in me slowly and not particularly carefully — is the most fateful of my incarnations. It splintered my soul so severely that the cause of the fracture was hidden until recently.

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