But he did spend hours on his knees last week scraping cat shit off a basement floor with me.

He’s never sat in a men’s circle. Never been to a polarity training.

Doesn’t speak the language of “embodiment” or mens’s teachings.

He is not technically trauma informed.

He did rearrange his entire summer, every single weekend, no exceptions, to drive to Utah and clean my mom’s house with me. In full devotion to my family and our marriage. Cleaning up a mess he did not make.

I have found myself exploring foreign territory with Oren in our first year of marriage.

This kind of intimacy could never come from a workshop. It comes from letting someone walk all the way down into the most untouchable parts of you and your lineage and make love right there.

This is the hardest place to return to.

I’ve taken him into my oldest fears. My deepest wounds. The bathroom my bulimia began. The memories I buried. The stuff I never wanted anyone to see, including me.

And he doesn’t even flinch. . .

He doesn’t try to fix me.

He is not overwhelmed by how much I hand him.

He isn’t holding an ounce of judgement.

And he doesn’t just stay. . .

He loves it, he’s here for it, and he wants more.

We’ve been together 5 years and I already feel edges in me dissolving that I didn’t even know were there.

The love isn’t leveling off, it keeps getting wider, and deeper.

And while so much is performed for the internet right now, and I’m constantly in awe of how much of my husband the world will just never see. How much he loves in private. How hard he shows up for people who will never post about it.

Who he is online is maybe 10% of who he actually is in real life. 🤯

And I never would’ve known to ask for this years ago I was pinning man buns to my Pinterest board and imagining my very “conscious man.” I would come into union with.

I didn’t know to ask for a man who would walk with me into the hardest moments of my own story and hand me pieces of myself back to me. . .

Almost 10 years in spiritual communities and serving women.. .

I hear the same line on repeat like it’s gospel.

“He needs to do the work.

I wish he would go to therapy.

He needs to go to (insert very well known men’s workshop here).

He doesn’t speak the same language. He doesn’t get it.”

Sometimes a man desperately needs to mature.

He needs to walk his hero’s journey.

And. . .

As a collective we have mistaken influence for integrity.

I’ve sat in many of said workshops. The immersions. The ceremonies.

I’ve listened to men articulate consciousness with breathtaking precision.

I’ve also watched some of those same men walk out the door and betray the very principles they teach. Lie, cheat, manipulate, and live so far out of integrity.

Meanwhile, I know great men who don’t know what polarity even means. They’ve never read David Deida. Never attended a men’s immersion. Couldn’t define divine union.

They simply love ONE woman. Year after year. They tell the truth. They keep their word. They stay. No performance. No philosophy. No identity built around being “conscious.”

Real life exposes what no workshop ever will. . .

No training can compete with a home burning down, a dying parent, or the loss of a child. Unimaginable terrain and landscapes.

Grief. Money. Family. Death.

Watching the woman you love fall apart in real time with no facilitator holding space.

That’s where a man’s actual character shows up. . .

The thing that really surprised me. .

In the most undesirable moments, circumstances, hands raw, grief everywhere, both of us tired af, we end up making the most insane love. . .

I have never been more turned on in my life.

And I am still laughing at everything I thought I knew about intimacy before.

Perfectly curated moments of sex and eros, when all the circumstances align, and you feel delicious are cute. .  .  .

Going to the depths of hell together, touching the most unfathomable parts, and making love there…

That is undeniable love and true intimacy.

In this chapter of my life of marriage, and preparing for motherhood. .

I don’t want a man who can eye-gaze with me for hours. ( I wouldn’t even have time for that shit at this point)

I need a man who isn’t scared to walk through hell with me and bring some heaven back down to earth. To get really fucking dirty with me.

We’ve gotten so fluent in the language of transformation that some of us forgot what devotion truly looks like when it’s standing right in front of us.

I have seen the wrong men get worshipped and the right ones get overlooked.

Don’t make gods out of conscious men while underestimating the power of God in the ordinary ones.

You can fuck around for years with the conscious man who’s “doing the work.”

Or marry the one who simply is the work.

And wild plot twist here

The man who’s never been to a tantra workshop has left me with multiple orgasms since day one. Every single time we make love. . .

Turns out devotion to integrity is wildly erotic.

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“PSA: If your work in this world is not impacting your family first, you have missed the assignment entirely.”

I meant every word.

I just didn’t know it was about to come for me specifically.

There have been these very interesting and particular energetics expressing through me for months now. Something old. Something maternal. Deeply connected to my mom and my mother line.

And no amount of prayer was touching it. No energetic clearing was reaching it.

A few weeks after that post went everywhere, I received clear direction that I needed to tend to my own family and my own foundation.

Thanks to a conversation with my incredible husband Oren. ❤️‍🔥

He helped me see that I had been ignoring a calling. That I had been walking around a very specific assignment, telling myself I was doing the work, while leaving this particular door completely untouched.

When I say I cried for an entire day in this revelation. I mean ugly cried. Like snot dripping down my nose.

Because I realized how much this vision had been coming to me for years.

And I just did not want to see it.

I kept having this reocurring dream. .

Dreams of cleaning a house with mom.
Dreams of rebuilding a house with her.
Over and over again, for years.

I always interpreted them symbolically. Like, so cute, we are doing such good ancestral work together. Sacred. Significant. And safely far away from my actual body having to do anything about it. I will just pray for her over here, and trust it’s enough.

I did not want to see what I now cannot unsee.

The dreams were not symbolic.

It was a literal assignment.

A real house. A real woman. A real calling I had been spiritualizing into abstraction so I would not have to show up for it in real life.

This is the last place I wanted to be. . .

I left when I was 18 and never really looked back. Like left and built a whole life and kept building and did not look back because looking back felt like being swallowed whole. This place holds my biggest projections. The wounds I have worked the hardest to metabolize. The parts of myself I have spent years outrunning.

And I am someone who teaches women to follow the vision no matter what it costs them…

So God, with perfect and kind of irony, just repeated my own words back to me and laughed.

“If your work in this world is not impacting your family first, you have missed the assignment entirely.”

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So I am here. . .In Utah

Not because I wanted to be. This was the last place I wanted to be. The last thing I wanted to do. There was no part of me that felt ready or willing or spiritually expanded about any of it.

I came because the vision was clear and I had finally run out of reasons not to be obedient to it. (and honestly this whole chapter of my life feels like if I am not obedient, I get my ass whooped.)

I will say it again because I need to hear it too. . .

God never asked us to fix the world while abandoning our own house.

We know our work has no real impact if it isn’t transforming us and our lineage first. Not as a concept. Not in the dreamtime. In the actual house, with the actual people, doing the actual thing we have been avoiding for years.

I have spent years serving thousands of souls online and in person.

It’s time to tend to my foundations.

This was my worst fear.

And I am living it.

Which has made everything else seem easy. .

The blood and bone will always call you home.

This is where we always begin.

And where we will always end.

.

If this landed, share it with someone who needs permission to go back. . .

Late night. Warm air. Celebrating another multiple 6 figure season.

The money. The clients. The holy shit we actually did it.

And then she looked at me quietly and asked,

“Are you afraid you’ll lose it?”

In that moment I knew I hadn’t made it the way I thought I had.

Because underneath all the success, all the beauty, all the money, all the celebrations

there it was.

The fear. The insecurity. That little girl that expected loss.

The one who grew up around instability.

The one who never felt safe, no matter how much money she made.

I looked at my friend and said:

“Yeah. Honestly I am.”

That conversation burned itself into my consciousness like prophetic moment.

A little over a year later, I found myself sitting in another bathtub staring at my bank account.

Zero. Nada. Nothing.

I had never in my life had NOTHING in my bank.

Even in the brokest of broke years, I had never overdraft my account, and I always had like $5 at least that I could somehow stretch until my next paycheck.

So this was more than a moment of being broke, it was like “bitch you got nothing”

I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically before I cried.

There’s a certain kind of liberation you experience from having your deepest fear come true.

And even though I totally felt like I was going to die.

I didn’t ;)

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This became one of the most important thresholds of my entire life.

It exposed what had been hiding beneath the surface.

I had been moving fast for years. Building, launching, expanding, proving. Motion had been my medicine and my mask. So much of my business was built on a very unstable foundation of scarcity dressed up as empowerment.

I remember feeling the full weight of the voice I had been trying to outbuild for so long.

Money leaves. Love leaves. You don’t belong here. Nothing like this will last.

I realized I wasn’t really rich if I was always afraid that it could dissapear.

Some women make more money and become more of themselves.

I made money my God. My master. My idol. I was absolutely obsessed.

It became my entire identity. It became a mask I wore with lip gloss. A crutch I hid behind.

Like a beautifully branded cover that let me avoid bringing the full depth of my gifts to the table. It was the only thing I talked about and helped women with.

All while there entire dimensions of my gifts sitting dormant underneath the surface . .

My voice. My oracle. My ability to alchemize the room. My facilitation. My devotion.

And in this season where I “lost it all” I had to learn to develop and bring these parts of my self more front facing. They took the stage and were handed the mic.

The deeper I leaned into my God given gifts, the more territory I was given.

I started impacting more people.

I watched as money started coming in many different directions.

The more the currency of my voice flowed, the more the currency of wealth moved.

And the safer I felt in the unknown. Highs and lows. Under any circumstance.

When God revokes something you relied on, it’s because he is revealing something new that carries greatness in you.

God strips things away to expose more of what he designed you for.

Whatever you lost in this last season - money, a relationship, an identity, a platform, a community.

It’s not erasure. It’s exposure.

It'’s an invitation to meet the woman underneath the thing you gave more power than God.

There’s are plenty of women who can make millions or have millions of followers.

But there is something potent about the woman whose voice is not dictated by money alone. Whose transmission does not bend to an algorithm. Whose gifts were not given to her by an audience and cannot be taken by one either.

She stops obsessing over numbers and starts developing the thing that created the numbers in the first place.

When she is under no law but God’s her voice becomes a gateway for God.

Nothing can take what is innate in her.

And once a woman truly lives this and knows this - she becomes ungovernable.

Unhooked from approval. Unhinged from performing. Unbound from fear.

That’s when people stop casually consuming her and start rearranging their lives to know her, and invest in her.

When a woman stands on this threshold, she is ready for Prophetess.

Not surface level visibility. Not prettier branding. Not a cute title for your bio. Not trying to be the “authority”

I’m talking about shifting your entire existence around the prophetic gifts you have so that everything in existence shifts around you.

Money, men, industries, all of it.

In 33 days your voice will amplify. your wealth will multiply. your love will prophesy. your vision will clarify.

Prophetess is here

Every now and then, someone asks why my husband and I don’t comment on every headline. Every atrocity. Every explosion. Ever war happening in the world.

The answer is simple for us.

We know our roles. We know our mission. And we trust ourselves enough to stay devoted to what we’ve actually been called to steward - not what’s loudest, not what’s trending, not what demands a reaction.

We give our lives to our God given assignment. To prepare partnerships that carry the next generation. To support visions that create new pathways. To restore union. To tend the homes, relationships, and inner worlds that can actually hold what this moment is asking of us.

We’re not interested in adding to the noise.

We’re interested in origin. The root. The genesis.

In the same way you’d never heal a body by declaring war on a symptom - we’re not interested in fighting disease.

We want to know where it started. What created it.

What pattern formed quietly, invisibly, long before it ever became visible.

Because when you only fight symptoms, you stay trapped in repeating patterns.

You can actually agitate more illness. Cause more inflammation. More disruption.

When you trace something back to its genesis, you can change the entire trajectory of transformation.

And so many of the patterns people are raging against right now . .

They don’t begin in governments. They don’t begin in institutions.

They begin in the home. In the family.

IN THE BLOODLINE.

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We know this. We see this. So this is where our work lives.

And while some might have some impact by resharing a post about current events happening online.

We believe the real change, the kind that ripples through generations . .

is happening at your kitchen table honey.

It’s sitting at the altar of your most intimate relationships.

The real revolution is in your living room.

And many souls feel called to be in service to these times. . .

You feel the weight of it all. You know you’re here to shift something big, and you’re out here building, showing up, trying to create real change in the world.

Here’s a word for you. . .

You will not have the power to shift the infrastructure of industries + systems if you have no power in shifting the infrastructure of your own bloodline.

Everyone is out here performing. Posturing. Proving correctness to a crowd.

But the most revolutionary thing you can do is not another post. Not another callout. Not another public stance. Not another unregulated spiral that leaves more wreckage than it heals.

It’s choosing love over being right in the exact places you’d rather walk away from. It’s forgiving the person you swore was unforgivable. It’s repairing the relationship you already decided was impossible. It’s staying open with the one you labeled unlovable.

The belief that the person you love will never change is the same belief that says the world is beyond repair.

Both declare the same thing:
that God is not strong enough here.

There is nothing more dangerous than reaffirming that.

AKA many people are constantly at war with the person they say they love the most - and then want wars to end on the planet?

God never asked you to fix the world while abandoning your own house.

And this is the work no one applauds.

It won’t go viral. No one will share it. No one will see it.

And yet it is the most impactful work you will ever do.

This is the altar.

Your home. Your marriage. Your family. Your friendships. Your closest communities.

If your work, your platform, your legacy aren’t changing the way you love and lead the people closest to you, you’ve missed the assignment entirely.

This is where God keeps pointing us.

So this is where our mission lives - in union, in family restoration, in returning to God.

This is our work. This is our revolution.

We don’t need more commentary.

We need more consecration.

I could speak about love, union, layers, rupture, repair, and devotion for hours.

This last year I watched relationships end that I once believed would last forever.

I cried behind the scenes every time another epic love dissolved. Sometimes traumatically. Sometimes quietly, out of public view. Some faded slowly and privately. Others unraveled in front of the entire world.

This past week, another very public divorce made its way across the internet. A couple the world loved. He cheated. And the familiar conversation followed…

“THERE IS NO HOPE

All men are the same.

Nothing lasts. “

Every time an ideal couple dissolves in public, something collective fractures with it.

Not just because a relationship ended, but because a fantasy died with it.

We have built a culture that confuses visibility with virtue. We watch curated love stories online and forget they are lived by real humans with nervous systems, wounds, histories, and private ruptures we never see. We pray for a life like theirs without realizing we are also praying for their problems. Their pressures. Their particular initiations.

I have been watching this phenomena play out for years with pedestaling couples online.

When we glorify couples on the internet, we quietly make them into gods. We let their relationship stand in for our own initiation. Their story becomes proof that love is real. Then their rupture becomes evidence that it is not.

When I ask people who the most inspiring relationship in their life is, they almost always mention someone else. And this is the problem.

People spend more time obsessing over celebrity couples than they do their own relationship.

The most inspiring relationship in your life was never meant to be a couple you follow online.

It is meant to be the one between you and God.

This is why when a public marriage ends, especially through betrayal, the collective nervous system reacts quickly. Old scripts rush in. All men cheat. True love is not real. Commitment is a fairytale dressed up.

The deeper fear that lives beneath the surface: if epic love found you, would it be real? Would it last?

Shame is easier too. Public outrage. Moral superiority. But shame does not heal. It dysregulates. It collapses curiosity. It drives people deeper into the very patterns we claim to despise. Accountability without humanity is just punishment wearing spiritual language.

Projection is easier than prayer. It gives the illusion of protection without asking anything of us.

This year, I walked alongside one of my dearest friends as she discovered she’d been cheated on. She was devastated. Disillusioned. As she grieved what she thought was her sacred union - I shared this with her:

Do not erase the truth of what existed just because something else has now been revealed. The love was real. So was the infidelity. Both can be true at once.

What is happening is not that the entire story was fake.

It is that more is being illuminated.

Illumination does not require annihilation.

We can honor what was genuine without excusing what caused harm.

How do we stretch our capacity to hold this: that there was beauty, and also devastation?

The Erasure That Follows Rupture . .

Something happens when a big rupture takes place: the cancellation of everything else. In the case of Desmond and Kristy’s marriage, they were together for 12 years. They made the world laugh. They have two beautiful children. They grew up together. Overnight, all of that gets forgotten in the glare of infidelity. Now the entire focus shifts to what went wrong, instead of holding the entirety of what this love was and what is now happening.

We need to make space for it all.

I witnessed multiple relationships end this past year due to infidelity, betrayal, and deceit. While there are cases of clear abuse, manipulation, and harm that must be named, there are also many situations far more layered than the internet allows.

Because relationships do not break in moments. They break in patterns.

They break when repair stops happening. When resentment goes underground. When safety is replaced with performance. When desire no longer has a place to move honestly.

My friend who discovered her partner’s betrayal is still sorting through these layers. She’s learning that holding the complexity - the genuine connection that existed alongside the deception, doesn’t diminish her right to anger. It deepens her capacity for truth.

The Sacred Wound

If there is one place our greatest wounds play out, it’s in our most intimate relationships. This kind of betrayal hits a sacred wound in the feminine field:

If we can’t trust men, we can’t trust God, and we can’t trust life itself.

It drives a woman deeper into independence and mistrust. It creates a world where women become hard.

Which is why it’s worth examining the entire architecture of a relationship when these ruptures happen. How safety was built or eroded. How truth was welcomed or avoided. How repair was handled when desire, resentment, or fear entered the room. How intuition was overridden.

Understanding this sacred wound helps us see why the next conversation matters so much-and why it’s often avoided in public discourse.

The Danger of Spell Work

Since this very public divorce I have seen hundreds of influencers saying things like “I’ve decided I’ll never get married because all these guys are the same.” “All men cheat.” “There is no hope.”

I get the grief. The exhaustion. The disappointment. The absolute rage.

I feel it. I am angry. I am devastated with you.

And still, that narrative being blasted in front of entire communities is dangerous.

Speaking death over your own life, and other people’s marriages.

This is what happens when we take the pedestal all the way. We move from idealizing couples, to condemning individuals, to rejecting union itself. We let unresolved grief become worldview. We let other people’s ruptures decide our own capacity for intimacy.

True union is not the absence of rupture. It carries the presence of repair. The devotion to finding rapture in every season. The willingness to die and be reborn together.

It’s the willingness to love again after devastating heartbreak. . .

And while the world screams that there is no hope, and all men are the same, watch the woman who had her heart broken this year fall in love deeper than ever before.

Devastation.

Destruction.

Annihilation.

Death.

Life as we knew it was altered in a single day.
Our community scattered.
Our lives were completely disrupted.

That morning, I woke up to my bleed arriving ten days late. I felt angry. I had planned an online event called around my cycle so I would not be bleeding.

Before I could even gather myself for that, we saw smoke in the sky.
Evacuation orders followed.

I rescheduled the event. Packed lightly. Made offerings. I prayed over the land.

The next 24 hours blurred into fear and exhaustion. Little sleep. A lot of tears. The next morning we were evacuated again from our refuge as more fires spread.

That afternoon, one hour before I was supposed to host Prophecy, the message came.

Our home was gone.

I fell to my knees and screamed, “WHERE IS GOD?”

How could God do this to us?
To so many people we love?

Oren held me.
And in that moment, I had to decide if I could get up and lead.

I could sit in the dark and suffer.
Or I could serve.

I have learned this truth: you cannot be suffering and in service at the same time.

The fire was not a call away from Prophecy.
It was a call toward it.

I also knew I wasn’t going to be able to “hold” anything.
God was going to have to hold me.
And hold the field.

So I showed up emptied. Humbled. Broken open.
For five days I stayed anchored in service, and what moved through that space was far beyond me.

And collapsed in between.

Everything I thought was important to lead with before suddenly felt insignificant.
All my plans. All my ego. All my ideas were obliterated.

That week taught me something about unconditional devotion.

My circumstances were impossible. I had no energy. And yet, every day something moved through me that did not belong to me.

I spoke about how painful it is to refuse your destiny.

How much it hurts to keep repeating old patterns.

And I swallowed every word myself.

After the event, I went to sell something and couldn’t even get it out of my mouth. The offer was beautiful, but in the light of losing everything, I heard myself think:

Does this even matter anymore?
Is this really what I want to be doing?
Another online coaching container?

So I didn’t sell it.
I didn’t launch it.

It made no logical sense.

I went on sabbatical for months to recalibrate my nervous system.

One day I wrote at the top of a journal page:

“You are starting over entirely.
This space is a gift.
What do you truly want to be doing?”

The answer revealed itself.

My art.

Writing.

Dancing.

Singing.

DJing.

Making music.

I promised myself.

I dipped my toes in.
Hired a vocal coach.
Started a Substack.
Signed up for a DJ course.

And then I didn’t follow through.
A year has passed.

And if I’m honest, I shared less art. Wrote less poetry. Danced less.

I’m in tears admitting this because I see how scared I was.

I’m still sitting in uncertainty about where we’ll live. Many of the same questions are here. But I know now it doesn’t matter.

These initiations return until we complete them. Until we say yes.
Remembering that place of unconditional devotion - whether I felt like it or not.

There is no perfect moment to place your art on the altar.

I’m tired of worshipping fear.
Shame.
Unworthiness.

I’m complete with giving my life to things I wouldn’t actually die for.

I want to create what brings me alive.

I’m done meeting God only in my suffering.

I’m ready to taste God in artistry.
In the words I lay down.
In the songs I sing.
In the way my body moves.

So here I am.

I’m going to write this year like my life depends on it.

Because it really fucking does.

This writing is for me first. It has to be.
If I think about who will read it or how it will be received, I build another prison around my art.

So here is my first Substack submission. My offering to my art.

And God, thank you for letting this be the soil for everything that comes next.