At first, they called me chosen.
That is how these things enter:
not with a knife,
but with incense,
not with force,
but with flattery,
not as theft,
but as tenderness
dressed in white.
Beloved, they said,
with candlelight in their mouths
and a payment handle waiting patiently
at the bottom of the message.
They sensed something in me.
Of course they did.
There is always something on a woman
who is tired enough to hope,
lonely enough to listen,
grieving enough to glow in the dark,
or holy enough
to believe healing may still arrive
without humiliation.
Soon, nothing in my life
was permitted to be ordinary.
My back hurts.
Trauma.
My foot twisted?
A wound from childhood
that had apparently been waiting decades
for a dramatic entrance.
My ex left?
A soul tie.
My money slowed?
An ancestral blockage,
a marine spirit,
and somebody somewhere
envying me with precision.
Nothing could simply happen.
Not heartbreak.
Not fatigue.
Not confusion.
Not the ordinary ache
of being alive in a body
that has survived too much.
No.
Everything had to be named,
stretched,
spiritualized,
ritualized,
perfumed,
and billed.
I needed more baths.
More yoni steams.
More releases.
More removals.
More cleansings.
More things done
that were never explained clearly,
only announced
with the grave urgency of prophecy
and the accounting practices
of a luxury hotel.
Eight ayahuasca trips.
Minimum.
Six frog-medicine ceremonies.
At least.
Then the purge:
the old sheets,
the old clothes,
the old journals,
the old perfume,
the old lovers,
the old playlist,
the old self.
Possibly the couch.
Certainly, my bank account.
Nothing was ever enough.
Enough would have ruined everything.
Enough would have ended the emergency.
Enough would have brought the business model to collapse.
Then came the hierarchy,
because every hustle eventually needs stairs.
Divine feminine.
Divine masculine.
Divine union.
Divine embodiment.
Divine this.
Divine that.
Everyone was on a vibration.
A frequency.
An altitude.
A spiritual rung.
And somehow,
I was always one level beneath it,
always one ceremony behind,
one cleansing short,
one payment away
from the life that was allegedly mine
Before I became energetically delayed.
That is when I understood:
This was not guidance.
This was luxury despair
with branding.
This was sorrow
in a silk robe.
This was pain
with a payment processor.
Because after a while,
every sentence bent
toward the same altar:
Cash App me, beloved.
Cash App me for the reading.
Cash App me for the warning.
Cash App me for the cleansing.
Cash App me because the spirit is urgent.
Cash App me because your womb is confused.
Cash App me because your blessings
have been held up in the unseen realm
and only I,
mysteriously,
can release them.
And if I hesitated,
I was scarcity-minded.
Blocked in the receiving.
Resistant to abundance.
Dishonoring the vessel.
No, beloved.
Sometimes a woman just knows
when she is being spiritually pickpocketed.
And once they sensed
that I had sensed,
The warmth fled.
The same people who once had time
for long calls,
grave concern,
urgent visions,
voice notes drenched in revelation,
and the velvet intimacy
of manufactured access,
Suddenly became distant.
Booked.
Aloof.
Condensed into superiority.
Apparently,
my discernment
had lowered my vibration.
How exquisite.
The intimacy, it turned out, was there
was never intimacy.
It was a strategy.
A sales funnel in ceremonial jewelry.
A haunted subscription plan.
A hustle with oracle cards.
A silk-robed invoice
whispering my name.
And still,
I cannot be entirely cruel.
Because people do not arrive there stupid.
They arrive aching.
They arrive cracked open.
They arrive carrying sorrow
like wet fabric against the skin.
They arrive wanting relief,
and someone with the right tone,
the right lighting,
the right borrowed authority,
can make an extraction
sounds like salvation.
That is the real obscenity.
Not merely that money is taken,
But that longing is handled
like currency.
That tenderness is studied
like a market.
That is the hunger to be healed
is dressed,
priced,
and sold back to the wounded
as aspiration.
Still,
I have learned.
A true healer
does not need to dazzle me.
A true guide
does not need me to be dependent.
A true elder
does not keep moving the finish line
until my wallet becomes a testimony.
Anything sacred
should return me to my. Don’t
Don’t keep me on retainer.
It doesn’t make me smaller.
Not train me to mistake anxiety
for initiation
or exhaustion
for elevation.
Anything holy
should leave me
with more breath,
not less.
And maybe that is the mercy:
that discernment
often arrives
looking nothing like thunder.
Sometimes it arrives quietly.
As a tightening in the spirit.
As a raised eyebrow.
As a holy enough.
As the sudden refusal
to confuse performance with power,
certainty with wisdom,
or invoices with anointing.
Sometimes salvation
is not in finally being chosen.
Sometimes salvation
is in realizing
You were never for sale.
So now,
When someone says I’m
Beloved,
I’m picking up something heavy around you,
I say:
yes.
It is called discernment.
And thanks be to God,
it arrived
without a payment link–
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