I did not know the term “deep state.” I had no need for such language. I was not a conspiracy theorist. I lived in the world as it was given to me, trusting that if something broke, there were hands that would repair it.

Everything is a circle.

The sacred breath of life moves in spirals, in seasons, in tides. The sun rises, sets, and rises again. Trees drop their leaves, only to bloom anew.

Reciprocity is the way of nature—what is given returns….

Our systemic structures are not failing because they are flawed—they are failing because they are disconnected from the sacred design.

They no longer serve life. They serve power. And have for a very long time.

There is a seesaw inside the soul when trust is broken. One side dips into grief—the heavy ache of what was once sacred. The other rises with anger—the fire of what should never have happened.

“With liberty and justice for all.”

I used to believe those words. As a child, I stood straight and recited them with hand over heart—believing in the promise they held … But the day I found myself standing in a windowless room beneath a hospital …

“Amphetamines are a class of highly addictive drugs—yet we prescribe them to millions of children.”
— Dr. Peter Gøtzsche, Deadly Psychiatry and Organised Denial

In the quiet corners of school offices and the sterile rooms of pediatric clinics, a spell has been cast.

It whispers:
Your child is broken.
Your child is restless, not quite right.
The answer? A pill. A label. A lifelong identity.

Once upon a time, there was no such thing as ADD or ADHD.

There were curious children. Active children. Dreamy, inattentive children. Restless, impulsive, spirited, disorganized children.

Once upon a time, there was no such thing as ADD or ADHD, but then the story changed … why?

To listen with reverence is to say: I make space for your becoming.
It is to lay down the sword of opinion and hold out the chalice of presence.
It is to honor that something holy might be spoken into the silence—not from our mouths, but from the unseen place between us.

And in that listening, we remember what no script, no system, no dogma can teach: That the heart was always the original altar—and listening, its most ancient prayer.

There is more than one timeline unfolding. More than one story being told.
More than one future trying to root itself in the soil of this now.

Let us lay down the armor. Let us meet at the holy hearth of humanity.
Let us choose peace—not as escape, but as the most courageous act of all.

Down this rabbit hole, we do not find easy answers.

…It was a psychiatrist, not a soldier,
who led the MK Ultra experiments—
a project funded by the CIA,
where silence was weaponized
and the human spirit was fractured by design…

And in Germany, before the gas chambers opened to the world,
they opened in the asylums.
Children deemed “defective” were the first to vanish.
Psychiatrists called it mercy.
The state called it necessary.
A genocide not of race at first—
but of mind.

There are some things you see that you can never unsee. They etch themselves into your memory—not just as images, but as visceral truths that haunt and demand a reckoning.

Emotional distress or dis-ease aka mental health is often misunderstood as a personal weakness or a state of being to be "fixed."

“And those that were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

What if our world has simply gone deaf to the music?

For centuries, the feminine has been framed as frailty, her emotions transformed into disorders, her grief into illness, her righteous rage into symptoms. Hysteria, they once called it—a womb wandering madly. Today, they give it new names: depression, anxiety, borderline.

Resistance is the force within us that pushes back against what we do not want to see, hear, or feel. It rises when an idea challenges the stories we have constructed about ourselves and the world—when something knocks against the fragile architecture of our beliefs, threatening to dismantle what we have carefully arranged. Recalcitrance, its close companion, is the deep-seated refusal to move, to yield, to even entertain the possibility that another truth exists beyond our own.

There are moments in life when words cannot reach the place inside us that aches. When the pain becomes so vast, so consuming, that silence becomes the only language left to speak. But even in silence, something waits—something holy, something true, something aching to be met with love.

And yet, when we speak truth, when we hold it up to the light, something shifts.

Truth makes space for understanding.

Understanding makes space for healing.

And healing, when it is real, does not erase the wound—it transforms it.

But one thing remains clear:

Stories matter.

Telling the truth matters.

And when someone bares their soul, the only answer—the only one that will ever matter—is to listen.

"I hope we weren’t disturbing you," she said, almost hesitantly. "We can be a bit much. We both have ADHD."

She introduced the younger woman as her granddaughter. I smiled, telling her I had enjoyed their laughter, that their joy had been a lovely thing to witness. I looked at her granddaughter and told her how lucky she was to have her grandmother, how I had cherished mine and still missed her deeply.

The woman nodded, but I could sense something lingering beneath her words. I asked her why she thought they were disturbing me.