After The Scream Awards

There was a moment the other night that stayed with me.

I had been rushing for days—creating an outfit, preparing, moving fast on tired legs—to attend an awards ceremony. By the time I saw photos afterward, exhaustion had softened my edges. In one image, I stood beside a woman who is undeniably radiant—youthful, luminous, effortless in a way the world knows how to praise. I felt insecurity rise in me, old and familiar. A quiet cruelty toward myself.

I didn’t expect what came next.

Her husband—observant, steady, someone whose work I respect—looked at me and said, “I can’t believe you would feel insecure about anything. You’re so smart, and my God you’re funny, and creative.”

It stopped me.

Not because I needed reassurance—but because of how clearly he saw me. Not my body. Not my age. Not my proximity to someone else’s beauty. Me.

That is why I handed him my card. Not as a pitch, but as an invitation. I trust his eye. I trust discernment when I recognize it. And in that moment, I recognized it.

Later, driving home on a long, dark road I’ve always loved—what I call the Watcher’s Road—I let myself sink into the quiet. Winter songs playing. Space opening. The familiar comfort of darkness that isn’t empty, but wide. I realized something simple and profound:

The world isn’t against me anymore.

It may not see me—but it isn’t against me.

The next day, my body collapsed into rest. Deep, necessary sleep. And with it came clarity. I’ve been fatigued for years—not because I’m weak, but because I’ve been carrying a great deal. Since 2020, really. I welcomed isolation because it gave me what I needed most: peace, space, rest. I never imagined I would have to defend that choice so fiercely.

And yet—through all of it—one thing has remained constant.

My inner knowing.

My curiosity.

My reverence.

My resilience.

My belief in something higher and good.

I am a mystic by nature. I always have been. That doesn’t mean fantasy or dogma. It means attentiveness. It means looking deeply. It means recognizing patterns over time and listening to what life reveals when you do. When I speak of the Christos Flame, I am not speaking of religion—I am speaking of an inner axis, a living conscience, a coherence I have protected my entire life.

I will not abandon that to be palatable.

And I will not abandon it within myself.

That night reminded me of something I refuse to forget: I do not need to fit an idealized form to be worthy of joy, creativity, or co-creation. I have come too far for that. I have lived too attentively for that.

If anything, this season is teaching me how to carry what is sacred in me forward—without shrinking it, and without weaponizing it.

I am not silencing myself anymore.

I am learning how to speak with care.

And that feels like truth.

The Watcher's Road