There was a night the world went silent on me.
I woke up in a ditch — dirt in my mouth, headlights fading, my name echoing somewhere I couldn’t reach. That night was my death and my rebirth.
I used to think power was fame — flashing lights, a name that rang through rooms, a promise that if I looked good enough, loud enough, the pain would stay behind the curtain. But power has nothing to do with being seen. It’s about what you become when no one’s looking.
That night I met my shadows.
I don’t know if they were demons, or voice-to-skull technology, or some kind of divine interference. But I was tested.
The voices told me to break, and I refused. They showed me every version of myself — the child, the sinner, the whore, the lover, the liar — and asked which one I wanted to keep.
I chose all of them.
Because that’s power: integration. Wholeness. Refusing to cut yourself apart to be palatable.
When I rose from that ditch, I wasn’t the girl chasing fame anymore.
I was something else — forged in the static, baptized in humiliation, crowned in defiance.
Now I move different. I speak different. I build differently.
Because when you’ve already died once, everything after that is resurrection.
