Dear Women, have you ever realized how powerful your thoughts are for the man in your life?
Saka Ana Lorenza, a Kogi Saka and spiritual leader, speaks about the quiet but immense importance of women in the lives of their men. She explains that it is not only what women do or say that shapes a man’s path, but also what they think about him in the privacy of their own mind.
When a woman holds thoughts of trust, respect and blessing for her partner, this creates a field of support around him. Even when she is not physically present, he can walk with more strength, clarity and courage. Her inner agreement becomes a kind of spiritual protection that helps him move through obstacles and stay connected to his purpose.
When her thoughts are filled with constant criticism, disappointment or contempt, even if she never speaks them aloud, this too has an effect. The relationship may begin to feel heavy. Conflicts appear without a clear reason. Success may be blocked in subtle ways.
According to Saka Ana Lorenza, many women do not realize how central their inner stance is for the wellbeing of the man and for the harmony of the family.
This is not about blame. It is an invitation to remember the sacred influence that women carry. Their love and their clarity are not small. They are forces that can either nourish or weaken the life that grows around them.
The Kogi see relationship as a spiritual responsibility that both partners share. And the thoughts of the woman are one of its deepest foundations.
May your thoughts become a blessing for you and for those you love.
If a man can walk away from the woman who gave him everything her body, her heart, her sleepless nights, her dreams poured into building a family then his betrayal is limitless.
True character isn’t measured when life is easy. It’s measured in how he treats the hearts that once trusted him completely, in how he protects what he helped create.
When a mother is broken by someone who promised love, the wounds don’t stay with her alone.
They echo in the children who watch quietly, learning what trust, safety, and respect mean—or don’t.
They see the heart they should have been able to depend on crumble.
They internalize the fear, the doubt, and the uncertainty.
They begin to question what love should feel like, and whether it is reliable.
A real man does not destroy what made him a parent. He does not take for granted the devotion, the care, the nights spent worrying and planning and nurturing. He stands firm. He protects. He stays loyal. Not because it’s convenient, not because anyone is watching, but because it is sacred.
Betrayal is not just a personal failure. It is a fracture in the foundation of a home, a lesson taught to children that love can be abandoned.
And while wounds can heal, the reverberations linger unless accountability, care, and integrity are restored.
To honor the love that built a family, a man must remember: the women who gave him everything do not exist merely for convenience—they exist as pillars of life, love, and legacy. To abandon her is to abandon the sacred trust of parenthood, the love that shaped the next generation, and the respect that defines true character.
He may never be judged only by his words, but by how he protects, cherishes, and honors the hearts that once trusted him fully.
I almost let a teenage girl freeze to death on Thanksgiving Eve because of a stupid sign I hung on my own wall.
NO LOITERING. NO SLEEPING. NO PETS.
I run a 24-hour laundromat in Chicago—where winter doesn’t show mercy, and if you show too much, your business turns into a free hostel. I’ve learned the hard way that if I let one person nap on a folding table, by sunrise I’ve got a whole encampment of them.
Rules keep the doors open.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Last Wednesday, the wind was doing that sideways snow thing, the kind that slaps your face even when you’re indoors. I was in the back, grumbling about mopping floors instead of being home with my wife’s turkey, when the door chimed.
A girl walked in. Seventeen, maybe. Thin as a coat hanger. Hoodie soaked. Sneakers squishing with each step.
And beside her?
A monster.
At least, that’s what I thought.
A massive gray Pitbull mix. Scarred. Shivering. Built like he could bench-press a sedan. The type of dog people avoid by crossing an entire street.
“No dogs,” I barked, tapping the No Pets sign like a judge swinging a gavel.
She winced. “Please… just ten minutes. The shelter’s full. I just need my toes to stop hurting.”
The dog—Tank—pressed his whole body against her leg, as if trying to fuse himself into her for warmth.
“Fifteen minutes,” I muttered. “He makes one sound, I’m calling the cops.”
They retreated to the coldest corner. I retreated to the security monitor, looking for any excuse to kick them out.
Then I watched her pull out a handful of coins—pennies, nickels, a dime that looked like it had survived the Great Chicago Fire. She counted them over and over until she could afford a pack of those terrible orange peanut-butter crackers.
She sat on the floor, opened the pack…
and didn’t take a single bite.
She broke a cracker and held it out to Tank.
“Eat, buddy.”
Tank sniffed it. His ribs showed. He needed food desperately. But he pushed it back toward her.
She insisted. He refused.
And in that moment, on a grainy black-and-white screen, I watched a starving dog protect the only person he loved by refusing to let her go hungry.
My throat tightened.
Then things got worse.
Mike—the drunk regular who occasionally slept behind a dryer—stumbled over, reeking of whiskey.
“Got a dollar, sweetheart?” he slurred.
Tank stood up—not snarling, not attacking. Just planting himself like a shield between the girl and the man.
A living, breathing wall.
Mike reached toward her shoulder.
Tank growled—a low, seismic warning that said, Touch her and you’ll wish you hadn’t.
The girl wrapped her arms around Tank’s neck and begged, “Don’t hurt him, please! He’s just scared!”
That was the moment my rules stopped mattering.
I grabbed the baseball bat, marched over, and pointed it—not at the dog, but at Mike.
“Out. Now.”
He left so fast he forgot his bottle.
I locked the door. Flipped the sign to CLOSED. The girl looked up at me with terrified eyes, bracing for the moment I’d kick her out into the blizzard.
But I just walked to the back, grabbed the Tupperware my wife had packed—thick turkey slices, mashed potatoes, gravy—and set it in front of them.
“The dryer in this corner overheats,” I lied. “I need someone to sit here tonight and make sure it doesn’t catch fire. Job comes with dinner.”
She stared at the food like it was a dream she was afraid to touch.
“Sir?” she whispered, voice cracking.
“Eat,” I said. “Both of you.”
Tank waited—actually waited—until she swallowed her first bite before he took one for himself.
The toughest thing in that room wasn’t my bat. It was a half-frozen Pitbull who’d rather starve than let his girl go hungry.
That night changed me.
We spend so much time judging people by what they wear, where they sleep, or what they have in their pockets. We judge dogs by the size of their jaws and the scars on their skin.
But loyalty doesn’t live in appearances.
Compassion doesn’t come with a price tag.
And sometimes the best guardian angel you’ll ever meet arrives covered in frost, with a teenager on one side and a trembling Pitbull on the other.
If I’d followed my own rules, I would’ve shut the door on both.
Instead, I learned this:
Family isn’t always blood.
Protection doesn’t always look gentle.
And the biggest hearts often beat inside the bodies we’ve been trained to fear.
So next time someone walks into your life looking rough, tired, or “dangerous”…
maybe look twice.
You might be staring at the purest form of love you’ll ever see.
Martha had buried one husband already, a kind man who never came back from the trail. When she remarried Clay in Dodge City, 1874, folks said fortune had smiled on her — he was tall, handsome, and the kind to buy whiskey for a whole room just to hear the laughter rise. To the outside world, he was charm in a fine hat. To Martha, behind their cabin door, he was a storm.
At first it was small things — a hard stare, a cruel word, a drink too many. But then his gaze shifted toward Eliza, Martha’s little girl, and the air in the cabin changed. Supper fell quiet, the child flinching at every sound, her smile gone. Martha watched in silence until the night she found Clay drunk, leaning too near her daughter’s bed. That was the line she would not let him cross.
She dragged him out by the collar, pistol shaking in her hand, and by dawn she was standing in the county office, signing her name to divorce papers while the ink still trembled. Folks whispered about her for years — not with scorn, but with respect. In a town where women often kept quiet, Martha’s courage was louder than any gunshot. And Eliza, grown and safe, never forgot the night her mother chose her over fear.
Nobody blocked (his) work on this earth. You can’t take the life of one and give it to another … God took her back … this masculine frauds work wasn’t great.
When she survived the sacrifice, Divine Mother sated, “It’s a bad day for (him)”. God gave her a new mate … She WILL be loved … ya little rat bastard. She gets a new family tree, and your fraudulent one will be destroyed.
You gifted the world the grandest betrayal, you betrayed your own, God gifted Wife, you harvested her while she suffered, and painted yourself “grand” wearing her harvested energy … and now the Most High God has given her “gifts” to someone more worthy.
You, and all your mask wearing frauds, can go to another portion of the multi-verse, your masks have failed you.
Your “chosen one”, the replacement, will need to be enough … No more syphoning the essence of the true and dressing up your fraud.
Trust me when I say, the Divine Feminine doesn’t envy your “bride”, fool.
She actually lov(ed) you … and the Father Divine stated you will NEVER GET HER ENERGY OR SUPPLY BACK. Never again will she be forced to serve you.
Friggen buyer and seller of the mother’s divine energy in all of its forms … may you starve, friggen addict.
She doesn’t care that you are “addicted to her”.
Take your position at her feet, brutalizing coward.
I certainly hope the True Divine Masculine creates something “special” for you, considering what you’ve allowed to occur in the lives of the children.
———————————
He threw her away at the start.
As soon as God wasn’t looking, he wrapped her up, shut her down, bound her in every way he could think of.
He didn’t expect her to rise and shine. He placed her upon an impossible path! She was supposed to be his “hidden treasure” of suffering energy, forever.
I pray he loses the privilege of calling himself a man … or a woman … he’s far less valuable than ANY of the animal kingdom …
Ooohhhhh the many knives he sunk into the Heart of Her Holy Spirit ….
Ooohhhhh the profit he gained from prostituting her energy to unseen masculine, and feminine entities, not human …
Her entire family of HUmans betrayed, syphoned, consumed, enslaved … extinguished.
This rat actually believed he had exterminated the entirety of “her kind”.
… and now, we begin again.
Back to square one.
May every single one who participated in genocide of whole species be removed from our new chapter …
May they receive the intention, and the action, they forced upon others.
The little boy came to our table of leather-clad bikers and slammed down a paper that said “DADDY’S FUNERAL – NEED SCARY MEN.”
His tiny fingers were still stained with marker ink, and his Superman cape was on backwards. The diner went dead silent as fifteen members of the Iron Wolves MC stared at this kid who couldn’t have weighed forty pounds soaking wet.
“My mom said I can’t ask you,” he announced, his chin jutting out defiantly. “But she’s crying all the time and the mean boys at school said daddy won’t go to heaven without scary men to protect him.”
Big Tom, who’d done two tours in Afghanistan and had a skull tattooed on his neck, carefully picked up the paper. It was a child’s drawing of stick figures on motorcycles surrounding a coffin, with “PLEASE COME” written in backwards letters.
“Where’s your mom, little man?” Tom asked, his voice a low rumble that usually preceded a fight, but was now impossibly gentle. The boy pointed through the window to a beat-up Toyota where a young woman sat with her head in her hands. “She’s scared of you. Everyone’s scared of you. That’s why I need you.”
I’d seen Tom break a man’s jaw for disrespecting his bike. But his hands shook as he read what else was on that paper – a date, tomorrow, and an address for Riverside Cemetery.
“What was your daddy’s name?” someone asked from the back. “Officer Marcus Rivera,” the boy said proudly. “He was a police. A bad man shot him.”
The silence in the diner got heavier, thick enough to choke on. Cops and bikers weren’t exactly natural allies. Most of us had been hassled, profiled, some even beaten by police. And now this cop’s kid was asking us to honor his fallen father.
Tom stood up slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow over the small table. “What’s your name, superman?”
“Miguel. Miguel Rivera.”
“Well, Miguel Rivera,” Tom said, kneeling down so he was eye to eye with the boy, a giant meeting a sparrow. “You tell your mom that your daddy’s going to have the biggest, loudest, scariest escort to heaven any police officer ever had.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Really? You’ll come?”
“Brother,” Snake spoke up from the corner, and I could hear the conflict in his voice. “He was a cop.”
“He was a father,” Tom said firmly, his gaze never leaving Miguel’s. “And this little warrior just did the bravest thing I’ve seen all year. We ride.”
The next morning, I arrived at the cemetery two hours early. I thought I’d be the only one, a chance to get my head right before the awkwardness and the stares. But then my jaw dropped.
The narrow road leading to the cemetery entrance was already lined with bikes. Not just the fifteen of us from the diner, but our entire chapter. Forty men, standing quietly by their polished Harleys, the morning sun glinting off the chrome. But that wasn’t what stopped my heart. Further down the road, another group was pulling in. The Vipers. Our bitter rivals. And behind them, the Sons of Odin. Word had gotten out. A call had been made for scary men, and the entire goddamn scary underworld had answered.
When the funeral procession finally arrived, the hearse slowed to a stop. I saw Miguel in the car behind it, his small face pressed against the glass. His mother looked up, and her hand flew to her mouth, her expression of fear melting into stunned disbelief.
There were over a hundred of us. A silent army of leather and steel.
At some unseen signal from Tom, a hundred engines roared to life at the exact same instant. The sound was biblical. It wasn’t angry or aggressive; it was a deep, thundering proclamation. We are here. We formed a double line, a guard of honor for the hearse and the family, and escorted them through the gates. At the graveside, a small group of uniformed officers stood stiffly, their honor guard looking tense as we dismounted. They watched us, we watched them. But there was no trouble. We formed a wide, silent circle around the service, our backs to the family, facing outward. We were a wall, protecting their grief from the world.
After the service, as the last of the mourners were leaving, the police chief walked over to Big Tom. He was a hard-looking man I’d seen on the news a dozen times. He stopped, looked at Tom, then at the sea of bikers standing in silent respect.
“I… I don’t have the words,” the chief said, his voice rough. “Officer Rivera was a good man.”
Tom just gave a short, sharp nod. “He had a good son.”
That’s when I saw Miguel, holding his mother’s hand, walking purposefully toward us. He stopped in front of Tom, who immediately knelt down again. Miguel wasn’t wearing his cape anymore. He was holding the folded American flag from his father’s coffin.
He held it out. “This is for you,” he said, his voice clear and steady.
Tom gently pushed it back. “No, little man. That’s yours. That’s your daddy’s.”
“My daddy was a hero,” Miguel said, pushing the flag firmly into Tom’s huge, tattooed hand. “He protected people. And today, you protected him.”
Tom stared at the flag in his hand, his jaw working, his whole body trembling. The man I’d seen walk through a bar fight without flinching was completely undone by a forty-pound superhero. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall.
We didn’t ride away with a roar. We left one by one, a quiet rumble that spoke of a respect that went deeper than clubs or colors or the badges on a uniform.
We had come because a little boy asked for scary men. But we left knowing we’d just met the bravest one of all.
What do Trad Wives, victims of frontal lobotomies and a woman who’s going to leave you soon all have in common?
I’m going to tell you the answer, what this terminal relationship symptom is – and not to be a bitch but because it could save your relationship.
But before I tell you what it is, let’s establish what your relationship is, a partnership that especially during child rearing years majorly revolves around problem solving. Your kinda are like business partners, only instead of a company you’re running a home. And you fck.
So you know how your wife nags? Or wants to “talk things through” or go on and on.. sometimes it’s like you can’t avoid an argument… yeah?
Well that’s not the sign.
You see I’ve noticed that before my friends leave their partners and I’ve done this myself too.. They stop all that.
A woman whose heart has left the relationship is probably easier -for the man who’s been ignoring her to live with. If she’s asked you to put oil in her car and you haven’t, she’ll just call her dad. If your a nightmare when your drunk but you get drunk anyway, she’ll just grab the kids and stay somewhere else. If you accidentally sent her a message meant for your affair, she’ll pretend she didn’t clock it.
In other words – what the Trad wives, victims of frontal lobotomies and the woman who’s going to break your heart have in common is..
None of them will argue with you.
Arguing is a sign of still being connected. You don’t debate or persuade or persist with an ex or someone you’ll never see again.
You do it with your partner, to show him what it’s like for you, with the hope he actually cares or sees how his actions are holding her back or puts oil in the car.
But unfortunately some men choose to not listen, not care. Say they’ll do it but don’t- over and over again, until they snap at her she’s nagging.
Unfortunately these are the same men who won’t even notice when the most deadly symptom for their relationship irises and she stops problem solving with him. I mean why wouldn’t she? If the love and plans for the future are dying, then in the wise words of the Cranberries
I posted a short about this sweet child seeing me from behind as I looked in the freezer section at the grocer, thinking I was his grandma. “Grandma! Grandma! He said.” I turned around to this sweet boys love and was touched in my heart space.
A masculine posted on the short, “What are you doing?!?! Stop now!! It’s not going to end well.”
He took report of a sweet moment and accused me of wrongdoing, based on his own misperception and possible history. While I feel for those who have been hurt, it does no one any good to accuse all “grandmas” of thinking like that. Some of us actually Love the sweet innocent ones, purely.
Apparently people I’ve never met are out there “explaining” me to others. This verbal accosting by a masculine accusing me of foul thoughts and intentions regarding this child is offensive.
People who believe slander and accuse falsely, without even having the maturity to do research first, are responsible for much unwarranted suffering in the world.
Heal your trauma.
Not every grandmother wants to bring suffering to innocence. Most of us love purely.
Some “feed” on the “energetic fuel” of riling others deceitfully. Some enjoy playing with a mind and kicking back to observe their handywork. Those who have been violated and remain unhealed are great puppets for a lying narcissist.
In the middle of the city’s hustle and bustle, where people walk past each other without noticing, a man stands out not for what he says, but for what he represents. He has no home, no wealth, and no certainty about what tomorrow will bring, but he possesses something far more valuable than all that: the unconditional love of his dogs. He lives on the streets, facing the unforgiving cold in winter and the scorching heat in summer. Despite the hardships, he never complains. He asks for nothing for himself, only for them. These dogs are his family, his reason to keep going.
Every morning, before the city awakens, he rises and gently strokes the backs of his companions who sleep by his side, trying to share the little warmth he has. He carefully adjusts the makeshift blankets he’s created from scraps of fabric, making sure they are comfortable and protected. While he endures hunger and loneliness, his only concern is ensuring his friends don’t feel the same abandonment. He shares with them every crumb he receives, sacrificing his own food so they won’t go hungry.
Some passersby look at him with curiosity, others with disdain. “If he can’t take care of himself, how can he take care of these dogs?” they wonder. But they don’t see what he does when no one is watching: how he checks their paws to make sure they’re not hurt, how he covers them with his body when it rains, how he speaks gently to them when they’re scared. To him, these dogs are not a burden, but his reason for being. Each wag of their tails is a silent thank you, each loving gaze a promise they’ll never abandon him.
So, night after night, he keeps going, no matter the cold or the obstacles. Because to him, these dogs are not just animals, they are proof that true love cannot be bought, but is given unconditionally, with the soul, expecting nothing in return.
opensenseme 