She’s got a whole Universe of Kings and Queens, Gods and Goddesses, whatever the Upper Echelon of the Universe call themselves, the Counsil of Universes, for there are many, unified in their decision to elevate her.
She is alive because they have deemed her worthy of life. She has been given reprieve, for they have deemed her innocent of any crime, and are rewarding her for the centuries of torture she endured at the hands of man … because she dare speak of love, because she dare be intelligent, because she dare expand into life and be recognized as a Woman who deeply loves Creation and the Life it holds … gifts of the Mother Father Most High Divine.
They poisoned her and hurt her bad, physically and with magic … they wished death upon her the whole of her life. They insist she isn’t responsible, even though she succeeded where they were certain she would fail. They were certain their efforts to deteriorate and disqualify her were sufficient. They are hollering, whining really, and insisting they have rights to her essence, energy, gifts ,,, soul and right to life.
They want to rule the universe. They’ve been slave trading for centuries, announcing themselves conquerors, masters.
The universe came together without prejudice and chose this Woman Survivor as Representative. A whole Universe of teachers to teach, to guide, and the Most High Divine within all realms supervises it all.
This time, it will go a little differently.
But the trafficker insists it has rights to the merchandise of angels, so the transition is a little bumpy.
She was executed at 29 for refusing to accept a world where women had no voice. Her final words would echo for generations.
Japan, early 1900s. The emperor was considered divine. Women could not vote, own property, or speak in political spaces. Society was a fortress built on hierarchy, and questioning it was heresy. Kanno Sugako looked at this fortress and decided she would not live within its walls.
Born in 1881, Kanno defied every expectation placed on Japanese women of her era. While society demanded silence and submission, she became a journalist—one of the few women writing for public newspapers. She didn’t write about fashion or domesticity. She wrote about injustice. About the suffocating restrictions on women. About the impossibility of change within a system that treated dissent as treason.
Her words were dangerous because they asked dangerous questions: Why should half the population be voiceless? Why should one man be worshipped while millions suffered? Why should we accept the world as it is when it could be something better?
Kanno wasn’t satisfied with words alone. She joined radical political movements, attended banned meetings, and connected with anarchists and socialists who dreamed of dismantling the entire social order. In an era when most women couldn’t leave home without permission, she was organizing revolution.
Then in 1910, authorities uncovered what they called the High Treason Incident—a plot against Emperor Meiji himself. Kanno was arrested along with two dozen others. The evidence was questionable, the trial rushed, the outcome predetermined. Twenty-four people would be sentenced to death.
Kanno Sugako was the only woman among them. The state wanted her to recant, to plead for mercy, to perform the expected role of the repentant female. They wanted her to cry, to apologize, to beg for her life in exchange for admitting she’d been led astray by men.
She refused every script they offered.
Instead, she wrote. In her prison cell, Kanno penned her autobiography and reflective essays that would be smuggled out and preserved. Her final writings revealed not regret, but absolute conviction. She saw her death not as a tragedy but as testimony—proof that some truths were worth dying for.
On January 24, 1911, Kanno Sugako was executed by hanging. She was 29 years old. As she walked to the gallows, witnesses reported she showed no fear. She had made her choice, understood its cost, and claimed her fate with startling clarity.
The Japanese government wanted to erase her. They banned her writings, suppressed her name, and hoped history would forget a woman who dared challenge divine authority.
But you cannot silence what refuses to be silent. Kanno’s story survived through whispers, through secretly preserved texts, through generations of feminists who found strength in knowing someone had walked this path before them. Decades after her death, her autobiography was published. Her letters were studied. Her courage was recognized. She became a symbol for Japanese feminists fighting for suffrage in the 1920s. For women demanding rights after World War II. For every movement that asked why women should accept less.
What Kanno Sugako understood—what made her both terrifying to authorities and inspiring to those who came after—was this: some systems cannot be reformed. Sometimes witnessing injustice without acting becomes complicity. Sometimes the only way to prove you’re free is to choose, even when the choice carries the ultimate price.
Her story is uncomfortable because it refuses easy answers. She wasn’t a martyr who accidentally stumbled into tragedy. She was a woman who looked at her options—silence or defiance—and chose defiance knowing exactly where it would lead.
History has given us many stories of women who survived against impossible odds. Kanno’s story is different. She didn’t survive. But her refusal to accept the world as it was helped create a world where Japanese women could eventually vote, own property, speak freely, and choose their own paths. She paid with her life for freedoms she would never experience. That’s not a story with a happy ending. It’s a story with an honest one.
Every right we have today was paid for by someone. Some paid with their time, their comfort, their reputation. Some, like Kanno Sugako, paid with everything.
Her legacy isn’t about the methods she chose—those remain historically complex and debated. Her legacy is about the question she forced into existence: What are you willing to sacrifice for a world you’ll never see but others might inhabit? She answered that question at 29, in a prison cell, with absolute certainty.
And her answer changed what was possible for every woman who came after.
How about “loving them” from a very, very, great distance. Better yet, how about cutting ALL energetic cords, complete separation.
“Trust and love each other” some say. These are those who weren’t forced to listen to the cries of tortured children every moment of every day for decades, pleading that someone save them.
People criticize those who try to keep animals from the slaughter, not understanding “the people we aren’t supposed to talk about” have been putting the bodies of their sacrifices, these tortured children, into the meat grinder and selling them to civilians as hotdogs and other ground meats.
These same “unintentional” cannibals, get mad at those of us trying to keep their sorry azzes out of the meat grinder. Perhaps the Mother Father Divine should just let them go?
Go forth child, into the vipers den. Go forth child and “be friends” with the vampire, feeding on your soul.
Long ago I tried to save the souls of people speaking on this very topic, and how these nasty jacks would prostitute everyone … and they have. They’ve been relentlessly feeding on the people, in many ways.
I no longer care to save anyone’s soul. I suffered centuries, being recycled, sacrificed, consumed. My energy and gifts were used to hurt people by those wearing a mask, a catfishing copycat … many of them … framing me as terrorist, as prostitute.
I’m no longer willing to give up my life for those who convict me of being mean. I release you. I give you over to those vampires you insist need to be trusted. I allow you freedom to go … and be their supply.
Everyone needs to learn their lessons. I’ve learned mine, by narrowly escaping their feeding line, after being drained, harvested, soul essence sucked out of me by an invisible, energetic straw.
You can be the new fodder if you wish. God has it all arranged. He knows who chose who.
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The interdimensional guide of the curator (seller of human soul value, and vital, energetic source, is talking about a “peace treaty”.
These sellers of human vital force, soul value, and happiness have NEVER honored a peace treaty. They use such things as permission to stay in the energy while they strategize a way to come back harder, with greater destruction.
They have exterminated 20 out of the 21 species of human. They have been terraforming the planet and chemically altering humans to become trans … something other than a natural human. (atrazine in water supply, bpa -synthetic estrogen – in all canned good). They intend for humans as God created them to cease to be.
They’ve been torturing children, eating them, some while alive, and there is no peace in them. You cannot make pacts with the devil, they worship death and are searching for a success story, and their success story means the failure of Gods Family … Humanity.
These near perfect copycat mutations have no love in them, although they can “act like it” nearly perfectly.
They offer no structural value. They do not create, they destroy.
They are invasive “bark beatles” in the Forests of Eden, feeding on the “trees” of planetary stabilizers … those strong enough to root deeply in shadow, to grow mighty in light, and hold temperance within themselves, and for their communities.
There’s a reason the Most High rewards such beings, and we’ve got a bunch of 70% percenters out there (meaning they’ve only passed 70% of their lessons) who target those who have passed 100% of their lessons … they like to redrum the successes and consume their soul value, essential energy, all covenants and wealth, while “pretending” they are a success.
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Women want to love the masculine, still, and it makes my heart happy, at the same time, quite fierce. (Let the brutalizer, parasitical, vampire be exterminated).
God said the mean mutants pretending to be men would get what they deserve. I in no way shape or form will object, give mercy, or defend them.
I pray the soft hearted woman learn to love herself enough to recognize those she feels drawn to “trust” are not the ones “made in the image of God”, they are “bark Beatles” in the Garden of Eden, and they’ve been feeding on the Womb of Power, the Tree of Life, and the innocent life coming from it, for far too long.
Gratefully, True Divine Masculine heard our prayers and are here now wiping the floor with their faces.
The Mothers Bridge was mended. The Father knows the truth now. The mutants who have defiled the Mothers, and the reputation of the Divine Fathers, by using the man suit made in the image of, the phallus, the creators tool to bring forth life, to hurt, harm, terrorize, and unalive weaker, softer beings, and their weeping hearts.
Ada Morrison was committed to Connecticut asylum in 1893, age thirty, by husband who wanted younger wife. Commitment reason: “excessive reading and intellectual pretensions unsuitable for woman.” Ada had taught school before marriage, read constantly, discussed politics. Husband said this proved mental instability. Two doctors examined her for ten minutes, agreed intelligent woman was clearly insane. Ada was locked in asylum for four years, labeled insane for being educated. She escaped eight times. Caught seven times. Succeeded once. Took four years of attempts—climbing windows, picking locks, bribing guards, hiding in laundry carts. Ada’s intelligence that got her committed was same intelligence that freed her.
This tintype from 1897 shows Ada after final successful escape, age thirty-four, displaying scars from previous attempts—broken arm from second-floor fall, burn marks from climbing hot steam pipes, lash marks from punishment after failed escapes. She holds commitment papers declaring her “mentally deficient with delusions of intellectual capability.” Ada had graduated college. Taught school for six years. Read Latin and Greek. Asylum declared this insanity. Her husband declared it embarrassing. Her intelligence declared it crime. Ada spent four years proving she was sane enough to escape place she was imprisoned for being smart.
Ada reached New York after escape, changed name to Sarah Bennett, worked as clerk hiding education level to avoid suspicion. Never contacted family—they’d supported commitment. Never remarried—couldn’t trust man with legal power over her freedom. Lived quietly for thirty-eight years, died in 1935, age seventy-two, having spent thirty-eight years hiding intelligence that had nearly destroyed her. Ada had been imprisoned for reading. Spent rest of life pretending she barely could. That was survival in world that called educated women insane.
After her death, landlady found Ada’s room filled with books—hundreds of volumes hidden behind false wall. Ada had kept reading despite risk, kept learning despite having been punished for it, kept thinking despite it being dangerous for woman in her era. Also found: diary documenting eight escape attempts with detailed notes about asylum security, guard rotations, lock mechanisms. Ada had been brilliant enough to escape asylum that imprisoned brilliant women.
Her commitment papers are now in women’s history museum: “Ada Morrison was committed for reading too much. Escaped asylum eight times before succeeding. Spent 38 years hiding intelligence that prison couldn’t contain. She was insane for being smart. World was insane for calling that illness.”
There comes a moment in life when you realize that some hearts will never truly hear you—no matter how clearly you speak, no matter how vulnerably you open your soul. It’s a tender, bruising truth: people can stand right in front of you and still miss the essence of what you’re trying to share. Their ears catch the words, but their fears, wounds, or defenses twist them into something unrecognizable. And in that distortion, you feel the sting of being unseen.
For so long, I carried that sting like a heavy stone in my chest. I’d replay conversations, searching for the perfect phrase I might have missed—the one that could finally bridge the gap. I’d explain myself again and again, softer this time, louder the next, hoping that persistence would crack open their understanding. But each attempt only left me more exhausted, more diminished, as if my truth had to be shrunk or reshaped to fit into their narrow view.
Then, slowly, the deeper pain revealed itself: not just the misunderstanding, but the quiet desperation beneath it—the longing to be fully known, to have my experiences validated by the very people who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) see them. Why did I keep pouring my light into vessels that were already sealed shut? Why did I let their limitations dim my own?
The turning point was a gentle surrender. I stopped trying to force the connection. I stopped believing that my worth depended on their comprehension. It hurt at first—this release—like pulling away from a warmth that was never truly there. Tears came, not from anger, but from grieving the illusion that I could make someone understand if I just tried harder.
In letting go, something profound unfolded. I began to feel the weight lift. My energy, once scattered in endless justifications, returned to me. I stood taller in my own knowing, no longer pleading for permission to exist as I am. There is a fierce, quiet strength in this: honoring your truth without demanding that others mirror it back.
You don’t owe anyone your exhaustion. You don’t need to teach emotional depth to those who aren’t ready to learn it. Your story, your feelings, your perspective—they are valid in their fullness, even if they echo unanswered in someone else’s silence.
True understanding can’t be wrested or begged for; it arrives on its own, softly, when hearts are open. And those who are meant to see you will. They will meet you in the depth without you having to pull them there.
So breathe out the need to be heard by everyone. Release the ache of proving yourself. Hold your truth close, like a sacred flame, and let it illuminate your path instead of burning you out trying to light someone else’s darkness.
In this letting go, you reclaim your peace. You rediscover the beauty of being whole unto yourself. And you walk forward lighter, deeper, freer—knowing that your light shines not for approval, but because it is yours to carry.
We weren’t born to hide. We are born of fire, earth and ancestral memory.
Inside every woman lives a warrior goddess: -she who falls and gets up, -she who dances on the embers without fear, -she who turns pain into power and wound into wisdom.
We are holy fire. We are ritual in motion. We are ancient force awakening in this time.
✨ Remember who you are today. ✨ Honor your body, your history, and your lineage. ✨ Walk with your head held high: your energy is invincible.
🔥 We are goddesses. We are warriors. We are light incarnate. 🔥
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.
Over and over and over again they proclaim themselves conquerors over Woman.
⚕️MEDUSA: The Woman They Couldn’t Break
They never tell you the real story of Medusa. They just show you the monster: snakes for hair, eyes that turn men to stone.
But they don’t tell you why she became that way. They don’t want you to see yourself in her.
Medusa was once a beautiful, soft priestess. She served in Athena’s temple. She was pure, untouched, devoted to spirit.
Until one day, Poseidon, one of the gods, decided her body wasn’t hers. He took what he wanted. Violated her. Broke her. Stole her innocence.
That day, sweet Medusa realized her softness was a curse, her beauty a pawn for predatory males.
And the temple, the gods, the people… punished her. Accused her of seducing him. She was cursed. Not him.
From that moment on, she was cast out. Banished, demonized, transformed into something “ugly”. Not because she became evil, but because she was no longer willing to play nice.
They called her dangerous because she wouldn’t let another man come close. Because she could now freeze them with a stare. Not out of vengeance, but as protection.
Because when you’ve been hunted enough times, your softness becomes a fortress.
Medusa became what the world forced her to be: not a monster, but a mirror.
She reveals the shadow in men. She exposes what they carry inside.
Those who approach her with fear or domination turn to stone.
Those who come in peace… simply turn away, unready to face themselves.
She is the face of the woman who has had enough. Enough betrayal. Enough abandonment. Enough “be gentle, be kind, be forgiving” while being ripped apart.
She reminds us that when women are left to defend themselves, they become fire. They become storm. They become legend.
If you’ve been told you’re “too aggressive,” “too angry,” “too guarded”, maybe you’re just protecting the girl no one else protected.
Maybe it’s them, not you.
Medusa is not a villain. She is a survivor. A symbol of feminine rage alchemized into power. She is every woman who had to become her own shield.
In the age of the feminine rising, Medusa returns. Not to punish but to warn. To teach women that it’s okay to say never again. To guard your sacred body. To let your fury be holy. To wear your scars like armor.
A woman’s aura is one of the most powerful forces within a home. It carries her emotions, her thoughts, her intentions, and her spiritual vibration. Long before she speaks, her energy is already communicating. A home can feel warm, tense, alive, stagnant, peaceful, or chaotic—and often, the root of that vibration is the state of the woman’s inner world.
This is why the feminine path calls for deep emotional hygiene. Just as she cleans her physical home, she must cleanse her internal one. Breathwork releases anxiety from her chest. Journaling clears mental clutter. Movement releases stagnant energy from her hips and womb. Herbal baths dissolve emotional residue from her aura. When a woman purifies her energy, her entire home begins to shift.
Children feel it first—they relax, open up, feel safer. Partners feel it next—the tension dissolves, communication softens, connection deepens. Even visitors feel it—they enter the space and say, “It feels peaceful in here.” This is the power of a woman in alignment.
A woman does not need to raise her voice or demand control to influence her household. Her power is subtle, but it is magnetic. Her calm steadies the home. Her joy lifts it. Her sorrow dims it. Her healing transforms it. This is not pressure—it is divine authority.
When a woman honors her energy, she teaches everyone around her to honor theirs. She models emotional intelligence, spiritual awareness, and intentional living. She becomes the emotional thermostat, not the emotional sponge. She leads with softness, not with exhaustion. She heals with presence, not perfection.
A woman in her feminine power is the medicine of her household. Her aura becomes the blessing that fills every room, every conversation, and every heart that shares the space with her.
When they tried to silence the visionary, the actualization of dreams faded, and what remained was a bunch of brutes with angry, unsatisfied energy trying to “force” the visionary to give them a dream. Gorillas. Lost their dream, for trying to destroy the visionary.
opensenseme 