People talk about “God being within us” as if it’s just a metaphor, something you print on mugs or tuck into sermons. But what if it’s not? What if it is undeniable?
For me, that realization didn’t arrive gently. It came as a manic episode that tore through everything I thought I knew. It was terrifying. It was liberating. And it was the first time I understood what it meant to be limitless.
I once thought healing meant fixing what was broken. But my awakening showed me something different: healing is about remembering what was always there, the mind, the body, and the spirit working together as one.
It was also the moment that began my journey as a writer. Not because I wanted to, but because Spirit demanded it.
In the middle of my awakening, I grabbed red lipstick and scrawled across my bathroom mirror: I Am God.
Not out of arrogance, but because Spirit had entered me in a way I could not deny. That mirror became my altar, my witness. It was the first time I welcomed Spirit into my life not as something outside of me, but as something within.
That moment shifted everything. It sparked questions I had never dared to ask:
The answers weren’t neat or clean. They unleashed chaos, fear, and wonder all at once. But they also began to strip away the armor I had built around my spirit.
I’ve been hospitalized five times. Each stay wasn’t just a “breakdown”. It was a chapter in my education. What looked like madness on paper was actually Spirit pulling me deeper into the puzzle of life.
Looking back, I realize the hospital rooms were both prisons and sanctuaries. They stripped me of distractions, but in that stripping, they also made space for Spirit to speak.
What psychiatry labeled as imbalance, I began to see as initiation. Each hospitalization revealed another layer of the same truth: I was not losing my mind. I was discovering it.
One of the hardest truths I’ve carried is this: when you’ve touched realms beyond this world, coming back to “normal life” can feel unbearable.
I’ve seen things I can’t fully explain. I’ve walked in dimensions where time bends, where ancestors whisper, where love and fear dance as one.
When you’ve seen galaxies form from grief, how do you come back to grocery lists and small talk?
When you’ve heard your grandmother’s voice guiding you through a vision, how do you explain that to someone who only sees the surface of your diagnosis?
That tension, between the realms I’ve seen and the world I live in, is what pushed me to write. Writing became my way of carrying those realms with me, of translating the unexplainable into something I could hold.
My books are not separate projects. They are survival maps, different pieces of the same testimony.
The story came to me like fire. In the middle of my first manic episode, I saw the universe birthed not by anger, but by grief. Stars flung out like sparks from a mother’s cry. Galaxies bloomed where sorrow had once burned. And at the center stood Her: God, as a Black woman, holding both creation and pain in her hands.
This book reimagines creation not as dominance, but as mourning turned into life. It dares to ask: What if the divine feminine was the source? What if love and loss are not opposites, but twins?
It was not just mythology. It was a mirror. It was me.
Visions don’t come without weight. In the years that followed, I was hospitalized again and again. Each time, I wrestled with one question: Why?
Why me? Why this? Why God?
Religion teaches us not to question, but questioning became my lifeline. Why unraveled illusions. Why carried me into visions of the beginning of time. Why reconnected me to my ancestors.
This book recounts the reality of living with manic disorder, the depths of hospitalization, and the visions that revealed the start of the universe. It is not about pretty healing. It is about raw survival. It is about finding divinity in the places we are taught to fear.
When I finally began to rebuild, I turned to the name of God itself: YHWH. Four letters that scholars wrestle with, but Spirit whispered to me as something simple, profound, and poetic: the sound of breath.
YH-WH. Inhale. Exhale.
The very act of breathing is calling God’s name. Which means every living thing praises without trying. Which means I do not guilt-trip myself into forced religion. I know I speak and praise God in every living moment, simply because I am God, and the breath that flows through my lungs is of Him/Her.
This book is not a story but a guide. A journal that helps others confront childhood trauma, unlock their fullest selves, and return to the truth that every breath is prayer.
I found it poetic, almost too beautiful, that the first sound we make as infants, the breath that rushes out of us… is God’s name.
The fact that life itself is stitched to YHWH means that every moment is sacred, even the mundane ones. I don’t have to chase holiness in buildings, rituals, or guilt. Holiness is here: in breath, in heartbeat, in presence.
This is why I don’t condemn myself for stepping away from forced religion. I know that as long as I breathe, I am in communion. My life is worship. My existence is prayer.
From Her Cry, to My Why, to YHWH, these books are not just words on paper. They are the blueprint of my survival, my faith, and my freedom.
I write not to prove my visions are right, but to remind us all:
Creation can be born from grief.
Questioning can be holy.
Every breath is a prayer.
And that we are never as far from God as we’ve been told.
“I am limitless with an abundance of love and life. I trust myself and my journey.”