👁️ The Angel We Weren’t Ready For

A poetic truth for the too-much ones.

We say we want to witness the divine.

To sit in the presence of truth, of power, of healing.

But when it actually arrives—raw, trembling, wild—we flinch.

We look away.

We call it crazy. Intimidating. Too much.

We say, “not like that.”

Real seeing requires capacity.

And most people were never taught how to hold complexity.

They fear what doesn’t shrink itself to fit.

We love our angels feathered, glowing, clean.

But I joke—if people actually saw an angel,

they wouldn’t be revering them like homies.

They’d be afraid.

Because some angels don’t show up soft.

They show up with sword, trumpet, flame.

They show up wild-eyed from the desert or weeping in a back alley.

They speak in tongues. They laugh too loud. They know too much.

They arrive in the form of someone you’ve already judged.

And maybe that’s why it’s so hard to see each other.

Because when someone shows up in their full power,

or full fear, or full anything,

it challenges the lens we’ve grown comfortable looking through.

And not everyone’s ready for that.

Most of us have never been fully seen ourselves.

So we never learned how to see others in their entirety.

So when one of us walks in—

big and holy and yes, sometimes triggering—

we rattle cages.

Not because we’re wrong.

But because we reflect the parts of others they’ve exiled to survive.

We awaken what they’ve silenced.

We are the embodiment of what they buried.

And yes… sometimes we look like angels.

But not the kind they were ready to meet.

The Shape They Didn’t Expect

It’s hard for some to believe that an oracle can be loud.

That a healer can take up space.

That a woman led by the divine might also be unruly, volcanic, fully human.

We’ve been conditioned to expect our mystics soft-spoken, backlit, and perfectly digestible.

Anything more than that, and we’re called chaotic.

Unstable. Intimidating.

Not holy enough to be holy.

But I’ve learned the deeper truth:

Some of us came here to be seen in our bigness.

Some of us channel the divine through a laugh that shakes the room.

Some of us hold medicine in our madness, our movement, our messy becoming.

And when people can’t receive that—when they try to manage or admire me from a distance—

I feel it.

I feel the nervous system shift.

I feel the mask drop.

I feel the fear that’s not mine.

Because to be powerful and present,

and still left out…

to be praised but only on a leash…

to be seen but never truly received—

that’s its own kind of grief.

And still, I will not shrink.

Too Much for Them, Just Right for Me

It reminds me of this one time at a music festival.

When it was all said and done, I was ostracized. Ridiculed.

Shunned by a group I thought I’d be safe with.

Not because I harmed anyone.

But because I danced too big.

Laughed too loud.

Moved with too much joy, too much freedom, too much presence.

At a concert.

They were doing the same things—but quieter. Safer. Smaller.

I was the mirror they didn’t ask for.

And so they turned away.

But the truth is—I am serenity and chaos.

I play in polarity.

I am not either/or.

I am everything and more.

And even though I may never understand why others limit themselves, I know this:

They are lovable. And love is easy.

But somehow, loving me feels daunting. Exhausting.

Too big a task.

And that’s okay.

Because I love me.

I enjoy me.

And I’m not alone anymore.

The Anthem of the Angels

There are others like me.

Other angels disguised as:

• Freaks

• Burnt-outs

• Misfits

• Neurospicies

• Witches

• Wild women

• Queer mystics

• Weeping prophets

• Holy fools

• Punk monks

• Ecstatic rebels

• Exiled empaths

• Loud feelers

• Sacred disruptors
  

We are here.

We are so much.

And we’re going to use every drop of our too-muchness to love a new world into existence.

One where nobody gets shamed for dancing too big.

One where fear is met with attunement.

One where power doesn’t have to shrink to be safe.

One where we are all finally free—to be everything we are.

We’re not dimming anymore.

We’re building something holy.

Together.

Psalm for the Misfits

Blessed are the too-much ones,

the cracked-open hearts and loud feelers,

the ones who never learned to be small.

Blessed are the ones who were called chaos

when they were carrying the storm for everyone else.

Blessed are the witches and wild ones,

the ones who see without proof,

feel without filter,

love without limit.

The world wasn’t ready.

But heaven never looked away.

And now—

we rise.