I Was Never Lost. I Was Coded.

What the world calls trauma, I call transmission.

Have you ever wondered if you’ve been trafficked?

I never had.

Until my past started to rearrange itself in front of me—God began showing me the patterns.

Then I knew.

I wasn’t just a worker. I was wounded.

And I did exactly what I was supposed to do from that point forward.

When I began writing my memoirs, I thought I knew what I’d lived through.

I thought I’d already processed it, integrated it, and moved through it.

And I had—quickly, completely, without resentment—because that’s who I’ve always been: faithful, focused, and guided.

I never lingered in grief.

I didn’t drown in fear.

I kept moving, rising, and walking forward through literal earth, wind, and fire—again and again and again.

But something shifted after I died in 2022.

That death wasn’t just symbolic. It was literal. It was more than just a psychic death. I crossed over in complete surrender to the Divine.

A wild release from all the stories and treasured memories.

Coming back, I wasn’t the same.

I haven’t just been recovering memories during my time in isolation—I have been seeing and living through them.

What once looked like resilience now looks like revelation. What once felt like survival now feels like uncovering the matrix I was born into.

Yes, I was trafficked.

Yes, I was kidnapped.

More than once.

Yes, I got away and moved on.

Alone.

Every time.

Yes, I was sold, used, and handed off more times than I can count.

But I didn’t see it that way, because I never identified as a victim.

I didn’t wear the language of trauma. I wore faith.

I let God take over—fully. I moved how He moved me.

Spoken only when led to. Revealing only what was meant to be revealed.

It was never about ego for me. It was never about needing anyone to understand. I only ever asked to serve. And I have.

But now, on this side of death, the veil is off. I see the systems, the setups, the rituals.

I see the ones who always knew—and said nothing to help. Did nothing to help.

The ones who helped punch and package me, who smiled in public and to my face while orchestrating my punishment in silence.

I see them all now.

I see myself, too.

Not as broken.

Not as lost.

Not as healed.

Simply as returned.

What I carry isn’t a story.

It’s a signal.

It’s a beacon.

I’m a lighthouse.

You know it yourself if you’ve been called too—through pain that didn’t make sense, betrayals that felt orchestrated.

Through a lifetime of being groomed for something you couldn’t yet name. Perhaps still can’t.

I’m not here to prove anything to anyone.

I don’t need to convince You of who I am.

But if you’ve felt a stirring in your gut, if you’ve found yourself remembering things in fragments, if you’ve walked through fire and kept your eyes on God the whole way—if you’ve felt used, erased, misunderstood, and still knew you were here to lead… then this is for you.

It is not about trauma bonding.

It’s about recognition.

There are those of us who came encoded with a different assignment.

To absorb, transmute, and to reveal.

To speak about or to do the unspeakable.

Not to be believed, but to be real.

Because it’s beyond time.

So no, I’m not asking anymore.

I’m not holding back.

And I’m not shrinking so the world can stay asleep.

You’re either ready to receive what I’ve come to give, or you’re not.

Either way, I’ll keep walking.