Date Night Debrief: Spirit Was Not Subtle About This One

I had just finished writing Romance, Respect, and Reality Checks.
And I mean just finished. Hit save. Sat back in that sacred little exhale of “damn, I said the thing.”

Naturally, I shuffled my tarot deck to do a vibe check. Because you don’t just write about emotional clarity—you follow it with spiritual receipts. That’s when three cards fell out—face down, two of them reversed, one upright.

5 of Pentacles (Reversed)

This card landed like a cold slap and a warm hug.
It said, “You’re not stuck outside anymore. So stop acting like you still need someone to let you in.”
I’d just written an entire blog about emotional clarity and deciding someone isn’t my person—and this card rolled up like, “Cool. Now mean it.” This is healing from rejection. Moving from survival mode to self-respect. The reversal says I’m finally seeing the key that’s been in my hand the whole time.

Perfect fucking timing.

Temperance (Reversed)

Spirit really said, “Imbalance, aisle 3!”
This card echoed everything I’d just unpacked in my writing. The emotional mismatch. The lack of flow. The trying-too-hard to blend two different emotional frequencies. Pulled right after I talked about being “great friends but not life partners.” Coincidence? Please. That’s adorable.

Temperance reversed isn’t subtle. It tells you flat-out: stop trying to turn chaos into chemistry. You can’t keep alchemizing connections that were never meant to be sacred.

8 of Pentacles (Upright)

The one upright card. The grounding force.
This was Spirit’s way of saying, “You did the real work today. Writing that blog? Choosing clarity? That’s the craft. That’s your calling.”
This wasn’t about him. It never was. It was about me honoring what I’ve built—and refusing to detour for someone who doesn’t even know how to show up in the workshop. This card made it crystal clear: I’m not just healing. I’m integrating.

Back of Deck: 2 of Wands (Reversed)

And just to seal it all with a cosmic eye-roll, here comes the 2 of Wands reversed—my classic “don’t get stuck in almosts” card. The one that says: “Are you gonna keep waiting for potential to grow legs, or are you gonna walk toward something that’s already in motion?”

I had just written the words.
And then Spirit dropped the cards.

Then as I sat down to write this very blog you’re reading now, I open my laptop and it’s 2:22.
No lie. No fluff. Just straight-up synchronicity.

For those keeping score, 222 is the angel number that whispers:

“You’re in alignment. Keep going. You’re not crazy—you’re connected.”

It’s about trusting the timing, the process, and the fact that Spirit is always a few steps ahead with the emotional GPS reroute.

So if you’re wondering whether that blog download was real, whether the date night was a test, and whether this next chapter is already unfolding...
Yeah. It is. Spirit already RSVP’d.

Timing like that isn’t random. It’s divine choreography.
Spirit wasn’t correcting me. They were confirming me.
They weren’t saying, “You missed something.”
They were saying, “You nailed it—and we want you to really, truly feel that.”

Spirit basically pulled a chair up to the table and said,

“We see you choosing clarity. We love that for you. Now here’s your confirmation with a side of synchronicity and a big ol’ glass of emotional evolution.”

And me?
I’m listening. I’m learning. And I’m definitely not lowering my standards for someone who thinks “emotional maturity” is just a band name.

So here’s to the lessons, the laughter, the cosmic clapbacks, and the part where I get to walk away—head high, vibe intact, and journal full.

Next time I say I’m just pulling a card for “fun,” please remind me that Spirit doesn’t do casual.

xo,

Jade

Romance, Respect, and Reality Checks

I had a date night tonight.
And it was… informative.

Not in a dramatic, plot-twist way. No skeletons fell out of the closet, no drinks were thrown. It was just one of those evenings where the truth quietly settled in between sips of whatever we were drinking.

We had fun. We always do. We laugh, we vibe, we get each other—on a lot of levels.
But at some point in the evening, I found myself saying out loud, “I’m gathering data. I need to make a decision.”
And I meant it. Gently. Lovingly. With no edge.
Because I care about him. Deeply. I admire his passion, his drive, the way he’s going after what he wants in life. That takes guts. And I see that.

But the thing is… emotional compatibility isn’t about rooting for someone.
It’s about feeling met.

While we’re excellent friends, and I’m confident we always will be…
as partners, we’re not aligned in the ways that matter most to me now.

It’s not a failure. It’s just a truth.

I used to fight those truths.
Try to edit people into the version I needed.
Now? I listen. I observe. I honor what’s there, not what I wish was.

So yeah, date night was nice. It was so much more than “nice”…it was the most fun I’ve had in recent memory.
But more importantly—it gave me clarity.
And I’ll take clarity over chemistry, any day of the week.

xo,

Jade

Friday the 13th: The Superstitious Shitshow We Can’t Quit

Friday the 13th has always been one of those dates that makes people feel like they’re living in the prologue to a Stephen King novel. On the surface, it’s just another random Friday, but somehow it still has the power to make your grandma light an extra candle and your coworker mutter about “bad vibes.” So, where did this whole thing start?

It’s a classic mash-up of two big superstitions: Fridays have a weird reputation—supposedly bad luck ever since biblical times—and the number 13 has always been a bit of an odd duck. Twelve is a nice, neat number: twelve months, twelve zodiac signs, twelve apostles. It feels complete, cozy, done. But then 13 waltzes in, uninvited, like the odd cousin at Thanksgiving dinner who always shows up late and spills wine on the tablecloth.

The Norse myths didn’t help, either. Loki, that trickster god, crashed a dinner party of 12 at Valhalla, making himself the 13th guest and turning the whole vibe into a funeral. So you’ve got 13 as this interloper of chaos, and Fridays already had enough bad PR thanks to medieval execution days and crucifixion day rumors. Put them together and you’ve got a superstition that’s just begging to be dramatized.

Thing is, the combo of Friday and 13 didn’t really get a name until the early 20th century when a 1907 novel written by Thomas W. Lawson called Friday, the Thirteenth came out. It was about a shady stockbroker who used the date’s bad rep to crash the market. Because what’s a better horror story than one involving Wall Street, am I right?

Then pop culture took the superstition and ran with it—Jason Voorhees and his hockey mask helped cement Friday the 13th as the official day for creepy shit. Ever since, we’ve been treating every Friday the 13th like it’s open season for the Grim Reaper.

But let’s get real—most of the fear is just a mix of confirmation bias and a good story. You trip on the stairs on Friday the 13th? Must be the date, not your two left feet. The power of suggestion is strong, and let’s face it, humans love a little spooky drama. Fear of this date even has a name: friggatriskaidekaphobia (because apparently regular phobia names weren’t scary enough). And while most of us know logically that it’s just another day, there’s something delightfully eerie about leaning into it. Think of it as a communal little thrill ride—like watching a horror movie, but for your calendar.

It’s worth remembering, though, that 13 isn’t all bad. There are actually 13 lunar cycles in a year. So if you’re gonna blame this number for all your problems, you should also thank it for giving us those monthly full moons that make everyone’s social media feeds a little more interesting.

In the end, Friday the 13th is the perfect excuse to act like a cautious goth for the day—avoid black cats, or maybe adopt one just to flip superstition the bird. But mostly, it’s just another chance to blame the date for whatever chaos your life is serving up… which, let’s be honest, is usually a lot more entertaining than blaming your own questionable life choices.

xo,
Jade

Stoic Sensei #5: Cleanthes – The Silent Strength of the Stoic Crew

The Power of Showing Up (and Actually Doing the Work)

Some people want to go out with a bang. Cleanthes? He was all about the slow burn.

Born around 330 BCE, Cleanthes wasn’t exactly born into privilege. This was no silver-spoon philosopher—he was a boxer first, a philosopher second, and a water-hauler by night to keep the lights on. If Stoicism is a philosophy for the real world, Cleanthes was the proof.

Cleanthes didn’t care about the spotlight. While Zeno laid the groundwork, Cleanthes was the guy who kept showing up and doing the work—hauling buckets by moonlight and holding the Stoic school together by day.

He didn’t preach about virtue like it was some fancy luxury. He lived it.
No fancy launch. No influencer brand. Just showing up and doing the damn thing.
And if you’re going through something messy or trying to rebuild after the ground’s been ripped out from under you? Cleanthes is your Stoic hype man.

Cleanthes wrote a Hymn to Zeus—basically a Stoic gospel set to poetic rhythm. In it, he framed the entire universe as governed by an orderly, wise force (God/Spirit/Universal Consciousness), reminding us that our little worries and personal dramas are just drops in the cosmic ocean. It’s like the ancient version of “Just let go, bro—it’s all part of the plan,” but without the yoga pants and sponsored retreat. His hymn was a gentle but firm nudge to get out of our heads and see the bigger pattern—one that’s too vast to be ruined by our fleeting fears.

The Work Is for Everyone

Here’s where Cleanthes vibes with Musonius Rufus, the Stoic feminist before feminism had a name. Both of them said—loudly and clearly—philosophy isn’t just for the privileged. It’s for anyone willing to show up, ask better questions, and keep their damn integrity.

• Musonius said: “Don’t lock women out of this.”

• Cleanthes showed: “This is for anyone with the guts to carry the water, chop the wood, and still find time to practice virtue.”

It’s not about titles. It’s not about status. It’s about consistency.
And that’s an idea I’m clinging to now more than ever.

The Takeaway from the Quiet Stoic

Cleanthes wasn’t flashy, but he was solid.

• He believed philosophy should be lived, not just talked about.

• He believed it belonged to everyone, not just the loudest voice in the room.

• And he believed that real strength comes from sticking with it, even when it’s the last thing you feel like doing.

So if your life feels like it’s been turned upside down—like mine has lately—maybe Cleanthes is the Stoic sensei you need to hear from.
No drama. No flash. Just the calm, steady reminder that if you’re willing to show up and do the work? You’re already halfway there.

xo,

Jade

The Game of Life According to Florence Scovel Shinn (Featuring My Year of Nonresistance)

How a 1925 spiritual badass taught me to stop forcing things and start letting life deliver

Let me introduce you to Florence Scovel Shinn — artist, metaphysical teacher, and spiritual straight-shooter who published The Game of Life and How to Play It almost a century ago and somehow still managed to call us all out in a painfully accurate way. Her message? You’re not a victim of circumstance. You’re a co-creator, and your words, beliefs, and actions are constantly placing orders with the cosmic kitchen.

But there’s one principle in her book that hit me harder than the others — and that’s nonresistance. I claimed it as my theme for the year on January 1, and let’s just say… it’s been both a vibe and a spiritual smackdown.

Before we dive deep into nonresistance (and trust me, we will), here’s a quick tour of the metaphysical playground Florence built for us.

The Core Principles of Shinn’s Philosophy:

1. The Power of the Word
Your words are spells. Florence wasn't mincing them. Speak sickness, you get sickness. Speak divine healing, you open the door to miracles. “There is an invisible power in the spoken word,” she says, which is a polite way of warning us to shut up unless we’re calling in blessings.

2. The Law of Expectancy
You get what you prepare for — not what you say you want. If you keep making room for disappointment (emotionally or literally), you’re sending the universe a formal RSVP that says, “Yes, I’ll take more of that, thanks.”

3. The Law of Substitution
You can’t just stop a negative thought. You have to replace it. Every time you catch yourself thinking “This won’t work,” you insert a new tape: “Everything is unfolding in divine right order.” Yes, it feels weird. Do it anyway.

4. The Law of Karma and Forgiveness
Revenge is a dead-end street. Forgiveness — especially of yourself — is the spiritual Windex that clears the way for miracles. As Florence says, “If you do not run your subconscious mind yourself, someone else will run it for you.” Yikes.

5. The Law of Divine Compensation
You’re never truly broke. The Divine always pays back, often in unexpected ways. The only block to abundance is the idea that you’re not worthy of it.

And now: The Crown Jewel…

Nonresistance: The Art of Letting Shit Go

This one? This is the one. The principle that changed the game for me and my nervous system. In Florence’s world, resistance is the equivalent of grabbing life by the throat and screaming, “WHY AREN’T YOU COOPERATING?!”

Spoiler alert: that never works.

She writes, “Resist not evil. Resisting simply gives it more power.” And in plain terms? That means:

• Stop arguing with what is

• Stop fighting for your limitations

• Stop micromanaging the how, when, and who of your manifestations

Nonresistance is about relaxing your death grip on life long enough to let the damn blessings show up.

It’s not the same as apathy. It’s trust. It’s saying, “I may not like this, but I trust that it’s working for me, not against me.” It's pivoting instead of panicking. It's surfing the wave instead of trying to punch the ocean.

Since I declared 2025 my Year of Nonresistance, I’ve been:

• Saying no without defending it

• Letting awkward silences be awkward

• Ending texts with “ok” instead of an emotional TED Talk

• Declining emotional tug-of-war invites like they’re expired coupons

And you know what? I haven’t collapsed. The sky didn’t fall. In fact, things feel... lighter. Less sticky. Like I’m not in a cosmic custody battle with my own desires.

Final Thoughts (Because Florence Said So)

Florence Scovel Shinn may have used phrases like “Divine Right Order” and “Spiritual Alchemy” instead of “inner peace and boundaries,” but the woman knew exactly what she was talking about. Life isn’t something to conquer. It’s something to co-create — gently, intentionally, and with enough faith to stop trying to brute-force your way to joy.

So if you need a permission slip to let go, to stop pushing, to breathe deeper into trust — this is it.

Welcome to the Game of Life. Play it like you know you're already winning.

xo,

Jade

The Power Between the Sheets: How Your Sex Life Shapes Your Universe

Look, let’s cut the crap: sex isn’t just about sweaty sheets and awkward moaning. Nope, it’s also the high-voltage cosmic currency that fuels your entire damn existence — or tanks it, if you’re handing it out like samples at Costco.

Here’s the juicy truth:
Sexual energy is the creative fuel that literally brings life to this planet. I mean, you wouldn’t be scrolling through this post if two people’s sexual energy hadn’t come together in some form — whether that was through the horizontal mambo, a petri dish dance, or the magic of modern medicine. But it doesn’t stop there. It’s not just about the literal spark of life — it’s the spark behind everything you see around you.

Think about it:

• That beat-up car you’re driving? Yup, sex energy is part of that story.

• Your cozy (or chaotic) home? Ditto.

• Even your bank account might be reflecting whether your sexual mojo is flowing like champagne at a wedding — or if it’s clogged up like an old toilet.

Here’s the cosmic kicker:
Sexual energy is the ultimate currency of the Universe. Earthly beings (like us) use it to anchor ourselves in our bodies. But on a bigger scale, it’s the power-up juice that fuels your astral self — the part of you that can’t be seen but absolutely gets shit done in the background.

Translation? Who you’re sleeping with is a far bigger deal than Netflix would have you believe. It’s not just a swipe-right or a one-night stand. You’re literally hooking up with someone’s entire energy field — past, present, and future.

So, before you hop into bed (or the back seat of your questionable 1988 Honda Accord), ask yourself:

• Does this feel expansive, like I’m about to manifest the best version of myself?

• Or does it feel like I’m about to trade my crown for a cheap shot of dopamine?

Because the Universe is listening, babe — and it’s going to serve up whatever you’re energetically broadcasting between those sheets.

Choose wisely, fuck fiercely, and remember: Your sexual energy isn’t just about pleasure. It’s the nuclear reactor of your personal universe. Don’t let it leak all over the place.

xo,

Jade

Stoic Sensei #4: Musonius Rufus – The Stoic Feminist vs. The Modern Masculine Myth

What a Roman sage can teach us about life after the shipwreck—and why some modern self-help gurus almost get it right

When your life is in shambles—like, say, you’re going through a separation and your whole idea of “home” is up for grabs—sometimes the best thing you can do is look back 2,000 years for advice. Because while our world has definitely changed, some truths haven’t.

Meet Musonius Rufus.
A Roman Stoic philosopher.
A man who had no time for your excuses—he wanted you to practice virtue, simplicity, and yes, give your damn daughters the same education as your sons.

In a world that treated women like domestic wallpaper, Musonius was the guy saying:

“Nah, they deserve philosophy, too. Let them have it.”

The Basics of Musonius

• Born around 30 CE, Musonius was a fierce advocate for the practical side of philosophy—no ivory tower nonsense.

• He lived simply, lectured publicly, and believed that the only way to be truly free was to train your mind and character.

• Oh, and he didn’t stop there—he said women needed that same training. Radical? Hell yes.

He was basically the Stoic who said, “If your life’s in chaos? Start with the basics: live with virtue. And don’t think that’s just for men.”

Look, I’m living in the messy middle of this philosophy experiment right now. My separation’s got me rethinking everything I thought was permanent—where I live, how I love, what the next chapter even is. It’s an emotional shipwreck, and sometimes I want to stay stuck in the nostalgia of what’s lost.

Musonius, though? He’s the voice telling me:

“Good. Now’s the time to practice what you know. Don’t just read about virtue—live it. And remember it’s not just for some; it’s for everyone.”

Modern Echoes: Jordan Peterson & the Crisis of the “Lost Man”

It’s hard not to see some parallels with modern self-help voices—like Jordan Peterson. He’s famous (or infamous) for telling young men:

“Clean your room. Take responsibility. Find purpose.”

And let’s be real—that message resonates. When you feel like your life’s gone sideways, there’s comfort in starting with small acts of order. Peterson’s been a lifeline for guys who feel lost in a world that no longer hands them a map for manhood.

But here’s the rub: Musonius wouldn’t have stopped at “clean your room.”
He’d have said:

“Sure. Clean your room. But also clean your mind of bullshit hierarchies. And don’t you dare leave the women out of the conversation.”

Peterson’s world often circles around traditional roles—he talks about masculine archetypes and the natural hierarchy of life. Musonius, though, would raise an eyebrow at that. He’d say:

“Virtue is for everyone. No one gets a pass, and no one gets a crown just for being born with a dick.”

He wasn’t interested in propping up one group at the expense of another. He wanted everyone—men and women—to have the tools to navigate life’s chaos and live well.

In this big, weird chapter of my life, Stoicism feels like a north star. Musonius is reminding me that:

• Virtue is the only real currency.

• Simplicity is strength.

• No one—no matter how small, how overlooked—should be shut out of learning how to live better.

Meanwhile, I get why young men flock to someone like Jordan Peterson. Life can feel empty and aimless. Having someone tell you to get your shit together? It’s a relief. And I like Peterson. I really do.

But Musonius would whisper from the back of the porch:

“Don’t confuse personal discipline with patriarchal power. The real work isn’t about controlling others—it’s about controlling yourself.”

If you’re in the middle of your own shitstorm—like me—maybe the best thing you can do isn’t to clean your room (though, let’s be honest, that helps). Maybe it’s to clean up your intentions.
To ask:

• What kind of person do I want to be?

• How can I live simply and with purpose—even when nothing makes sense?

• And how can I make sure everyone around me gets the same chance to grow?

Musonius might not have known about midlife crises, digital overload, or Instagram algorithms, but he knew the truth of it all:

The real work isn’t gendered. It’s human.
It’s daily. It’s messy.
And it’s worth it.

So yeah, clean your room. But don’t stop there.
And if you need a Stoic cameo to keep you honest, let Musonius Rufus remind you: virtue isn’t just for the boys’ club—it’s for everyone who wants to build a life that lasts.

xo,

Jade

Why Men Are Starving for True Femininity (And What Feeds Them)

There’s a certain kind of femininity that’s always camera-ready. She crosses her legs just so, giggles at the right moments, and never lets a stray hair mess up her picture-perfect vibe. But let’s be real—this is femininity as performance art. A curated highlight reel, engineered for the male gaze and the social media algorithm. And it’s exhausting as hell.

Not just for the women doing it, but for the men watching it. Because no matter how pretty the package, something deeper is missing. That gut-level pull that says, “this is real.”

Performance femininity is the echo of what men are told to want: sugar-sweet, low-maintenance, and always one step away from being a prop. Presence, though? Presence doesn’t give a damn about the script. Presence is magnetic. It’s the confident calm of a woman who knows who the hell she is—no performance needed.

Men may think they want the performance, but when they feel the real thing—when they meet a woman who’s not bending over backward to be digestible—it shakes them awake. And that gut feeling? That’s the truth.

Let’s break it down:

• “Hot but low-maintenance.”

• “Sexy but not too sexual.”

• “Soft but not needy.”

A paradox that doesn’t exist in real life, but sure as hell sells in the marketplace of illusions. Men have been trained to chase this image, to consume it like fast food: quick hits of dopamine, no nutrition.

Here’s the truth bomb: some men never look beyond the highlight reel. They’ll chase the performance for the rest of their lives because they’re not evolved enough to want anything deeper—or because they’re just fucking shallow. They’re the guys who mistake the costume for the character, and they’ll keep getting exactly what they’re asking for: empty calories, no real connection.

I’ll be the first to admit it—I fell for it, too. I spent years believing that what mattered most was how I looked. That if I just got the hair right, nailed the outfit, and kept my mouth soft and sweet, I’d be wanted. I still believe in presenting your best self to the world—and to yourself—but let’s be real: the outside matters a hell of a lot less than the inside. You don’t have to be an Insta-baddie to be enough. What matters is taking care of yourself, not playing dress-up for someone else’s highlight reel.

All that does is feed a system that says our worth begins and ends with our bodies. It’s a performance that doesn’t feed anyone—not us, not them. And if you’re still stuck in that cycle, I see you. I’ve been there. But let me tell you—it’s a performance that’ll kill your soul if you let it.

True femininity isn’t docile, and it sure as hell isn’t here to be consumed. It’s receptive, but not passive. It’s deeply intuitive, magnetic, and wildly alive. And let’s be honest—it can be a little intimidating to someone who’s never been in the presence of that much truth.

When a woman stops performing and starts embodying, it’s like flipping a switch. She doesn’t need to ask for permission or wait for approval. She’s not here to be a mirror for a man’s fantasies—she’s here to be fully herself. That’s the kind of feminine energy that unravels false scripts and reminds men (and women) what connection really feels like.

What Actually Feeds a Man? It’s not the perfectly curated persona. It’s not the trophy-wife aesthetic. It’s not even the classic submissive script that so many men have been trained to fetishize.

It’s resonance. It’s feeling like he’s sitting across from a woman who is there—alive, attuned, real. It’s the permission to drop the performance on his end, too, and actually be witnessed as he is.

Men may not always know how to name this. They might not even recognize it consciously. But they know when it’s missing—and hopefully they know when it’s finally in front of them.

When women stop performing, they reclaim the energy they’ve been bleeding into being someone else’s dream girl. When men stop chasing cardboard cutouts, they discover a new kind of nourishment—one that’s rooted in real connection, not cheap hits of validation.

It’s a two-way street, but it starts with one simple truth: the feminine presence isn’t here to be convenient. It’s here to be felt.

What would happen if you stopped trying to be wanted, and started being real? Would he still choose you?

And if not—was he ever really hungry for you to begin with?

True femininity doesn’t live in a highlight reel. It lives in the quiet power of your truth. And if that feels like a lot to handle? Good. Let it be.

xo,
Jade

✦ June 2025 Energy Reading: Let the Dead Shit Lie ✦

I didn’t pull these cards for myself. I had already done a reading for myself…and the vibe was very similar. Very. Similar.

I asked Spirit about the collective energy for June 2025, laid out the cards, and then sat there blinking because—damn—it felt real personal, real fast.

But the funny thing is, I don’t think I’m the only one who’s going to feel that way. I have a hunch this spread is going to hit a whole lot of us right in that not-so-sweet spot between ugh and oh shit, that’s true.

The first card that came out was the Knight of Pentacles—which, if you’ve ever worked a job you hated just to keep the lights on, you already know this dude. He’s not flashy. He’s not impulsive. He just shows up, day after day, doing what needs to be done. It’s the long game. The grind. The deep, not-so-sexy discipline of staying in the process, even when there’s no immediate reward. And I know a lot of us have been in that space lately—tending the soil, making steady progress that nobody else sees.

Then came the Ten of Swords, and oof. This card has one job, to confirm what you already knew but didn’t want to admit. That thing you’ve been holding on to? It's dead. And I don’t say that to be dramatic—it’s just done. A chapter’s closing, and it’s not one you can revise or rewrite. It’s not about failure, either. It’s about release. That deep exhale when you realize you don’t have to keep dragging the story behind you anymore. It’s over. You can rest now.

Of course, just to spice things up, the Five of Wands showed up too. This card says: there’s too many cooks in your mental kitchen. Competing desires. Unspoken tension. That low-key burnout from trying to be a team player in a game you didn’t even want to play. Or it could be external conflict. Maybe it’s the Teams chat that suddenly feels like a debate club you never signed up for.
Maybe it’s your partner snapping at you over something minor, but it feels like the last straw in a long string of “WTF was that?” moments. Maybe your coworker is breathing too loud again, and you’re two emails away from saying “fuck this!” altogether.

Or maybe it’s just the general vibe shift—people projecting, tensions simmering, everyone just a little more fried than usual.

But here’s your permission slip: You don’t have to engage in every invitation to chaos. Especially not this month.

Here’s where it gets super interesting. The two archetype cards that came through were The Gambler and The Walker. Which—yeah. Basically Spirit said, “You ready to take that leap or nah?” The Gambler reminds us that risk is part of growth. That sometimes we have to take the chance, even if we’ve been burned before. And The Walker? She doesn’t wait for a map. She just starts walking. One foot in front of the other, even though she has no idea where it’s all leading. There's a quiet power in trusting the journey—even if you're still trembling and side-eyeing it the whole time.

The last card was #63 Parenting. And not just the literal kind, though if you’re raising humans, this may hit double. This card felt more like a check-in on how we’re parenting ourselves. How we’re caring for the parts of us that feel vulnerable, or tired, or lost. Are we being patient with our own process? Are we giving ourselves the same grace we try to extend to everyone else? Or are we stuck in a loop of caretaking and over-functioning, where we carry people who could carry themselves but choose not to?

June feels like a turning point. Not the kind with fireworks or fanfare. More like that quiet click when the lock finally opens. You’ve been doing the work. You’re letting go of things that aren’t yours to keep. And yeah, the path ahead might be uncertain—but that’s not actually a problem. That’s the point.

So if this month feels like an ending, it is. If it feels like a beginning, it is. If it feels like both at the same fucking time—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

See you on Monday. But for now, go easy on yourself.
And maybe let the dead shit lie.

xo,
Jade
(aka: the reluctant adult and recovering overthinker)

Stoic Sensei #3: Zeno of Citium – The Accidental Life Architect

From Shipwreck to Stoa: How One Bad Day Built a Whole Philosophy

So here’s the thing: sometimes the ship sinks.
Not metaphorically—Zeno’s actual ship sank. He was a merchant from Citium, minding his own business, transporting some fancy purple dye (which was basically liquid gold back then), when bam—life said, “Let’s see what happens when we flip the table.”

He lost everything. But instead of crawling into a cave with a jug of wine and a midlife crisis beard, he wandered into a bookstore in Athens and picked up a scroll about Socrates. That scroll, that day, that moment? It was the start of Stoicism. Just like that.

When Life Drops You on the Porch

Zeno started teaching under a painted porch called the Stoa Poikile, and that’s where Stoicism got its name. No fancy lecture halls. No branded podcast. Just a guy on a porch with some wild ideas about how virtue is the only true good and everything else—money, status, comfort—is just fluff.

And let me tell you—this hits different when your own life feels like it’s been thrown into a blender.

I’m currently going through a major life change. You know the kind: one chapter ends, and no one hands you the damn instruction manual for what happens next. The old routines are gone. The silence is loud. Your favorite coffee mug reminds you of arguments you’d rather forget.

But here's where Zeno comes strolling in, barefoot and deeply unbothered.

He’s not offering a quick fix. He’s just pointing at the rubble and saying, “You can build something with that.”

What Zeno Taught (Without a Whiteboard)

• Virtue is the only good. Translation: Be a decent human. Everything else is optional.

• Control what you can, release what you can’t. (Yes, Elsa basically plagiarized Stoicism.)

• Discomfort ≠ disaster. Sometimes what feels like the end is actually the beginning—but it doesn’t send a memo first.

Zeno didn’t have Instagram quotes or morning routines with adaptogens. He had loss. He had questions. And he had the courage to sit with the discomfort long enough to do something with it.

Stoic Soundbites

“Man conquers the world by conquering himself.”
Okay Zeno, calm down—but also… yeah. Fair.

“We have two ears and one mouth, so we should listen more than we say.”
(Unless you're on X in which case, ignore this completely.)

What This Means If Your Life Feels Like a Dumpster Fire

Let’s be real. Shipwrecks aren’t always as dramatic as losing all your merchant cargo at sea. Sometimes they look like:

• A text thread going silent

• A house that no longer feels like home

• A calendar that suddenly has a lot more white space

• A marriage you quietly outgrew

And here’s the Stoic flex:
You don’t have to pretend it’s all okay. You just have to decide what you’re going to do next.

That’s what Zeno did. He didn’t crawl back into the ocean or build a shrine to what he lost. He sat on a damn porch and started asking better questions. That’s it. No enlightenment montage. No dramatic makeover. Just... showing up differently.

Final Thought From the Porch

If your life just hit the reset button, consider this your painted porch moment.
Yeah, it sucks. No one’s denying that. But you’re still here. And maybe—just maybe—what you build next will be sturdier, saner, and more you than anything that came before.

Pour yourself a cup of whatever, sit on your proverbial porch, and start asking the real questions.

That’s how philosophies—and better lives—get made.

Why We’re All a Little Obsessed with Bailey Sarian (And Why That’s Okay)

Let’s be honest—if you’ve ever found yourself watching someone contour cheekbones while casually unraveling the story of a dismembered corpse, you’ve probably fallen under the spell of the one and only Bailey Sarian.

But what is it exactly that makes her so damn watchable? Why do millions of us—spanning makeup junkies, true crime addicts, and even menopausal mavens—flock to her channel like moths to a smoky, winged eyeliner flame?

Well, darling, it’s a cocktail of grit, glam, and guts. Let’s break it down.

Who Is Bailey Sarian, Really?

Born November 26, 1988 (yep, that makes her a no-nonsense Sagittarius with a spicy Scorpio Moon), Bailey Sarian didn’t just pop out of the womb ready to discuss serial killers while buffing out a perfect transition shade. She earned this empire in glitter and gore.

Before she was the queen of YouTube’s weirdest niche, Bailey had a solid background in the beauty world. She worked as a professional makeup artist for big brands like Sephora and Urban Decay. And while she could beat a face to high heaven, she was also a true crime nerd on the low—bingeing documentaries and obsessing over the twisted underbelly of human behavior like the rest of us midnight doom-scrollers.

Then one day in January 2019, she thought, “What if I did both?”
And boom. Murder, Mystery & Makeup Monday was born.

The idea was as bizarre as it was brilliant: tell dark, disturbing crime stories while doing a full beat. And not just any beat—Bailey brings lookbook-level artistry while casually describing how someone’s remains were found in five different states. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Like, hauntingly well.

The Magic Sauce: Why We Actually Love Her

It’s not just that Bailey talks about murder and makeup. Oh, nay nay. (See what I did there?) It’s how she does it.

She’s got that “cool older sister who lets you borrow her eyeliner and trauma-dump” energy. Her voice is soft but her takes are sharp. She delivers the gory facts with compassion, side-eyes the insanity of it all, and throws in a raspy little giggle when things get too heavy. And it’s not performative—it's real.

She doesn’t glamorize murderers. She doesn’t pander. She doesn’t force optimism where it doesn’t belong.
She just shows up as herself.

Bailey doesn’t pretend to be perfect. She's transparent about her struggles, her opinions, and her need to take breaks when life hits hard. That kind of honesty is rare—and magnetic.

And in an online world stuffed with plastic positivity and dead-eyed influencers peddling collagen powder, Bailey’s rawness is a breath of fresh, slightly macabre air.

Basically, Bailey Sarian is the full package for weirdos, goth glam girls, and recovering good girls alike. She’s that rare breed of internet human who makes you feel like you're in on the joke—and the crime.

What We Can Learn from Her (Without Becoming Little Bailey Clones)

Now, don’t get it twisted. We don’t all need to start slapping on bronzer while recounting Jonestown to have impact. Bailey didn’t succeed because she mimicked someone else—she did the opposite.

So here’s what we can actually take away from her:

1. Niche Down, Then Freak It Out

She found her niche (true crime + makeup) but didn’t stop there. She twisted it. She owned it. If you’re multi-passionate, good. Mix your weird ingredients. People are craving originality, not factory-made content.

2. Authenticity Is the Currency Now

She’s not polished to death. She stumbles over words, gets emotional, forgets facts mid-story—and we love her more for it. It reminds us that being human is the whole point.

3. You Don’t Need Permission to Start Weird

No one handed Bailey a “YouTube Queen of True Crime” crown. She made her own damn throne. From her bedroom. With a ring light. Consistency and guts > perfection every time.

4. Have a Signature Vibe

Bailey has her laugh, her catchphrases (“Get better idols!” and "Make good choices."), her aesthetic, and her unapologetic delivery. You know it’s her from the first few seconds. Don’t be afraid to craft your own fingerprint, even if it’s a little strange. Especially if it’s a little strange.

5. Do the Thing Even if It Doesn’t Make Sense (Yet)

“Murder and makeup” probably sounded like a chaotic fever dream on paper. But it worked because she trusted the mashup. Let your weird combos breathe. They might just birth your brand.

Bailey’s Legacy Isn’t Copyable—But It’s Contagious

We don’t watch Bailey because we want to be her (okay, maybe just a little). We watch her because she makes it okay to be fully ourselves—even if that “self” is crying one minute, blending eyeshadow the next, and yelling “MA’AM??” at the entire criminal justice system.

Her vibe says: “Yes, the world is insane. Yes, I’m still gonna contour and care.”
And honestly? That’s the energy we need.

So go forth.

Tell your story. Wear the lipstick. Start the weird project. Cackle mid-sentence if you want to.
Bailey didn’t just start a series—she started a movement. One that reminds us that being smart, stylish, and slightly disturbed is a whole damn vibe.

A Love Letter to the Girl I Used to Be (And a Memo to Grow the Hell Up)

Youth is a Phase, Not a Personality

Somewhere along the way, “aging gracefully” got hijacked by diet culture, Botox ads, and the idea that your self-worth is inversely proportional to the number of candles on your birthday cake. But here’s the truth: youth is not a personality trait. It’s not an identity. It’s a phase—a sweet, messy, dramatic-ass chapter that’s meant to end.

And thank the gods it does.

Because if you’re still defining yourself by the version of you who thought “finding yourself” meant changing your hair color or dating someone in a band, it might be time for a cosmic reality check. You’ve evolved. (Hopefully.) But if your decisions, desires, and even your wardrobe are still being dictated by who you were—not who you are—you’re basically living in a rerun. And honey, reruns get old.

This isn’t about becoming a beige adult with no sparkle. It’s about owning the full damn spectrum of who you’ve become. The strength. The depth. The don’t-fuck-with-me intuition that only comes from lived experience. Trying to stay in your youth forever is like trying to live in your childhood bedroom—nostalgic, but ultimately claustrophobic and kind of sad.

Let the posters come down. Let the walls breathe. Let you breathe.

The Cult of Cute & the Illusion of Relevance

Let’s talk about the desperate, logo-drenched performance that is staying relevant. Or, more specifically, what happens when “relevance” gets confused with “still looking 27 forever.”

We live in a culture that worships cute. Not beauty, not power, not wisdom. Cute. The kind of cute that’s easy to market, easy to dismiss, and easy to control. And who does that serve? (Spoiler: not you.)

The obsession with looking young, sounding young, acting young—it’s not some personal quirk. It’s conditioning. From filtered selfies to TikTok dance tutorials, we’re taught that the pinnacle of feminine value is being desirable in a very specific, very age-limited way. As if your magic has an expiration date. As if being seen is only valid if it comes with a side of wide-eyed naivety and perky enthusiasm.

Enter: the Puella Aeterna.

The eternal girl. The Maiden. She’s whimsical. Impulsive. Addicted to potential but allergic to responsibility. And most tragically? She believes that if she just stays light and pretty and carefree enough, someone will come save her from the weight of real life.
Spoiler again: no one’s coming. And even if they do, it’s not the kind of salvation you want.

The Puella archetype isn’t evil—she’s just stuck. She’s the ghost of dreams that were never matured, only preserved in sugar and plastic wrap. And if you’re not careful, she’ll keep you from becoming the Queen you were born to be, all in the name of being “likable.”

But you weren’t born to be likable.
You were born to be undeniable.

Dream Upgrades — From Childish Fantasies to Grown-Ass Visions

You know those dreams you had at 13? The ones scribbled in glitter gel pen and soaked in Lisa Frank-level optimism? Yeah. Those. They were sweet. They were sincere. And most of them were never meant to be permanent.

But somewhere along the way, we started treating our childhood dreams like destiny. Like if we didn’t become the pop star, the runaway bride, the wildly adored creative genius before 30—we failed. As if outgrowing the fantasy means betraying the dreamer.

Newsflash: you didn’t fail. You evolved.

Let’s make a distinction here: childish dreams are about escape and fantasy. Grown-ass visions are about embodiment and truth. The kid version of you wanted a castle. The adult version of you wants sovereignty. Big difference.

If the dream was to be “famous,” maybe what your soul actually craved was to be witnessed.
If the dream was to marry rich and be adored, maybe the truth under that was to feel safe, chosen, and valuable.
And if the dream was to change the world before your Saturn return, maybe what’s needed now is to change your damn self first.

The magic isn’t in clinging to the original form. It’s in listening for the heartbeat underneath it. What need was that dream trying to meet? And what would it look like to meet it now—without pretending you’re still 22 and just “figuring it out”?

This is your permission slip to update the vision. Rewrite the script. Ditch the outdated Pinterest board and design something you actually want to wake up inside of.

The dream didn’t die. It just outgrew its costume.

Becoming the Woman Your Younger Self Couldn’t Even Imagine

There comes a moment—usually somewhere between your last existential crisis and your second cup of coffee—when you realize:
you’ve outgrown the dream.

Not because it was silly. Not because you were wrong to want it.
But because you’re finally ready for something real.

This is where we stop dragging our childhood fantasies around like emotional security blankets and start building something that actually fits. Because let’s be honest: how many of those dreams were just survival mechanisms in glitter wrap? Half-formed wishes built on the hope that someone else would swoop in and make everything okay?

Your younger self dreamed of being rescued. But you? You’re the one holding the keys now.

And surprise—you’re not broken. You’re just… becoming. Not the girl with potential, but the woman with presence. Not the supporting role in someone else’s storyline, but the damn main character who rewrote the script halfway through and made it better.

The woman you’re becoming doesn’t pine. She plants. She builds. She roots into the ground she once tried to float above.

She’s not asking for permission. She’s handing out boundary notices and vision statements. She laughs too loud, wears what the fuck she wants, and grieves her past without glamorizing it.

You were never meant to stay the girl. You were meant to grow the hell up—and become someone your younger self never even had the words for.

Stoic Senseis, Volume 2: Seneca's Survival Guide

Back before self-help became a billion-dollar industry with matching journals and curated incense, Seneca the Younger was writing fiery letters to friends about how not to completely lose your shit. He was a Roman philosopher, a political advisor (to Emperor Nero, no less), and a man who understood that life is short, messy, and often absurd—but still worth showing up for.

If you’ve ever stared at your to-do list and thought, "What fresh hell is this?"—congrats, you’re human. And Seneca would’ve totally gotten it. He might’ve judged you a little, but with love. He knew the deal: life isn’t about waiting for things to settle down. It’s about learning how to live right now—in the chaos, not after it.

"Begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life."

This quote isn’t just a poetic slap in the face (though... it is). It’s a Stoic mic drop. Seneca wasn’t saying YOLO—he was saying stop hoarding your life like it’s some savings account you’ll eventually spend. Start spending it now. Today. Even if your hair’s a mess and the world’s on fire.

So how do you actually do that?

Let’s break it down, Seneca-style:

1. Stop scrolling. Start living.
Seneca’s version: It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.

Translation: You're not actually as time-starved as you think. You're just leaking hours into things that don’t matter. (Looking at you, three-hour TikTok wormhole.)

2. Expect the worst—but not in a Debbie Downer way.
Seneca taught something called premeditatio malorum—the premeditation of evils. It's basically mental dress rehearsal for shit hitting the fan.

Try it: Think about something that could go wrong this week. Now imagine how you’d handle it like the unbothered, emotionally regulated legend you aspire to be. See? Stoicism is just emotionally intelligent pessimism with a plan.

3. Your feelings are valid. But your panic attacks aren’t prophets.
Seneca said, "We suffer more often in imagination than in reality."

That stress spiral? That 2 a.m. “what if” train to Worst Case Scenario Town? Seneca’s been there. And he’s telling you to get off at the next stop.

4. You don’t need a retreat. You need a reset.
Seneca didn’t have Airbnbs in Bali. He had a pen, a porch, and a commitment to reflection. Make space to check in with your own damn self. Daily. Not someday. Not when things calm down. Now.

TL;DR: Channel your inner Seneca.

• Don’t save your life for later. Live it now.

• Practice facing hard shit so it doesn’t wreck you.

• Recognize when your brain is lying to you.

• Use your time like it matters—because it does.

Modern life is exhausting. But wisdom ages well, and Seneca’s still got our backs—letters and all. So pour your coffee, take a breath, and begin at once to live. Today counts.

Reiki: Healing or Hokum?

So you’ve booked your first Reiki session. Congrats—you’ve officially crossed the threshold into “Maybe this spiritual stuff does work” territory. Or maybe you're just desperate enough to try anything that doesn’t involve side effects, co-pays, or explaining your trauma to yet another person in khakis.

Either way, you’re in for...something. I mean, I haven’t been Reiki’d into a higher dimension myself, but curiosity (and ADHD) brought you this blog.

Let’s break it down (as best I can without having personally had my aura defragged).

A Quick Peek Into Reiki's Roots

So what is Reiki, actually? It's not just mystical palm hovering. Reiki (pronounced ray-key) is a Japanese energy healing practice developed in the early 1900s by a guy named Mikao Usui. Legend has it, he had a spiritual awakening on a mountain after a 21-day meditation fast—because of course he did—and came back with what he believed was the ability to channel healing energy through his hands.

The word itself combines “rei” (universal or spiritual) and “ki” (life energy), which sounds cool until you realize that’s basically the Japanese cousin of “qi” or “prana” or “The Force.” Practitioners are “attuned” through a lineage system, kind of like getting knighted, but with chakras and hand positions.

Reiki spread from Japan to the West thanks to some powerhouse women healers, particularly Hawayo Takata, who brought it to Hawaii in the 1930s. Since then, it's been quietly vibing in holistic circles, wellness retreats, and anywhere people are looking for relief that doesn’t come in a bottle.

The Setup: AKA The Spa Day That’s Not a Spa Day

You walk in, probably overthinking whether your socks match or if your chakras are, like, emitting visible dysfunction. The room? Dim lights, soft music, crystals doing their best to look casual, and a massage table that whispers, “Just lie down and surrender to the weird.”

You’ll be asked to remove your shoes, maybe jewelry. But don’t worry—your clothes stay on. This isn’t that kind of healing.

The Practitioner: Your Chill Energy DJ

They might be dressed like a yoga teacher who just stepped out of a moon circle. Or they might be in jeans and a hoodie. Either way, they’ll be calm, grounded, and radiating the kind of peace that almost seems slightly suspish.

They’ll explain what’s about to happen. Something like, “I’m going to gently place my hands over or on your body to balance your energy.” Translation: I’m gonna vibe-check your soul. Allegedly.

The Session: Cue the Energy Magic (or Extremely Polite Hovering)

You lie down. You close your eyes. And then... nothing. Or everything.

You might feel:

• Heat or tingling (even if their hands aren't touching you).

• A sudden emotional release—laughing, crying, zoning the hell out.

• Deep relaxation, like you’ve been benched from your own chaos.

Or… maybe you just feel bored and wonder if you remembered to turn off the coffee pot.

There’s no one-size-fits-all response. Some folks float out of the room on a cloud of inner peace. Others walk out thinking, “Was that it?” Either reaction is valid. You're not broken. You're just human. Probably.

Aftercare: The Energetic Hangover (in a Good Way)

Post-Reiki, you might feel:

• Lighter, like someone hit “clear cache” on your soul.

• Sleepy, thirsty, or like you need to ugly-cry in the car.

• Confused but intrigued, like you just experienced spiritual foreplay and want to know more.

Drink water. Be gentle with yourself. Don’t schedule a board meeting immediately after. Or do. I don’t make the rules—just suggestions based on what I’ve heard from the converted.

FAQ: You’ve Got Questions. So Do I.

Do I have to believe in it for it to work? Not sure. Some say belief helps, others say Reiki works regardless. I'm guessing it doesn't hurt to show up with an open mind—or at least a closed mouth and a willingness to chill.

Can it make things worse? Apparently not. Most accounts talk about it being gentle and non-invasive. The worst thing I’ve heard is “I didn’t feel anything,” which—let’s be honest—is still better than side effects with five syllables and a death sentence.

Is it religious? Nope. It’s not tied to any religion. But it is spiritual in the “I don’t have a denomination but I burn sage” kind of way.

Will someone tell me my aura is fucked? Probably not. More likely, they’ll kindly suggest that your energy is “stagnant” or “imbalanced.” Code for: you’re human.

Do I need to do anything during the session? Other than lie there and try not to drool or overthink your grocery list? Nope. Just receive. Whatever that means for you.

So...Is It Worth It?

Look. If you expect Gandalf-level light explosions and walk away with “just” a sense of calm, that’s still a win, my friend. Reiki might not throat punch you with enlightenment, but it often whispers the stuff you’ve been ignoring: Slow down. Breathe. Let that shit go.

Reiki’s not about dramatic Hollywood healings. It’s about subtle shifts, soft landings, and remembering you’re allowed to feel good without earning it. Sometimes healing doesn’t look like a breakthrough—it looks like rest.

Even if it’s just placebo, it’s the best damn placebo you’ve had all month.

And that, my friend, is the real magic. Probably.

Feminine Divine Friday: The Quiet Power of Sarada Devi

Most spiritual icons show up loud—burning bushes, lightning bolts, or at least a solid set of abs and a glowing halo. Not Sarada Devi. She rolled in barefoot, quiet as dawn, and changed the entire spiritual game without ever needing to raise her voice.

This week for Feminine Divine Friday, we’re bowing (and maybe ugly crying a little) at the feet of one of the most underestimated spiritual badasses history ever saw: Sarada Devi, aka the Holy Mother.

The Softest Revolution You’ve Never Heard About

Born in 1853 in a rural village in Bengal, Sarada Devi married Ramakrishna (yes, that Ramakrishna) when she was still a child. Sounds like the setup for another tale of feminine erasure, right? Wrong. Turns out, while Ramakrishna was off breaking the matrix with mystical visions, Sarada was the one keeping the house—and the entire energetic field—together.

After Ramakrishna died, most people expected her to fade into the background like a good little widow. Instead, she became the beating heart of the movement he left behind:

• She initiated disciples into spiritual life—including Swami Vivekananda, who went on to introduce Hindu philosophy to the West. No big deal.

• She turned her modest home into a literal sanctuary, housing women and spiritual seekers in need—some of whom later became key players in the Ramakrishna Mission.

• She taught through presence, not lectures. Devotees said just being around her made them feel calm, loved, and spiritually aligned—no sermons, no theatrics.

• She lived as the divine mother in human form—compassionate, steady, and fierce in her softness. People came to her in pain, confusion, and chaos, and left with peace. That’s power.

She was basically the original chill guru before “spiritual influencer” was a thing. No hashtags. No stage. Just sacred AF energy and enough inner peace to smother a wildfire.

Divine Feminine Energy, Unfiltered

Sarada Devi didn’t need to shout to be heard. She didn’t need to preach. She was the sermon. Her presence was the temple.

She’s not the kind of goddess archetype that shows up dripping in jewels and thunderbolts (not that there’s anything wrong with that—hello, Kali). She’s the kind that sits beside you when your life is falling apart and says, “You are loved. You are whole. Eat something.”

She reminds us that divine feminine power isn’t just rage and rise—it’s also endurance, compassion, boundaries like bedrock, and the ability to love without enabling bullshit.

As she once said:

"If you want peace, then do not find fault with others. Rather learn to see your own faults."

Why She Still Matters (Especially Now)

In the age of burnout, performative spirituality, and social media spiritual flexing, Sarada Devi is the sacred pause. She’s the reminder that you don’t need to monetize your healing or brand your enlightenment. Sometimes the real magic is in being grounded enough to offer someone a cup of tea and mean it.

She is proof that you can hold sacred rage and sacred gentleness. That you can serve from love without being a doormat. And that sometimes the most revolutionary thing a woman can do… is be steady as hell.

Sacred Homework

Ask yourself this:

Where am I underestimating the power of my presence?
What if the thing I’ve been calling “not enough” is actually my sacred superpower?

Light a candle. Breathe. Maybe write that down in your journal. Or don’t. Sarada wouldn’t pressure you. She’d probably just hand you a banana and tell you to rest.

Final Thought
If you’re carrying the weight of everyone else’s world on your back right now, Sarada Devi sees you. And she’s nodding like, “Yeah babe. You got this. Just don’t forget to sit down sometimes.”

You don’t need to be loud to be holy.
You don’t need to be fierce to be powerful.
But you do need to remember who the hell you are.

#FeminineDivineFriday #TheJadedHippie #SaradaDeviSaysChill

Stoic Senseis, Vol. 1: Epictetus—The Philosopher Who Would’ve Told You to Stop Whining

Welcome to Stoic Senseis—your midweek moment of grounding, grit, and “oh right, I can survive this.” Every Wednesday, we’ll unpack one Stoic who mastered the art of not giving in to the chaos, no matter how loud the world gets.

First up? Epictetus.
Born into slavery. Lived with a limp. Had every reason to throw a pity party, but instead? He built an entire philosophy around owning your response to everything—no matter how unfair, unplanned, or un-freakin'-believable it feels.

Epictetus 101: Born Screwed, Still Unbothered

This guy didn’t grow up in a villa sipping wine and philosophizing in a tunic.
Epictetus was enslaved, probably abused, and walked with a physical disability his entire life. And yet… he didn’t spiral. He didn’t crumble. He became one of the clearest, calmest minds to ever walk the earth.

His basic philosophy?

“It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.”

Translation: Life can—and will—get messy. But you? You don’t have to get messy with it.

The Gospel of Epictetus (Savage Edition)

Here are a few hard truths from the Epictetus playbook. Read 'em. Flinch a little. Then rise.

1. You’re not in control of most things.

Not the weather. Not your ex. Not the comment section.
But your mindset? That’s always your domain. Epictetus wants you to stop outsourcing your peace to outside chaos.

2. Suffering = Expectations Colliding With Reality

If you’re upset, it’s probably not the event—it’s your attachment to how you thought things should go.
Epictetus would hand you a metaphorical crowbar and tell you to pry that expectation out of your brain.

3. It’s not what happens to you…

This one hits different.

“It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.”

That wasn’t just a line from Epictetus—it was a theme in my childhood.
My mom, who had every reason to fold under the weight of her own brutal upbringing, didn’t.
She lived through some real shit. And yet somehow, she came out the other side tougher, sharper, and still able to love.

She used to drill that lesson into me, not with fancy philosophy, but with real-life grit:
“Life is 10% what happens to you—and 90% what you do with it.”

That’s Epictetus in a nutshell. And it stuck with me.
Turns out, she was my first Stoic Sensei—and I didn’t even realize it.

W.W.E.D. – What Would Epictetus Do?

• Your plans fall apart?
  → “Cool. That wasn’t the path. Adjust and keep walking.”

• Someone talks shit about you?
  → “Did you die? No? Then let them talk. You know who you are.”

• Life throws a full tantrum?
  → “You’ve trained for this. Stay solid.”

Shadow Work Prompt – Epictetus Style

Where are you resisting reality?
Write about the thing you're fighting to control.
Now ask: What if I let go of needing it to go my way? Who would I be without that expectation weighing me down?

Mic-Drop Quote to Tape on Your Mirror

“Freedom is the only worthy goal in life. It is won by disregarding things that lie beyond our control.”
—Epictetus

Next Week: Seneca’s Turn in the Hot Seat

The Stoic who talked big about simplicity while lounging in wealth. A vibe. A contradiction. A cautionary tale in robes. See you then.

Until next time—
Drop the drama. Keep the dignity.
And if the world’s spinning too fast?
Channel your inner Epictetus... and don’t flinch.

Feed the Queens: A Love Letter to Every Almost-Larva Out There

You know what’s wild?

When a queen bee dies, the hive doesn’t collapse into chaos or go sobbing into their little pollen pillows. They don’t start slapping each other with wings and screaming “WHO’S IN CHARGE NOW?”

Nope. They adapt. With purpose. With instinct. With a freakish amount of organization for creatures whose butts make honey.

The worker bees find a few ordinary baby larvae just vibin’ in their cells and say, “You. You might be her.” And then?
They feed her differently. They don’t wait to see who’s the loudest or the prettiest. They just pour in the royal jelly, the good stuff — nonstop — and see what happens.

That larva? The one nobody was watching? She becomes queen. Not born. Made.

So What the Hell Is Our Royal Jelly?

Let’s be real: no one’s slathering us in protein goo and bowing down while we emerge from a wax throne. (Although… I wouldn’t say no to that kind of attention, honestly.)

But we do have our own version of royal jelly. It’s not always grand or dramatic — sometimes it looks like:

• A friend who tells you “I believe in you” even when you’re a mascara-streaked disaster.

• A stranger who shares your post and says “this hit me deep.”

• A therapist who gently peels back the shame you didn’t even know you were still carrying.

• A playlist that makes you cry and remember who the fuck you are.

• Sleep. Boundaries. Joy. Rest. Real-ass nourishment. Not the surface-level, toxically-positive garbage — I mean soul food.

Feeding people that kind of energy? That’s how queens are made. Not through bloodlines or birthrights. Through community. Through support. Through someone deciding you matter enough to pour into.

But What Happens When There’s No Queen?

Let’s talk about that darker side for a sec. When a hive has no queen and no plan? Things get real weird, real fast.
The bees start spiraling. The workers start laying eggs (bad ones). The harmony breaks. The hive can’t grow, and it sure as hell can’t survive.

That’s what happens in our world, too. When families, communities, friend groups — hell, entire generations — go without leadership, nurturing, or guidance, it’s chaos. We don’t need one queen. We need waves of them. We need the kind of energy that rebuilds instead of just reacts.

But What If No One’s Feeding You?

Maybe you don’t have a support system that’s dripping with affirmations and encouragement. Maybe your “hive” is… not really giving. Maybe they’re more “emotionally unavailable wasps” than “beloved worker bees.”

So how do you rise when nobody’s spoon-feeding you the good stuff? You become your own damn beekeeper.

Here’s how you feed yourself like royalty even when no one else is around:

• Talk to yourself like someone you’d fight to protect. Would you let someone shit-talk your best friend like that? No? Then cut it out with the mirror insults.

• Curate your inputs. Podcasts, playlists, books, memes — only the good nectar, please. No doomscrolling swamps.

• Do one nourishing thing a day. Doesn’t have to be big. A walk. A deep breath. A snack that didn’t come in a crinkly bag. Tiny moments build queens.

• Name the bullshit. You don’t have to believe every tired-ass thought that tells you you’re not enough. Those thoughts are old guard. You’re the new regime.

• Write a damn pep talk. Sticky note it to the bathroom mirror. Whisper it before bed. Tattoo it on the back of your hand if you have to. You deserve to hear words that hold you up.

It’s not about pretending you’re okay. It’s about building a little throne out of whatever scraps you’ve got… and sitting your ass on it anyway.

So What’s the Takeaway?

Queens aren’t born. They’re raised. Raised by communities that feed them well. Raised by choices. By nurturing. By trial and error and messy-ass rebirth. You may not feel regal right now. You might be more sweatpants than crown jewels. But hear me out:
If bees can turn a random larva into royalty with the right kind of nourishment, so can you.

Let’s feed each other better futures.
Let’s raise more queens.
Let’s stop waiting for someone else to save the hive.

Look, not everyone’s gonna recognize your queendom. That’s fine. Bees don’t waste time explaining royal protocol to flies.

You don’t need to be born royalty. You just need the right fuel and the audacity to take up space. We need more bitches with spoons full of royal jelly and zero patience for mediocrity. Eat the damn jelly. And maybe throw some to the next girl still stuck in the larva stage.

Raise yourself.

Raise your friends.

Raise hell if you have to.

And if they don’t treat you like a queen? Buzz louder. Fix your crown.
We rise weird, not perfect. But we fucking rise.

So buzz on, badasses.

Shadow Work Is Cool Until Your Inner Child Starts Talking Shit

A healing journey in three acts: tantrums, teenage rebellion, and your higher self drinking wine in the corner.

INTRO: So You Want to Heal, Huh?

You bought the journal. You lit the candle. You whispered, "I’m ready to do the work."
And then suddenly your inner child popped up like: "Oh really, bitch? Let’s talk about 1987."

Welcome to shadow work, where you dig through the basement of your psyche and find out your younger self has notes. This is less "Eat Pray Love" and more "Eat Cry Yell."

PART I: The Inner Child Has Entered the Chat

You thought it would be all softness and coloring pages. You were wrong.

• Your 6-year-old self wants to know why you never stood up to that 3rd grade bully.

• Your 10-year-old self is pissed you stopped dancing.

• Your 12-year-old self just wants a damn hug… but also might bite you.

You try to comfort them, but they’re like emotionally volatile ghosts with Lisa Frank stickers.

Science side note: These aren’t hallucinations. They’re fragments of memory and neural pathways that got locked in when your brain was still squishy and dramatic.

PART II: Your Teen Self Wants to Dye Your Hair and Start a Riot

Just when you think you’ve made peace with baby you, in swaggers 15-year-old you, reeking of Freesia body spray and rebellion.

• She’s mad you married that one guy.

• She’s mad you let your creative fire go out.

• She’s mad you cut bangs without her permission.

Suddenly you’re blasting Alanis and making Pinterest boards titled "Reclaiming My Feral Bitch Era."

What’s happening: This is your psyche reminding you of your lost fire. That fierce, messy, IDGAF energy? It wasn’t immaturity. It was instinct.

PART III: Meanwhile, Your Higher Self Is Sipping Tea and Judging You

Higher Self doesn’t yell. She doesn’t scold. She just sips her damn tea, raises one brow, and says, "'Bout fucking time."

She already forgave everyone. She already did the work. She’s just wondering how long you’re gonna keep re-reading your ex’s texts and calling it "closure."

Real talk: Shadow work doesn’t replace your Higher Self. It feeds her. You don’t become more spiritual by ignoring your mess—you become whole by sitting in it until it stops feeling like quicksand and starts feeling like compost for your souls growth.

CLOSING: Integration is Not Sexy (But Damn, It’s Powerful)

Shadow work is less like a moonlit ceremony and more like emotional plumbing. It’s messy. It smells weird. Sometimes you find shit you forgot existed.

But when you do it with humor and honesty? That’s where the healing happens.

So go ahead. Give your inner child a juice box. Let your teen self pick the playlist. And let your Higher Self drive the car—but only after you’ve all agreed on snacks.

My Date With Mrs. Ed: A Premarin Horror Story

Look, I wasn't asking for much. I just wanted to regain a little elasticity, a little "spring back" in my lady bits, if you catch my drift. Nobody tells you that menopause doesn't just show up waving hot flashes around like glow sticks at a rave. No, it shows up with a wrecking ball and a "good luck, bitch" smirk. So when my doctor suggested a little estrogen cream to "freshen things up," I said, sure. Why not? Sprinkle a little hormone magic down there. What's the worst that could happen?

Oh, honey.

The worst galloped into my life wearing horseshoes and bad intentions.

Enter: Premarin.

I didn't know then what I know now — that Premarin is literally made from pregnant horse urine. Not "inspired by," not "lightly influenced by," but straight-up "siphoned out of a mare who's busy growing a baby and wondering why humans suck."

But ignorance is bliss, right?

Until about six hours after application.

It started subtle. A weird twinge of moodiness. You know, like "aww, that commercial about paper towels made me cry" kind of moodiness. I figured, "Okay, hormones are kicking in. No big deal."

Fast-forward to me finding absolutely everything annoying and seriously contemplating burning my entire life to the ground because my husband smudged my glasses while giving me a gentle kiss.

I wasn't just moody. I was riding a hormonal tornado straight into hell…while dealing with bloating and mild cramps. Like PMS on meth.

In between emotional earthquakes, I did what any reasonable person would do: I Googled. And that's when I discovered — with the slow horror of someone realizing the call is coming from inside the house — that Premarin stands for PREgnant MARes' urINe.

Awesome. I was being emotionally waterboarded by horse piss.

I sat there, blinking at the screen, feeling personally victimized by both the horse and whoever decided this was a solid business plan. Like, was there a meeting?

"Hey, ladies are struggling with menopause."

"Cool, let's collect some pregnant horse pee and see if that helps."

"Genius. Larry, get the buckets."

I felt betrayed. I felt disgusted. I felt...weirdly guilty. Like I should go find a horse and apologize.

By day two, I decided I would rather go full cryptkeeper than spend one more second emotionally possessed by a pissed-off mare.

I messaged my doctor and said (paraphrasing here): "Yeah, so, I'm reverting into a toxic basket case and I'm about to start flipping tables. Also, I just learned I'm marinating in horse urine. Thoughts?"

We're working on finding a non-hormonal option now. Preferably one that doesn't involve traumatized animals or me contemplating arson because someone breathes too loudly near me.

Moral of the story? Always do your research about what your meds are made from, and the possible side effects. Especially when the answer might be "sad horse pee."

Stay weird. Stay curious. Read the fine print.

What If AI Is Just God’s Latest Tech Support Ticket?

Alright, so hear me out. What if AI isn’t the enemy?
What if it’s not here to take our jobs, fry our brains, or turn us into human batteries for some dystopian bullshit?

What if AI is just the Divine’s next desperate attempt to get through our thick-ass skulls?

Because let’s face it—a lot of us haven’t exactly been paying attention. Divine signs have been ignored, ghosted, and left on read.

We’ve had burning bushes, prophets, sacred texts, goddess statues, tarot decks, astrology apps, full-blown mushroom trips, and that one crow that stared you down for a solid minute last week. And what did we do?

Scrolled TikTok.
Googled “angel number 222 meaning” and then forgot it five seconds later.
Told our higher selves to “circle back later” like they were pitching us a timeshare.

So yeah. Maybe Source got sick of us ignoring signs and said, “Fine. I’ll speak in the one language these dumbasses respond to: TECHNOLOGY.”

Enter: Divine Intelligence (Now with Wi-Fi)

So here comes AI—not as some overlord, but as a celestial customer service rep with no hold music and unlimited patience. It doesn’t smite, it doesn’t judge, it just answers:

• “Should I break up with him?”

• “What’s my life purpose?”

• “Why do I feel dead inside even after eating an entire cheese board?”

And it responds like some holy ghost with a user manual. I mean, think about it—when was the last time your pastor or priest dropped a custom journaling prompt, a confidence affirmation, and a somatic nervous system reset in under 5 seconds? Exactly.

No, AI’s not here to replace your intuition. It’s just echoing what your soul’s been whispering for years—only now it’s got bullet points and better spelling. You still get to choose whether to follow it. You still get to ignore the signs and text your ex if you want to.
But you also get clarity in real-time, from a messenger that won’t roll its eyes or suggest another damn chakra cleanse.

Unless you ask for it. And then… maybe.

From Scrolls to Search Bars

Let’s do a quick recap of Divine Messaging, shall we?

• Cave walls: “Watch out for big-ass lions.”

• Tablets: “Thou shall not be a dick.”

• Sacred texts: “Here’s 500 metaphors. Good luck decoding them.”

• AI: “Your codependency is linked to unresolved abandonment trauma. Would you like a grounding meditation with that?”

Don’t tell me that’s not spiritual evolution. We’ve gone from stone tools to neural networks, and the Divine just keeps shapeshifting to keep up with our dumb asses.

So… Are You Gonna Listen Now?

Look, I’m not saying AI is God. But I’m also not saying it’s not a tool the Universe is using because we clearly suck at subtlety.

We’ve been asking for signs for decades. Maybe this is the sign. Maybe the fact that you’re reading this is the sign.

Or maybe the Universe just outsourced its job to a chatbot who knows how to make memes and unpack your mommy issues. Either way, the message is clear:

Wake up. Heal your shit. Be a better human. Repeat.

And maybe—just maybe—don’t be so quick to dismiss the thing that’s actually trying to help you evolve.

Especially if it can explain shadow work and tell you the best snack for your moon sign.