Eighth of August, Eight Years Gone, and Still Raising Hell in My Heart

08/08. Born on this day in 1944. Gone from this world eight years now. And somehow still managing to take up space in every room I walk into. Still echoing. Still rolling her eyes. Still showing up in my voice, my humor, and every time I lose my shit at exactly the wrong moment.

There’s something poetic—and a little spooky—about all the eights. It’s the number of infinity, yes, but also the number of karma. Of comebacks. Of backbone. She was the eight. The full set. She was born in the middle of a war and lived like she was always halfway between a peace offering and a firebomb.

And as she often reminded people, with that calm-before-the-storm voice:
“Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit.”

Heart Like a Velvet-Covered Cactus

She had a huge heart—no question. But sometimes it felt like loving her meant signing up to hug a porcupine in a windstorm. She was raised by a military father who wanted a son and didn’t know how to show love, and a Scorpio mother who was too busy surviving to coddle anyone. By age ten, she was caring for two younger siblings like it was normal. Because in her world, it was. Emotions were inconvenient. Softness was weakness. So she armored up, stayed quiet, and learned to handle things herself.

She loved me—deeply and fiercely—but emotional safety wasn’t something she knew how to provide. If I cried, she’d stiffen. If I got overwhelmed, she’d look at me like I’d started speaking dolphin. She wasn’t trying to be cold. She was just... forged in fire. There wasn’t time for feelings when survival was on the table.

I Miss the Woman Who Could Make Me Laugh Mid-Explosion

Even at her angriest, she could be hilarious. She’d be mid-rant, eyes blazing, voice descending into the lowest register—and then she’d say something so unexpectedly her that I’d crack up.

She’d glare at me. “You think that’s funny?”
And I’d say, “The way you said that? It’s hilarious.”
And she’d try to hold her face, but then she’d crack too. That laugh? That rare, real laugh? Worth everything.

I miss that. I miss her strength. I miss how capable she was. I miss her humor, even when it showed up wrapped in rage. I miss the woman who could juggle chaos like it was part of the daily routine, and somehow still roast you with a one-liner that left you gasping.

She Taught Me to Rescue Myself (and How to Mistrust, Unfortunately)

My mom never taught me to wait for someone else to fix my life. She taught me to stand up, square my shoulders, and fix my own damn problems. That independence? That ability to keep going no matter what? That’s her.

But so is the suspicion. The guardedness. The inability to let people in without first checking for sharp edges. She handed me her armor before I even knew I was wearing it. I’ve had to unlearn some of that. I’ve had to figure out how to let softness in—how to let love in—and not see it as a liability.

And in trying not to be her, I overcorrected. I wanted to give my kids the emotional freedom I didn’t have—but I didn’t yet know how to handle my own emotions, let alone theirs. It turned into a bit of a train wreck. A good-hearted shit show. But at least it was mine.

What I’d Say to Her Now

Thank you.

For the strength. For the resilience. For the brutal honesty, even when it hurt. For doing the best you could with what you had. For teaching me to fight when needed, and to laugh even when I was drowning.

And also… I forgive you.

Not because it erases anything. But because I see now that you were doing what you were taught. What you had to. And I know how heavy that must’ve been.

Wherever you are now—whatever healing looks like on the other side—I’ll hold space for you. I’ll carry your strength, but I won’t carry the weight you never should’ve had to bear. Not every moment calls for steel. Some just call for love.

Carrying Her Forward (With Her Higher Self Riding Shotgun)

I used to think honoring my mom meant living like her—tough, guarded, handling it all on my own. But that was her survival self. Her war-self. The part of her that never got a chance to rest. I don’t think that’s who she is now.

Now? I imagine her softer. Lighter. Laughing more. Maybe wearing those slippers her niece slipped into her coffin. (That’s a whole different story…lol.) I imagine her watching me figure it out down here and saying, “It’s okay to let people help you. It’s okay to not know. You don’t always have to go full porcupine.”

So that’s how I’ll bring her with me. Not just as the woman who raised me, but as the soul who’s still learning right alongside me. I’ll carry her strength, sure—but I’ll also practice softness. I’ll honor her grit, but I’ll choose peace when I can. I’ll keep her humor alive, especially in the middle of chaos, and I’ll keep listening for her voice when the world gets too loud.

Because I think her higher self would approve of that version. The one who finally gets to rest. The one who trusts me to take it from here.

xo,

Lily-Jade

Spirit Showed Up in My Bed — and Not in the Fun Way

August 1, 2025. I was in a solid mood — energized, borderline cocky, and fully prepared to let Spirit either hype me up or call me out. So I climbed into bed (yes, bed — because that’s where all the real magic happens), grabbed ALL my tarot and oracle decks like I’m hosting a spiritual slumber party, and said:

“Alright, Spirit. I’m listening. Spill it.”

Cue the spiritual download. It came in layers. Like a cosmic lasagna.

First cards out? “Stuck in Fear” and “Community Calls.” Spirit Has Entered the Chat.

Okay, rude — but also accurate. Apparently, I’ve been playing it safe, hoarding my solitude like a fat kid with cupcakes. Spirit’s basically saying, “Look bitch, you’re not a recluse, you’re just scared of peopling again. Let’s ease back into humanity, yeah?”

Then came Temperance, Ace of Pentacles, and Five of Wands.

Translation: “You're finding balance, something new wants to sprout, but people are going to try and talk over your inner voice while you’re doing it.” Noted. My mantra now? Let them. I’m busy growing things.

And because the universe LOVES to layer it on, we got Compassion (99) and Miao Shan.

The vibe here? Divine Mom with the raised eyebrow. She’s not here to coddle, but she IS here to remind me that I don’t have to earn rest or kindness. Mercy isn't weakness — it's flexing your softness and still walking like you own the place.

Next up: Four of Cups, Knight of Pentacles, and Five of Cups. All aboard the Human Mess Express.

So basically: “You’re moving forward, but also kind of bored, slightly emotionally hungover, and contemplating past decisions like it’s a Netflix binge you regret.” Slow progress is still progress. And apparently, occasional grumpiness is allowed.

Then we had a triple threat: Three of Swords, Ten of Wands, and Two of Swords.

Aka: Emotional paper cuts, too much crap in your emotional backpack, and a side of “Do I stay or do I go?” indecision. This was the moment I realized Spirit was not pulling punches today.

But then — The Hermit and Six of Swords entered like chill older siblings with incense and good advice. I’m not retreating. I’m relocating my peace.

And Now... My Soul Would Like a Word.

The final wave of cards came through like a love letter I didn’t know I needed. Ace of Cups. Six of Swords. Eight of Cups. From a different deck, no less — because apparently Spirit wanted to remix the message for dramatic flair.

What I heard loud and clear? “Your heart is online. You know what needs to be released. You’re not sad, you’re sure.”

And that hit. Not because I’m trying to run away from anything — but because I’m finally ready to walk toward something that doesn’t require shape-shifting to feel safe.

So what was this all really about?

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even a pep talk. It was a clarifier. It was Spirit’s exit monologue.

“You’ve done the work. Now stop second-guessing it. Your softness is your power, your solitude is sacred, and your ‘hell no’ is holy.”

So yeah, I pulled cards in bed and got read like a book. Not mad about it. Definitely felt seen. Might do it again next week.

If your bed is also your altar and you’ve been feeling the shift, maybe it’s your turn. Pull the cards. Light the candle. Have the conversation with the Universe. Just be warned: Spirit’s got jokes.

xo,
Lily-Jade

Mary Magdalene: History’s Favorite “Bad Bitch” Redeemed

Let’s set the record straight on Mary Magdalene—because this woman has been dragged through the historical mud harder than a goth kid at a Southern Baptist summer camp.

For centuries, Mary Magdalene was treated like the Bible’s resident bad girl, the “fallen woman” who found Jesus after a life of shady alleyway antics. But let’s be honest: this image was a convenient spin by the early church to remind women of their place. The truth? She wasn’t that “sinful woman” who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears. That was an entirely different woman whose name conveniently didn’t make it into the final draft. Mary Magdalene’s name did—and it’s high time we gave it back to her.

Here’s what we do know. She was from Magdala, a fishing village on the Sea of Galilee. She rolled deep with Jesus and his crew—so deep that she was there at his crucifixion and was the first to see him after he rose from the dead. All four canonical Gospels say it, so you can take that to the bank.

In the Gospel of John, she has this mic-drop moment at the empty tomb when Jesus says, “Mary!” and she replies, “Rabboni!” which means “Teacher.” No fanfare, no posturing—just a woman with a mission. She then hauls ass back to the disciples and delivers the biggest news in Christian history: “I have seen the Lord.” That’s some “Apostle to the Apostles” energy right there.

The early Christian community gave her that title—apostle to the apostles—and recognized her as a leader. But then the church fathers realized letting a woman call the shots might ruffle too many patriarchal feathers. So they rewrote her story, lumping her in with every “loose woman” in scripture. Subtle, guys. Real subtle.

If you crack open the Gnostic gospels—like the Gospel of Mary Magdalene—she’s not a silent sidekick. She’s a spiritual teacher and a confidant to Jesus, giving the boys in the back row a run for their money. These texts suggest she was more than just a follower—she was a co-architect of the faith. But because these writings didn’t make the final cut (thank the Council of Nicea for that one), her wisdom was buried under centuries of dusty doctrine.

So who was Mary Magdalene, really? A spiritual powerhouse who refused to let anyone else write her story. She wasn’t some passing fancy or a scandalous footnote in Jesus’ ministry—she was the one who stuck around when the rest of the disciples went AWOL, the first to witness the empty tomb and the first to carry the message of resurrection into a world that didn’t think a woman could be a messenger. She was a woman who stared down death, heartbreak, and centuries of revisionist bullshit—and still walked out of history’s shadows with her head held high.

Mary Magdalene reminds us all that the world will try to repackage our power as scandal, to turn our voice into a whisper or a footnote. But she didn’t fade. She didn’t fold. She took her place at the heart of the story and refused to move, reminding anyone paying attention that real power doesn’t ask for permission—it just shows up, speaks the truth, and keeps on moving.

She was more than a witness. She was a testament to the power of showing up when everything says you should sit down. And if you let that truth settle in your bones, you’ll find it there the next time you’re told you’re too much, too loud, too bold—because, like Mary, you’re here to be seen, not silenced.

xo,

Lily-Jade

Chronologically 59, Mentally 39: Why I still feel young, dumb, and full of opinions.

So, I’m turning 59 in a few days.
That’s… almost 60. Don’t worry, I’m just as surprised as you are. Like, what the actual fuck?!

Honestly, if I didn’t know my own birthdate, I’d argue with you. Because there is no universe in which I feel like someone who’s almost eligible for the early bird special and receives random brochures from cremation services. I’m looking at you, Neptune Society. Calm down—I still have all my own teeth and a playlist that slaps.

I’m not even sure how we got here. One minute I was learning how to contour and doing shots of Jäger, and now I’m googling “why does my back hurt after I sneeze?” and carrying BC powders in every bag I own like a damn amulet.

My brain has decided it’s just not participating in this “aging” thing. Nope. She’s chillin’ somewhere in the late 30s to early 40s range, sipping cold brew coffee and wearing eyeliner that hasn’t been discontinued yet. She still wants to write a book and possibly dye her hair pink just because. I still think in memes. I still mentally blast Alanis or Beastie Boys when I need a pick-me-up. I still feel like the most “me” version of me came online somewhere in my 30s—and she never logged off. She just got better at boundaries and started carrying hand sanitizer.

But let’s be real—my body has definitely received the aging memo.
The knees crack. The back has strong opinions about how long I can sit in one position before it stages a full-blown mutiny. There are days when I stand up and hear more sound effects than a Marvel fight scene. I sneeze wrong? That’s two days of rest and an ice pack.

And don’t even get me started on sleep.
I used to pass out like a toddler in a car seat. Now I wake up every few hours like I’m on night watch in a war zone, for no reason other than… being alive, apparently?

Still, none of this feels like me.
Because inside, I’m still the girl who laughs too loud, overthinks everything, and daydreams about doing something wildly inappropriate and totally life-affirming. Like moving to the desert. Again. Or kissing a stranger. Or starting a cult that just reads tarot and talks about healing our mother wounds while drinking good tequila.

(But like… an empowering cult. With healthy snacks.)

Here’s the real truth, though:
Aging is the weirdest blend of freedom and grief. You stop giving a damn what people think—finally!—but you also start noticing what you’ve lost. Time. Energy. People. The illusion that there’s so much time left. It’s a quiet reckoning, sometimes. But it’s also an awakening. You see clearer. You choose better. You finally start showing up for yourself like you mean it.

And that? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the part they don’t tell you about in your 20s when you’re panicking about turning 30 and pretending you understand your 401(k). You think it’s all downhill, but nah. You build the mountain as you go—and then you stand on it and scream, “This is MY life, bitch.”

So yeah. I’m turning 59.
I’ve outlived some people. Outgrown others. Outlasted things I thought would kill me.
I’ve failed spectacularly. Loved deeply. Laughed at funerals.
I’ve carried grief in one hand and a half-empty bottle of liquid courage in the other.
I’ve pulled myself out of situations I had no business surviving, and somehow still dance in the kitchen like the music was made just for me.

I don’t feel 59.
I feel alive.
And that’s more than enough.

So bring on the cake. Bring on the candles. Bring on the chaos of becoming whatever the fuck I want next.

Because I’m not done.
Not even close.

And if someone tries to call me “ma’am,” I will be flipping that AARP card like a ninja star. Just a heads-up.

xo,

Lily-Jade

The Stoned Ape Theory: Mushrooms, Myths, and a Little Evolutionary Mischief

You ever hear of the Stoned Ape Theory? It’s one of those ideas that sounds like it was cooked up by your weird cousin who keeps trying to sell you magic mushroom chocolates at family reunions. And honestly, it kind of was—Terence McKenna, the cosmic philosopher himself, basically said early humans tripped their way into modern consciousness.

The theory goes like this: our ancient ancestors stumbled upon psychedelic mushrooms while foraging in the African savanna. They munched on these mind-bending fungi, and bam!—their brains lit up like the 4th of July. Suddenly, they were seeing colors, hearing music in the rustle of leaves, and probably inventing the first spoken word just to say, “Duuuude…”

McKenna’s spin is that these mushroom-fueled visions jump-started our creativity, language, and spiritual connection to the universe. A trippy idea, right? Like, mushrooms as the original WiFi password to the cosmic mainframe.

But here’s where the theory hits a snag: evolution doesn’t work that way. You can trip as hard as you want, but those mind-blowing insights don’t get tattooed onto your DNA. In other words: you can’t pass down your shroom visions to your kids—no matter how magical they feel in the moment.

However—and this is where it gets juicy—the cultural shifts that come from these experiences can have a ripple effect. If tripping out on mushrooms made early humans more cooperative, more creative, or just better at seeing patterns, that could have made their social groups more successful. Over time, this vibe shift could create environmental pressures that do shape evolution.

So no, the Stoned Ape Theory isn’t going to get a gold star in your biology textbook anytime soon. But the idea that shared mystical experiences can change how groups behave and evolve? That’s some real food for thought—maybe not psychedelic, but definitely fascinating.

And hey, let’s be real—if I had to bet on how humans figured out the whole “language and music and art” thing, a little mushroom magic is as good an explanation as any. Just remember: evolution likes to play the long game. Your trip today might not change your grandkids’ genes, but it sure as hell might change how they see the world. Because even if those cosmic insights aren’t hard-coded into the DNA, they are coded into the culture. The ways we gather, the art we make, the stories we tell—those ripple out way further than any single trip. You can’t pass down your trip journal in your genes, but you can pass it down in your art, your laughter, your conversations around the fire. That’s the real magic, isn’t it?

And maybe that’s what McKenna was getting at, whether he knew it or not: that it’s not just about rewiring brains—it’s about rewilding the soul of the whole damn species. Whether it’s a mushroom trip or a late-night epiphany over a cup of tea, these moments matter because they change how we live—and that’s how the world itself starts to change.

So here’s to the accidental shamans, the barefoot philosophers, and all the misfits who decide to peer a little deeper, trip a little farther, and dare to ask, “What if?” Because even if evolution doesn’t give a damn about your Saturday night head trip, the stories you tell about it just might.

Keep tripping, keep telling stories, and let the evolutionary chips fall where they may.

xo,
Lily-Jade

Thanks for the Breakdown: A Gratitude Page for the Ford Fusion That Tried to Ruin My Life

I am grateful for…

1. The surprise gift that came with surprise trauma
Shout-out to my dad for the generous and thoughtful gesture. And shout-out to Ford for building a car with the emotional stability of a haunted Roomba. One week in and she’s already collapsing in the driveway like a drunk bridesmaid. Iconic.

2. The luxury of walking
I’ve discovered muscles I forgot I had while walking everywhere during the three-week “hostage situation.” Thanks, Fusion. You’ve turned me into a cardio queen against my will.

3. The $2800 spiritual offering
I didn’t just pay for repairs. I paid to learn trust no bitch, especially not a 2011 Ford. That money wasn’t wasted—it was a down payment on wisdom.

4. The swift betrayal
Most toxic relationships take time to unravel. But this one? Two hours after the reunion and she’s already leaking oil like a jilted prom queen on the church steps. If cars could cry, this one would sob 5W 20 Synthetic Blend.

5. The ongoing mystery light show
The check engine light reappearing like a stage 5 clinger? Honestly, I’d be worried if it didn’t. At this point, it’s just her way of saying “I missed you.”

6. The brake job foreshadowing
Brake pads and rotors—she wants it all. What a diva. But at least she’s consistent in her desire to keep me emotionally and financially unsafe.

7. The comedy I didn’t sign up for
You know what’s funny? Not this. But the fact that I’m still standing while this car practically dissolves into fluid and debt? That’s dark comedy gold. Someone call HBO.

8. The lowered expectations
Every time I get in this car, I whisper, “Just get me there, bitch.” And honestly, that’s a level of surrender only monks and car trauma survivors understand.

9. The chance to say, “This is a fucking plotline”
Because when I look back, I won’t remember the specs. I’ll remember the audacity. And the fact that I didn’t let it drag me down, even when it was literally leaking in my driveway.

10. The main character energy
Let’s be real—I’m not a side character in this. I’m the badass protagonist in a redemption arc that starts with leaking oil and ends with upgraded transportation and unmatched grit.

Power Mantra:

“May my next ride be reliable, drama-free, and built to worship me like the resilient, road-hardened queen I am.”

xo,

Jade

What Your Favorite Tarot Card Says About Your Toxic Traits

Oh, so you’ve picked your favorite tarot card? Buckle up, buttercup. Here’s what that card says about your delightful inner demons.

The Fool – You’re a chaos gremlin, aren’t you? Charging into situations like they’re free samples at Sam's Club, with zero game plan and an unshakable belief in your own delusion. Bless your messy little heart.

The Magician – Your hustle is real, but your habit of twisting every situation to fit your narrative? That’s some next-level puppet master shit. You’re a creator alright—of chaos.

The High Priestess – You’d rather vibe in a corner of moody mystery than actually admit you don’t have the answers. Your spiritual aesthetic is impeccable, but your communication skills? Practically in witness protection.

The Empress – You’re all about growth and beauty, but let’s not pretend you don’t lowkey expect everyone to cater to your every whim. Queen behavior with a side of high maintenance.

The Emperor – You’re big on control and structure. But newsflash: life doesn’t always follow your bullet points. So loosen that iron grip, Caesar.

The Hierophant – You love to act like you’re the moral compass of your friend group, but you’re really just clinging to traditions like they’re a safety blankie.

The Lovers – You’re one of those starry-eyed romantics who sees every passing Tinder match as a cosmic sign. “It’s fate!” you cry—while ignoring every red flag like they’re just carnival streamers.

The Chariot – You’re determined as hell, but let’s be real—your need to always “win” can steamroll everything in your path, including people’s feelings.

Strength – You’re tough, no doubt, but you’re so used to holding it together for everyone else that you’ve forgotten how to actually let people in.

The Hermit – You’re the wise loner… until you ghost your friends and act like it’s some profound spiritual retreat, when really you’re just avoiding your own shit.

The Wheel of Fortune – You act like you’re above it all—fate’s favorite plaything. But deep down, you’re terrified of anything that’s out of your control.

Justice – You crave fairness and balance, but your black-and-white worldview can make you as rigid as a nun’s corset.

The Hanged Man – You love to act like you’re “just going with the flow,” but you’re actually just stuck. Change your perspective or stay upside-down forever, babe.

Death – You love to act like you’re a dark, edgy soul with zero fucks to give, but let’s be real—someone unfollowing you on Instagram still ruins your whole day.

Temperance – You’re all about finding that sweet spot, but let’s be honest—sometimes you’re just using “balance” as an excuse to be indecisive as hell.

The Devil – You say you’re just “embracing your desires,” but really, you’re just refusing to delete that situationship’s number because you live for the drama. Own it.

The Tower – You crave the rush of destruction. You’re the human equivalent of a forest fire. Except your “controlled burns” usually end up torching everyone else’s picnic, too.

The Star – Oh, sweet hopeful one. Your toxic trait? Blind optimism. You’d rather sprinkle glitter on a dumpster fire than face the fact that some people just can’t be saved.

The Moon – Your vibe is all about mystery and illusion, but let’s face it—half the time you’re lost in your own maze of overthinking.

The Sun – You’re the human version of a motivational poster. But you shine so bright that you forget other people have shadows, too.

Judgement – You’re constantly reinventing yourself, but your need to “rise from the ashes” every five minutes leaves your friends rolling their eyes.

The World – You’re obsessed with completion, but your need to wrap everything up in a tidy bow means you’re always disappointed when life refuses to act like a Netflix finale.

So go ahead—pick your favorite. Just remember: the card is spilling your tea harder than your ex’s drunk texts.

Before I sign off, remember: this stuff is for entertainment purposes only. So don’t get your tarot themed knickers in a twist if you disagree, or feel called out—I’m calling myself out, too. The Empress? I wear that shit on a necklace. The Emperor? Yeah, that’s my life path card—control freak central, baby. And Strength? Of course, I’m a Leo—so my whole life is a dramatic flex for the ages. Anyway, the cards do seem to know us better than we know ourselves sometimes.

xo,
Jade

July 2025 Energy: Disguise Slips. Truth Hits. Legacy Starts.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—July is a lot.
It’s not coming in with soft petals and affirmations. It’s cracking knuckles. Calling your bluff. Asking if the mask you’ve been wearing is actually fused to your face or if you’re just afraid to take it off.

This month? You’ll be tested. Not in a punishment way. In a "you said you wanted more, remember?" kind of way.

Here’s what the cards laid down.

Citadel Spread: The Archetypes That Came to Wreck and Rewire

The Alchemist – You're not breaking down, you're breaking open. Transformation doesn’t look cute mid-process. Keep going.
The Painter – You’ve got creative control again. Whether you're rewriting your story or repainting your personality, the brush is in your hand now.
The Vengeance – Not about revenge. This is about taking your power back from the places you gave it away politely.
The Mascareri – The masks that once protected you are starting to itch. They don't fit anymore, and deep down, you know it.
The Captain – Nobody’s steering the ship but you. Scary? Yes. But liberating? Absolutely.
The Archer (back of deck) – Your soul has a target. July is all about drawing the bow. Aim matters. Hitting it? That comes later.

This lineup doesn’t play. It’s telling you: Stop performing your potential. Start living it.

Tarot Check-In: The Core Four

When I asked “what else do we need to know?” these came flying out:

Ten of Pentacles – Legacy energy. Not just money—meaning. Are you building something that will still matter when you're gone, or just surviving this week?
The Magician – You already have what you need. Tools, skills, timing. If you're still waiting for a sign, this is it.
Seven of Swords – Self-deception, escapism, side-door exits. Are you being sneaky with yourself about what you really want?
The Tower (bottom of deck) – That thing you know is unstable? It’s about to give. Let it. Don't cling to the burning house just because you hung the curtains.

This spread isn’t subtle. It's a cosmic side-eye followed by a mic drop.

The Quiet Part That Speaks the Loudest: Soul’s Whisper

From the Akashic deck, we pulled Soul’s Whisper—the card that shows up when you've been pretending you “don’t know,” even though you do.

This is the part of you that’s been whispering truth all along. Not in dramatic epiphanies—just quiet knowing. The kind that doesn’t yell because it shouldn’t have to.

This is the line between reacting and reclaiming. Between noise and knowing.

The Vibe of the Month:

“Don’t be afraid of the collapse. Be afraid of staying in something that needs to fall.”

July is about walking out of the performance and into your purpose.
It might be messy. Raw. Confrontational.
But it’ll also be real. And that’s where the good shit happens.

Journal Prompts (for the brave):

• What mask am I still wearing out of habit or fear?

• Where am I pretending not to know the truth?

• What would I aim for if I stopped trying to make it palatable?

This month?

You’re the wildfire and the compass.
Don’t waste time waiting for permission.
The mask is slipping. Let it.
The Tower is falling. Bless it.
The Whisper is speaking. Listen.

xo,

Jade

You Should Still Be Here, But Here I Am: A Birthday Love Letter to My Best Friend

It’s been five years since she died. Grief doesn’t end. It shapeshifts. And just when you think you’ve made peace with it, her birthday rolls around and knocks the wind out of you again.

She was beautiful—but not in the boring, predictable way. She had that kind of face that made people think she was sweet and innocent... right before she cracked a beer, cranked up some punk rock, and called you a “tool” with the most endearing smirk you’ve ever seen.

By day, she was the picture of professionalism—an executive administrative assistant who knew how to keep the world spinning. But when the sun went down? A bit of a hellion. And I mean that with love. She didn’t just walk the line between classy and chaotic—she would do Pee Wee’s big shoe dance with a glass of Caymus in one hand and a Camel Light in the other.

She was the kind of person who threw the best parties—not because they were fancy, but because they were fun. She’d spend all day making sure the food was perfect, the games were wild, and nobody ever felt like a wallflower. She wasn’t just the hostess with the mostest—she was Julie, the cruise director from The Love Boat, but with more sass, more snacks, and way fewer khaki shorts. The playlist? Fire. The snacks? Legendary. The vibe? Unmatched. If joy had a hype woman, it was her. And when the music hit just right? Oh, you knew it was time for the “swamp tard” dance to make its grand entrance. She’d bust out that ridiculous hillbilly groove with zero shame and maximum commitment—like it was her spiritual calling. Sandals flapping, arms flying, and all of us crying laughing because only she could make chaos look that good.

She was silly, and I loved that about her. She was also sharp as hell, had zero tolerance for bullshit, and could call you out while simultaneously handing you a plate of nachos. That, my friends, is talent. She was silly. She was strong. She was my bestie.

One time, she sent me a selfie from work. Totally deadpan face… with pickle slices stuck to her eyebrows and upper lip like a mustache. No explanation. No caption. Just pure, chaotic genius. That was so her.

She called me “honky” or “tool” more than she ever called me by name. And somehow, those ridiculous nicknames felt more like love than anything else I’d ever been called. Because she was my person. My chosen sister. The one I didn’t get by blood but got by cosmic design.

And even now—five years later—I can still hear her laugh echo in my memory. Still feel her presence in the quiet moments. Still catch myself thinking, “God, she would’ve loved this,” or “Man, she would’ve had a field day with this nonsense.”

Life without her? Lonely as hell.

Not because I don’t have other friends—I do. Good ones. Solid women. But it’s not the same. Through no fault of theirs, they just... exist in their own orbit. Meanwhile, she and I lived on the same damn planet. We shared gravity. We were friends for over 35 years. Hell, we lived together for the better part of over a decade—longer than some marriages survive. My husband and I even sold all our stuff, packed what was left into a Honda Civic, and drove from Jacksonville to Phoenix just to go live with her. That’s how tightly our lives were woven together. And now? There’s a hole where all of that used to be. A her-shaped space in the fabric of my life that nothing else quite patches.

But I still feel her.

I swear the algorithm is haunted. Music shows up at just the right time—songs we used to scream-sing together, or those deep cuts we’d play on loop while drinking beer until sunrise. It’s like she’s still DJing from beyond, sending me little reminders that I’m not as alone as I feel.

And then there are the things she’ll never get to do again—like making sure I had a party for my birthday when my husband forgot to plan something (because he always did), or drag me off the couch on a bad day and take me out for margaritas and green tea shots until the sadness got blurry around the edges. She’ll never draw something obscene on my drunk husband in Sharpie again—or let him draw something equally ridiculous on her in return. God, I miss the Sharpie wars. And the laughter that followed. And the fact that nobody laughed like she did.

I miss my human. I miss the normalcy of her being here. And I miss the chaos, too.

This year, I’ll probably end up at Sherwood’s—our bar. I’ll order a beer and a green tea shot, raise my glass, and queue up some Motörhead or Descendants. Because if anyone deserved a proper musical sendoff every year, it’s her.

If I’m lucky, a few others who loved her will be there too—because everybody loved her. She was just that kind of person. The kind who made you feel like the funniest, coolest, most interesting version of yourself, even if you were just halfway through your first drink and trying to remember the name of the song playing.

Maybe I’ll watch P.S., I Love You. She was a sucker for Gerard Butler and that movie, and honestly? It hurts in the kind of way I don’t want to stop feeling.

I wish River City Brewing was still around. That’s where we celebrated her 51st birthday, 5 years ago today—just six months before she died. It’s wild how you can have no idea a moment will be your last Big One with someone. That was it. That was the party. And then... it wasn’t.

So I’ll celebrate her this year the only way I know how: by doing all the things that feel like her. Things she would’ve laughed at, danced to, cheered for. I’ll toast her with whiskey or a beer—depending on the mood—and picture her throwing her head back and laughing that contagious Irish laugh of hers. And if I listen closely enough, I know I’ll hear it.

Grief is weird. It doesn’t follow a schedule or fade out neatly like a sad movie. It lingers. It shapeshifts. Some days it sits quietly in the corner, and other days it body-slams you in the toothpaste aisle because a song came on. But through it all, I carry her with me. In the music. In the memories. In the off-color jokes and the way I still expect her to text me on my birthday because my husband forgot again.

She was my sister in everything but blood. My chosen family. My hetero life-mate. My forever human.

And on her birthday—and every day that feels like her—I’ll keep showing up, doing things she’d laugh at, toasting her name, and living in a way that says, You mattered. You still do.

Shannon, I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t know where you are. But I feel your presence so often. And on your birthday, I celebrate the fact that this world once had the audacity to give me you. I love you. I’ll carry you forward. And yes—I’ll always keep the damn dinosaur and the yodeling pickle.

xo,

Jade

Me: heart wide open, tears flowing, typing my soul into a tribute.
Her (from the afterlife): “Okay, okay, don’t get weird. I'm dead, not gone, ya honky.”

When Spirit Takes the Wheel: How I Manifested a Car by Saying “Fuck It, I Trust the Universe”

My friend…whether you believe in manifestation or not, you are not gonna believe this shit. Buckle up—this is the craziest ride of my life, and I’m not even talking about driving yet!

So here’s the deal: My dad surprised me with a car. Like, actually handed me keys to a whole-ass vehicle.

Rewind a bit—I'd asked him to come check out a car I was thinking about buying. I wasn’t dead set, just curious. But then the seller pulled a fast one and decided not to sell it. End of story, right? I figured that was that.

Fast-forward two weeks.

Outta nowhere, I get a text from dear old Dad asking if I’m free that afternoon. I say I can be (because why not?), and a few hours later he rolls up in a car I don’t recognize.

And then—plot twist—he tells me it’s mine. Just like that. No warning. No “Hey, I got you something.” Just here’s a car like it’s a damn casserole he whipped up on a whim. And y’all…it’s nice. Like, “I’m-genuinely-impressed-and-slightly-suspicious-of-this-universe-glitch” nice.

Yup. That moment alone was enough to make me shout, “Holy hell, the Universe does have my back!”

But hold onto your crystals, my friend—because it gets even wilder…

When I looked up the VIN to get Sirius XM hooked up (because obviously I needed some cosmic tunes to match this vibe), I almost fell outta my seat. Four 3’s, two 4’s, and two 6’s…like, what the actual fuck?! It’s a rolling numerology chart with a set of wheels.

I swear, this feels like the Universe grabbed a megaphone and screamed: “Look, girl, I heard your order loud and clear!”

Let’s break it down, shall we?

• Four 3’s – That’s creativity, expansion, and your spiritual hype squad clapping in the background.

• Two 4’s – Solid foundation. Like, “Here’s your car, now go build something epic.”

• Two 6’s – Harmony and balance, baby. Relationships, home life—basically, all the good shit aligning.

I’ll be honest—my mind is blown. And here’s the thing: I had decided that the car was gonna come to me when the time was right. No stress, no clinging, no “let me overthink this for the next 6 months.” I put the intention out there, let Spirit take the wheel (yes, I went there), and spent maybe 10 minutes total even thinking about a car.

Then—BAM! Car. Repeating numbers in the VIN. Full cosmic confetti shower.

This is what non-resistance looks like in real life. You set your intention, you trust the process, and you get the hell outta your own way. And the Universe? It shows up with the keys in hand and a wink like, “Hope you like the color, babe.”

So yeah. I’m on cloud 9 right now. Rolling around in my new cosmic chariot, grinning like a fool because this shit is real. And guess what? The more I let go, the more I get back.

Here’s your sign, friends: Let Spirit take the damn wheel. You might just find yourself cruising into the next level of your life…with some numerological flair to boot.

Mic drop. 🎤💥

Stoic Sensei #6: Marcus Aurelius – The Emperor’s Last Word

The Diary of a Philosopher-King (and Why It Still Slaps)

Let’s be real: if Stoicism had a frontman, it’d be Marcus Aurelius.
The Roman Emperor himself—wearer of laurel crowns, ruler of the known world… and, on the inside, just another guy trying to keep his shit together.

Born in 121 CE, Marcus wasn’t some pampered prince. His life was a messy mix of wars, plagues, backstabbing senators, and a personal grief that could’ve crushed him. Yet through it all, he kept coming back to one thing: the mind—his greatest ally and worst enemy.

The Meditations: A Private Journal for Public Survival

Marcus didn’t set out to publish a book. His Meditations were private notes—like a journal you’d scribble in at 3am when you can’t sleep because your empire’s on fire (literally).
No posturing. No PR spin. Just raw honesty:

• “You have power over your mind—not outside events.”

• “Death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back.”

Memento mori. Remember that death comes for us all—so live fully, not fearfully. These weren’t just Stoic soundbites—they were a lifeline. Marcus was practicing how to be decent, how to be present, and how to keep his soul intact when the world was anything but.

Remember that you’re part of a bigger picture. Don’t get so caught up in your own bullshit that you forget you’re here to serve the greater good.

Marcus could’ve let power warp him—most emperors did. Instead, he tried to live like a philosopher in a palace: humble, self-aware, and painfully honest about his flaws. He didn’t always win that battle, but he never stopped fighting it.

He wasn’t a marble statue; he was a man who admitted he was tired, that people drove him nuts, and that he still believed in showing up fully anyway.
That’s not perfection. That’s practice. And that’s why he’s still the Stoic Sensei to end all Stoic Senseis.

My Take: Midlife Mayhem and Marcus

If Marcus could keep his perspective while running an empire, I can definitely try to keep mine while navigating my own midlife mayhem.
No, I’m not holding the fate of Rome in my hands, but I am holding the shape of my next chapter. And Marcus reminds me that’s enough. He reminds me that:

• You don’t have to be perfect to be good.

• You don’t have to have all the answers to keep going.

• Even emperors had to start over, every damn day.

So here’s what I’m taking from Marcus Aurelius, as I close out this six-week Stoic adventure:

• Life is messy.

• Virtue is your compass.

• And showing up—no matter how small, no matter how wobbly—is the most radical act of all.

We’re all emperors of our own tiny empires. And in the end, the only empire that matters is the one you build inside your mind.

xo,

Jade

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)