Prologue
She came to the end of herself—
not in a chapel,
not in the stained-glass sliver
of someone else’s faith,
but in the hollow silence
after the storm had swallowed
everything she thought she knew.
She did not find God in a book
but in the silence between words,
in the wreckage of who she once called “me.”
And there, stripped of doctrine,
a whisper thundered through the dark—
the voice of the ancient one,
the one who remembers.
I Am She Said
When everything else fails.
Two words remain,
older than the Bible,
older than breath itself.
I’ve whispered them in storms,
in hospitals,
in the dark before dawn.
Two words that bend reality—
not with noise,
but with knowing.
I Am
Say them softly.
Don’t boast them, don’t post them.
They are not for the crowd.
They are for the cave.
They are the ember
you guard with both hands
when the wind howls.
Creation is not born of hustle, child.
It happens through remembrance.
Through the body remembering
what the soul already knows.
We were taught humility in all the wrong places.
Taught to shrink when we should have shone.
Taught to doubt our word
as if doubt were a virtue.
But what they called arrogance,
was simply clarity.
The universe doesn’t measure volume.
It listens for certainty.
I Am
Two words that build worlds.
Two words that tear them down.
You say “I am tired,”
and wear fatigue like a shroud.
You say “I am too old,”
and time takes you at your word.
But say “I am still here,”
and the earth spins her agreement.
Say “I am whole,”
and the bones remember.
Say “I am light,”
and the shadows bow.
Words are not decoration, darling.
They are architecture.
They are the invisible womb
where worlds are formed.
Each phrase a seed,
each whisper a design.
You think you’re describing life—
but you’re scripting it.
So be careful with your prayers in disguise—
your complaints, your small jokes,
your sighs that begin with “I am…”
Even those are spells,
and the world is listening.
We are made in the image of the Word,
and we forgot what that means.
It means your tongue
is a tool of creation.
Your breath—holy.
Your thoughts—blueprints.
So guard them.
When you speak, speak clean.
When you name yourself, name yourself well.
Because the words you feed the dark
are the ones that bloom by morning.
I am not here to explain miracles.
I am one.
I am not waiting for proof.
I am the proof.
I am the echo of every woman
who learned too late
that the gods were listening.
Say it when no one claps.
Say it when you suffer.
Say it when the mirror shows
a face you barely know.
I Am still becoming.
I Am still aflame.
I Am the word made woman.
Creation is not democracy.
It’s decree.
And the decree is yours to make.
So speak it—
not for proof,
not for praise.
Speak it
because when you say I Am,
the stars remember who you are.
And the universe—
bows.
