Every person is born inside an invisible vault.
Some spend their lives trying to escape it; others, like me, learn how to open it.
Inside mine, there is no gold, no money, no tangible wealth—only evidence. Proof of a lifetime spent excavating truth, preserving memory, and documenting what it means to remain whole in a world determined to divide you.
My vault was never about secrecy. It was about survival.
Because when people rewrite your story in their own handwriting, you start building safes inside yourself to protect the original version.
The Genesis of My Doctrine
The purpose of life, I learned, is not to find yourself.
It is to recreate yourself anew, again and again, in the next grandest version of the greatest vision you’ve ever held of Who You Are.
That was the message that found me in 2004, at a retreat led by Neale Donald Walsch. I had come searching for healing, maybe redemption. I left with something greater—an instruction manual for spiritual sovereignty.
Since then, every choice I’ve made has been a test of that sovereignty:
To live according to my truth, even when it costs me comfort.
To tell my story, even when it costs me love.
To protect my freedom, even when it isolates me from family.
This digital vault is that promise made manifest.
My Relationship with Truth
I was born into a family that cherished appearances more than authenticity.
Silence was the currency of belonging. Obedience was mistaken for love.
But I am not built for silence. I am not built for pretense.
I am built for truth—even when it burns.
So I stopped apologizing for documenting my life.
Emails, journals, court filings, photos, recordings—every artifact is an anchor against the tides of revisionism.
I don’t expose people. I reveal patterns.
I don’t publish vengeance. I publish context.
Because my story isn’t just about what was done to me.
It’s about what I did with it.
The Feral and the Free
If you want to understand me, you must understand my cats.
They are my children, my companions, and my teachers. They remind me daily that love is only real when it honors freedom.
I don’t cage them under the pretense of safety. I don’t “control” them for my own comfort. I open the door and trust that love will be what brings them home.
Humans could learn a lot from cats about consent, boundaries, and sovereignty.
I’ve been called a “Crazy Cat Lady.” I call it being fluent in another species’ language.
They are my mirrors—the only creatures who never lied to me about who I am.
The Phoenix and the Vault
That’s why my vault carries the symbol of the Phoenix—my personal insignia.
Because everything I’ve lost, I’ve rebuilt. Everything that’s been taken, I’ve recreated.
Every scar, every betrayal, every silent holiday or unanswered call became part of my architecture.
The vault is both a metaphor and a mechanism. It’s how I reclaim ownership of my narrative. Every door inside it holds a piece of my story—documented, categorized, unfiltered, and sovereign.
When visitors step inside, they are not just entering a website.
They are entering a living archive of resurrection.
My Legacy
This isn’t for revenge.
It’s for remembrance.
For my daughter and my grandchildren—who may one day seek to know the woman they were taught to forget.
For every person who was told their truth was “too much,” “too dramatic,” or “too dangerous.”
For the ones who were exiled from the very families they tried to love.
I want them to know:
Truth doesn’t destroy. It disinfects.
Love doesn’t bind. It liberates.
And sovereignty isn’t isolation—it’s integrity.
Closing Reflection
I built my vault not to lock my life away, but to preserve it.
To make sure that when I am gone, what remains is not a rumor—but a record.
My vault opens for those who come in honesty, curiosity, and respect.
Step inside.
The truth doesn’t need permission to exist.
It only needs a witness.
