Soul Protection isn’t about fear or battle. It’s the sacred practice of restoring wholeness, sovereignty, and divine order. In this blog, I share about how my calling evolved from exorcism/ depossession to collaboration with the Divine through Love, discernment, and devotion.

Some friends don’t try to fix us — they just hold space until we remember our own light. This is a story about the kind of friendship that saves us with nothing more than presence.

There’s a kind of silence that lives in trees — not the absence of sound, but the presence of something deeper. In Sedona, I found myself face to face with that ancient listening. A tree called me closer, and before I could think, a song rose up and through us both. Trees are always teaching if we slow down enough to listen. Here are five lessons they continue to offer me — about rooting, staying, giving, community, and the peace that comes from simply being.

Sometimes we imagine that connecting with Spirit requires climbing a mountain or making some huge effort. But I’m learning it’s really about something much simpler: showing up. Again and again.

The more I do, the more the canyon between me and Spirit shrinks into a threshold I can simply step across.

Our perspective shapes our experience, but that doesn't mean all perspectives are created equal or that we should just choose the most positive one…The work isn't to eliminate the perspectives that seem problematic or to force ourselves into relentless optimism. The work is to create space for all our voices to be heard and then act from our most grounded, connected place.

Here's what I think really happens when we heal: we don't become people who never hurt. We become people who can hurt and still love. Who can be afraid and still show up. Who can carry old sorrows and still make room for new joy.

Sometimes the greatest miracles aren’t the dramatic ones but the quiet synchronicities that slip into our daily lives. For me, it was a fifty-dollar rocking chair—the very one I had just seen in meditation—waiting for me on Facebook Marketplace. It wasn’t just furniture; it was a reminder that the Divine meets us not only in the extraordinary but in the ordinary, whispering: You are seen, held, and loved.

The most extraordinary thing about you isn’t your ability to rise above being human — it’s the way you live it, fully, honestly, without apology.

When we subtly believe we’re not enough, we block abundance without realizing it. We undercharge. We over-deliver. We hesitate to ask for what we deserve. Over time, your subconscious gets the message that you cannot handle receiving and you stop attracting what it is that you want.

Money doesn’t ask you to prove your worth. It responds to your belief in it.

Debt, like any spiritual presence, wants to be seen for what it really is - not just what we fear it to be. When we strip away the shame and storylines, we find that many of our debts have actually helped us. They held us through something. Got us somewhere. Taught us something. They were never meant to define our worth. They simply wanted to be honored.

“…trust hasn’t come from reading spiritual memes or repeating soothing mantras. It has come from lived experience. From surrendering, again and again, when things didn’t go according to plan, and discovering that what showed up instead was often more spacious, more beautiful, or more aligned than what I had originally mapped out.”

…scarcity is rarely just about money. It shows up in our fear of not having enough time to rest. In our guilt over asking for help. In our belief that love must be earned or that joy must be justified. These are all echoes of the same untruth: there is not enough.

From a spiritual lens, this is simply not the case.

If we only ever think of money in terms of earning and spending, we miss out on the deeper spiritual invitation: to heal our relationship with it, just like we would with any wounded or misunderstood relationship in our life.

The parts of us that hold our money fears are often burdened by deeper wounds including old family legacies, cultural messages, moments when we were told (directly or indirectly) that we weren’t safe, valuable, or good enough.

We can’t undo those experiences. But we can tend to the parts that still carry them.

We take vitamins to nourish our bodies—small doses, given regularly, that add up to resilience over time. What if we treated surrender the same way? Not a massive dose once a year in crisis, but daily nourishment for the soul?