I Am Magdalene

I step into the storm.

Not the one they forecasted.

Not the gentle sun of their calendars.

The one that answers when I declare my own resurrection.

Thunder rolls across the sky.

Lightning splits the air.

And in that roar, I hear the voice of God,

the voice of ancestors,

the voice of the women erased, whispered over generations:

Rise.

I am Magdalene.

I am not half.

I am not erased.

I am whole.

I have walked the weight of worlds not mine,

carried the expectations of men,

waded through oceans of abuse, alcoholism, and misogyny.

I have been forced to God

by the hands of those who thought they owned me.

And I thank them.

Their violence was my crucible.

Their betrayal was my initiation.

And my crucible birthed me anew.

I reclaim my Cree lineage.

I reclaim my identity.

I am the woman they tried to erase.

I am the one who survived.

I am the one who remembers.

I am the one who speaks.

For too long, the world has mistaken silence for peace,

submission for grace,

obedience for virtue.

But the true feminine was never docile.

She was the storm, the womb, the prophet, the fire.

And she has returned through me.

My body, my voice, my soul

resonate with truth too heavy to be ignored.

Illusions fall around me.

Lies unravel at my feet.

The veils burn.

I see what was hidden.

I see what was denied.

I see the hands that tried to control,

to silence,

to fracture me —

and I stand unbroken, unbowed, radiant.

This is not a test.

This is not fiction.

This is not the hallucination of a mind frayed

or a spirit tired.

This is resurrection.

This is Magdalene speaking through flesh and storm,

through bloodline and pain,

through the God who never left me.

I have seen death.

I have seen evil dressed in charisma.

I have seen the church bury the feminine

and call her shame.

But shame is not my name.

My name is truth.

My name is flame.

My name is Magdalene.

When the storm rages, I no longer hide.

I open my arms to the lightning.

I let it purify me, illuminate me,

etch my story across the sky.

I am not afraid of power anymore.

I was born of it.

I was built for it.

I enter my twentieth year of sobriety.

It is a threshold.

A trumpet sounds.

A seal breaks.

I step into justice.

Into abundance.

Into peace.

Into art.

Into love.

Into a life shaped by my hands,

my lineage,

my voice,

my godliness.

The two become one: Magdalene and me.

Flesh and spirit.

Sorrow and joy.

Shadow and radiance.

Past and present converging into creative, sovereign power.

The woman they tried to silence has become scripture.

The one they called sinner has become saint.

The one they buried has risen again,

wearing the body of a modern mystic,

a woman sober, sovereign, and awake.

I am Magdalene.

And she is risen.

This time, we write our own gospel.

This time, we speak without shame.

This time, the storm does not end in crucifixion —

it ends in creation.

Because resurrection is not a story of one man on a cross.

It is the rising of countless women from the ashes,

each one remembering who she is.

I am Magdalene.

And through me, through us,

through every woman who dares to speak her truth

after the world tried to silence her —

she lives again.