No, AI Isn’t Replacing Artists.

People keep saying that AI is replacing art.

That artists are finished. That we’ll be obsolete.

But they forget something essential:

Art has never been about efficiency.

It’s been about transformation.

I’m not an artist because I learned to draw or paint or write.

I’m an artist because I survived.

Because I descended into the labyrinth and chose to carry light back out in my bare hands.

No AI can do that.

No algorithm can survive what I have and come back making beauty.

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I’ve died and risen too many times to count.

My art is made of bone ash and prayers,

rage and tenderness,

and the blood memory of every woman who burned before me.

When I paint, I don’t just use color—

I use experience,

pressed into pigment by years of silence and screams.

When I write, I don’t just use words—

I use alchemy.

Every sentence is a spell.

Every brushstroke a resurrection.

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I have laid in the dark wondering if anyone would ever see me.

I’ve been invisible to people with louder mouths and safer stories.

But I’ve never been invisible to God.

And when I make art, I am not marketing.

I am channeling.

I am conjuring the divine out of the debris.

I am creating from the marrow of what is real—

what has been earned through fire.

AI can generate content.

It can echo and imitate.

But it cannot feel.

It doesn’t know the sensation of grief in your jaw.

The tremor of holy terror when you realize you’ve been left behind.

The miracle of one breath after the next when your world has collapsed and somehow, still—

you rise.

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My art was never for convenience.

It is for communion.

It is sacred.

It is slow.

It is holy.

Let the world panic that AI is replacing content.

Let it scramble to produce faster, slicker, shinier things.

But I am not making content.

I am making truth.

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This body, this voice, this knowing—

they were forged through loss and grace and rage and rebirth.

No machine has that.

No prompt can replicate the way the moon called me as a child.

The way I spoke to God in the bathtub.

The way I kept creating even when no one saw me.

I kept painting.

I kept dancing.

I kept lighting candles for the life I had not yet lived.

And now?

I am still here.

Still rising.

Still burning with a purpose too vast for this world to define.

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So no, AI is not replacing me.

Because AI is not God.

And God lives in me.

In every sacred stroke of paint,

in every syllable of poetry I bleed onto the page,

in every transformation I carry in my soul—

I am creating worlds.

And I know I am not alone.

Other women are waking up.

The witches.

The healers.

The visionaries who remember.

We are not machines.

We are flames.

We do not need to rush.

We do not need to compete.

We are here to remember who we are.

To create with our whole hearts.

To let our art be the rising smoke that signals:

something holy survived.

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Let AI write copy.

I write scripture.

I write soul.

I write truth in flame.

And if you’re still making from your soul—

Welcome.

We’re just getting started.

– take the exit ©

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🩸 #SacredArt #DivineFeminine #AIandArt #EXIT369 #TheHonedCrone #MagdaleneRising #SpiritualSovereignty #AlchemyOfSurvival