I Am the Storm, the Storm I Am

There comes a moment in every soul’s life when prayer turns to screaming. When the body remembers everything it ever held back. When the heavens themselves seem to answer not with mercy, but with thunder.

That’s where I met God.

Not in silence, not in church, not in the arms of a man — but in the middle of the storm that was breaking me open.

I raged like thunder and wept like rain, only to rise again in praise – I am both storm and sky, birthing something new.

Alone, the storm broke through me. I raged. I cried. I condemned God and then immediately turned and praised Him.

I will not stop.

I raged like the lightning that cracks the sky, like thunder shaking the earth itself. I screamed, I shook, I came undone – but I also fixed, pushed through, and carried on. That is what lightning does. It destroys and illuminates all at once.

The storm is not separate from me.

The storm is me.

I am the storm, the storm I am. I am day and night, thunder and light. I am Magdalene and God, rage and prayer, sorrow and resurrection.

For too long I was taught to run from my rage. To be calm, nice, spiritual, forgiving. To hide the parts of me that didn’t look enlightened. But there’s a holiness in the howl. There’s something sacred in the storm.

Rage was never the enemy — repression was.

Silence was.

Pretending was.

To birth the new human, I refuse to run from the storm. I refuse to cower in the corner of my life. I refuse to take a hostage as my life raft, even as my life was ravaged and I was robbed.

Instead, I rise in the middle of it. I let the storm break me open, purify me, and show me what cannot be shaken.

Because the truth is this:

We are not meant to avoid the storm.

We are meant to become it.

Every time we let ourselves feel the fury and grief of what was done to us — without turning it inward, without weaponizing it outward — we become a channel for divine electricity. That’s what alchemy really is. Not bypassing pain, but burning clean through it until the only thing left is truth.

Lightning doesn’t ask permission.

It simply is.

And so am I.

The world tells women to be soft, spiritual, surrendered — but forgets that surrender sometimes looks like standing bare in the rain, screaming the name of God until He answers from inside your own chest.

That’s the kind of surrender that births worlds. That’s the kind of surrender that resurrects the Magdalene, the Christ, the storm within us all.

This storm is not just mine. It is a call to anyone willing to feel it: do not hide from the lightning. Do not shield yourself from the thunder. Let it move through you. Let it teach you, transform you, and lift you into the power that has always been yours.

Because when the storm passes, you will see that nothing true was ever destroyed. Only the illusions. Only the cages. Only the lies that said you were too much or not enough.

And when the sky clears, you’ll stand drenched and radiant — proof that the storm wasn’t sent to punish you.

It came to remind you of who you are.

The storm was never outside you.

It was you, all along.