🖤 I’m Loui.

Joy is my legal name now. Sarah was my first name—I laid her to rest. I look back at her with love, because she carried me across. She held the weight of fibromyalgia, cluster headaches, daily migraines, hives, IBS, PTSD, and more. She lived inside a body that never stopped screaming. She was the “good girl” who secretly wanted to die. She dreaded mornings. She didn’t want to wake up.

But I killed her. And in killing her, I lived.

Now mornings are holy. I live in Omaha, Nebraska. I’m a disabled veteran of the Air Force. I’m blessed to stay home with my husband and son, to finally feel safe enough to unpack the ghosts. Safety is what lets me burn. Safety is what lets me speak. I wrote a song for my husband on the GORGEOUS album called “Unicorn”—because his love made this resurrection possible.

🔥 Why I Create

I could live a quiet life now. I could stay hidden. But I can’t—not knowing others are still caged in silence.

So I make rage rituals. I record mirror work. I dig with my rake into the dirt of my lineage, pulling up grief that was buried alive. I bury my ghosts and make music of their eulogies. That’s the FVNERAL work.

The crow is my witness. She circles the field. She doesn’t look away. When I scream, she carries the sound.

This music saves me every day. And if it helps one person kill the version of themselves that wants to die—if it helps someone else see there is a way out—it was worth it.

I’m currently working on a double album that dissects the FVNERAL and ghost concepts—the full process of laying ghosts to rest, of ritual burial, of burning what was never meant to survive. It’s the heaviest thing I’ve ever written. And it’s still writing me.

I am messy on purpose. Unpolished, raw, still finding my voice. I don’t share because I’m “healed.” I share because I’m healing. Every post, every lyric, every ritual is me replacing belief systems one by one. That’s the work—visible, imperfect, in real time.

🪶 Why Loui Crow

Loui Crow isn’t my legal name. It’s my digital name—the mask I stitched together so I could finish the songs Sarah couldn’t. A name with teeth, with wings, with enough room for my rage and love to live.

It comes from two teachers who shaped me in opposite but necessary ways.

Louise Hay gave me permission to look in the mirror and not flinch. She gave me permission to rage at the pain instead of swallowing it. She gave me the first tools to speak love to myself when no one else did. Without her, I would never have known how to call myself back home.

Aleister Crowley—for all his chaos and reputation—showed me that no one outside me gets to decide what’s sacred. He cracked open the idea that magick is not locked in a book, but built into the body. He taught that will is holy. That the current of creation runs through us, and it’s ours to direct.

Together, their names fuse into mine. Loui Crow.
One gave me permission to love myself. The other gave me permission to wield myself.

That’s the kind of magick I practice now. Somatic, messy, modern. Not abstract. Not lofty. In the skin. In the scars. In the scream.

📖 My Other Teachers

I’m stitched together from many voices, aside from Louise and Crowley:

Abraham Hicks teaches me that caring about how I feel is the first step to freedom. Alignment is everything. I can’t suffer myself into someone else’s happiness, no matter how hard I try.

Bashar shows me that passion is the compass. Reality shifts when I do. Belief is not passive—it’s an engine that creates the world I stand in.

Steven Ray Ozanich gives me a map of the mind–body connection. He shows me how trauma and repression speak as illness. His work cracks open the truth that my fibromyalgia, my migraines, my IBS aren’t random punishments—they are my body’s desperate language, demanding I listen.

Janet Lansbury reshapes the way I parent. She teaches me that respect is the root of love. If I wouldn’t treat my grandmother a certain way, I don’t treat my child that way either. Her words give me a way to stop the inheritance of shame, to raise my son without passing down the gag.

Lundy Bancroft exposes the machinery of abuse—especially the ways men distort power and control. His writing gives me language for things I only feel in my bones. He names what I can’t name, and by naming it, he gave me a way out.
(Note: not all abusers are men, it applies to all genders. I found many relfections in this book on how I, myself, have also abused others.)

Michael Greger (How Not to Die) grounds me in the truth that food is fuel. Plants heal. What I put in my mouth matters as much as what I say to myself in the mirror. Eating from the earth, while speaking to myself with kindness, rewrites my health more than any prescription ever could. (And I used to take a lot of pills.)

Together, these voices form my compass. Rage, respect, alignment, passion, body-truth, nourishment. They don’t save me—but they give me the tools to save myself.

I worked as a hairstylist, makeup artist, and photographer once. Back then, I try to make women feel beautiful in their skin. I hoped I could give them the thing I craved most: permission to love themselves.

But here’s what I’ve learned: I can’t save anyone. I can’t make anyone feel pretty. No compliment ever fixes me. No one ever finds the “right” words that make me believe I am enough. I still flinch. I still doubt.

What shifts is the mirror. My own right eye. My own voice saying, “I trust you. I love you.” Beauty doesn’t land until it comes from within.

So now, as Loui Crow, I still do what I always try to do—but differently. Not by painting or photoshopping faces, but by writing the ghosts out. By raging, by grieving, by naming what is buried. I can’t make you see your beauty. But I can show you mine, raw and unpolished, and maybe that is enough to spark your own reflection.

🖤 Closing

I don’t pretend to be anyone’s savior. Like I said, I could of gone on to live a quiet, happy life — but I can’t stay silent, knowing others still feel caged.

I put my own music on repeat in my ears for myself. What I share here is just bones. Bones for anyone else still digging.