People Live Here Journal Entry: Chewed-Up Bubblegum and Building Our Own Heaven

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

We will leave our past selves there at the ocean. A closing ritual written in waves.

- A sacred journal of choosing an unassisted home birth, breaking free from fear, and building heaven from the wreckage. The beginning of a birth story stitched with ritual, magick, and sovereign healing.

Original Entry Date: January 19, 2023
22:06 pm.

We definitely aren’t writing as much this month.
More magick. More meditation. More sitting still with ourselves.

We are still working out often. Still building something invisible — and maybe more real than anything we built before.

Last night is magick night. Candles lit. Hands steady.
A ritual built to ask Archangel Raphael to aid us — to charge our sigil with healing, clarity, and light.

Raphael, the healer of God.
Ruler of the East, the rising sun, the winds that clear the mind.
In the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, he is the first guardian called — the unseen forces that heal not just flesh, but direction.

One of the things asked for is clarity.

And behold:
Hours later, in the middle of the bath, it hits like a sunrise.
A massive decision unfolds almost without effort.

The clarity feels like a soft hand from Raphael himself, nudging the wheel.

After the ritual, there’s an urge to pick up How Not to Die — a light bedtime read about systemic medical malpractice and the industrial food machine built to quietly shred bodies for profit.

Every paragraph? Mic drop.
Every statistic? A blade through the fog.

There’s no way to explain it without flattening it — the science, the betrayal, the outright manipulation.

If it were possible to silently press a book into the hands of everyone I ever loved, this would be one of them.

We’ve been making cuts for years:

We got rid of couches and recliners, replaced them with exercise matts. We cut our animal products and processed food. TV. Social Media. Toxic relationships.

Now — the next sacred cut sharpens itself:
The medical system.

Saving ourselves becomes not just a decision, but a devotion.

My body is in the peak of its life. I’ve never felt better. (Besides pregnancy nausea and the tailbone pain..)
I feel vital. Alive. The blood pressure of a healthy teenager.

There’s still regular clinic attendance during pregnancy — gentle, cautious, tethered to habit.
But the last ultrasound feels like a closing ceremony.

Not because anything is wrong — but because everything is right.

Right enough to trust.
Right enough to let go.
The doctor’s said baby is developing well and healthy.

Hospital birth weighs on my chest like a slab of wet cement.
The thought of unforgiving lights, strangers with gloved hands, being prodded, monitored, commanded, looked at — it crushes my spirit. And, everyone wants to know how far my tattoos go.

It isn't birth that I fear.
It’s the stripping away of dignity and not being allowed to follow my own body. I just cant do it that way. It’s scary either way.. but we can do this.

It’s a passage.
A crossing.

My body knows. It’s not to knock the system, I just.. dont think its right for me to go there for this birth. My Spirit leads..

Choosing home birth feels like tearing away the last shroud of fear.
Not every road leads to the hospital.
Some roads come home.

At home:
No strangers.
No forced timelines.
No sterile corridors whispering hurry, hurry, hurry.
Also, I heard you cant yell… and you can bet, I WILL BE YELLING.

At home, my husband — not a masked middleman — will catch his son in his own hands.
Blood and spirit and heartbeat.
No barriers between us.

Of course there are concerns.
There are always concerns.

At the hospital, the risk is losing autonomy — and that cost feels too high for me.

Anxiety isn’t swallowing my day anymore.
Excitement blooms in its place. I feel much better.

Plans are forming — a birth ritual is brewing.
The invitation list stretches past the seen world — angels, ancestors, light itself.
Everyone is coming to this party.

I feel so relieved.

Living in a shipwreck motel on a literal sinkhole:

There’s black mold, rats in the walls, no friends, no one to talk to. Homeless souls sleeping inches from the front door — and somehow, never been happier.

We tried the shiny life once.
Weekly massages. Restaurants.
Float spas. Acrylic nails.
Even a month where we pulled in ten grand before blowing up our life and leaving Omaha behind.

We bought the things.
The nice recliners.
Sank into the cushions.
Got fatter. Got sicker. Fought harder.

Until the hollow started gnawing from the inside out.

This?
This imperfect, crumbling, sacred life?
This is real.

Because there’s never been a closeness like this before.
The kind forged in wreckage and stitched up with laughter and blood and magick.

In less than three weeks, a tiny beach house waits. Lincoln City, Oregon. A treat to ourselves. We hope the baby doesnt decide to come on our trip.
Two nights.
Salt wind.
Saying goodbye to Part 1 of life, welcoming Part 2. We will leave our past selves there at the ocean.

A closing ritual written in waves.

No rats in the walls.
No sirens cracking the night.
No junkies screaming across the lot.

Just salt, sky, and surrender.

Abraham Hicks says if a piece of bubblegum gets chewed too long, all the flavor drains out — but sometimes people just keep chewing out of habit.

The present moment is the chewed-up bubblegum.
It’s already passing.

Pain works the same way.

It’s already passing.

This is the part where the gum gets spit out.

This is the part where life starts tasting sweet again.

Every day, the GPS reroutes.
Every day, the road home gets a little clearer.

Healing.
Planting.
Ready.

Over and over and over:
Ready.
Ready.
Ready.

💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?
The fear of losing autonomy in a hospital birth.
The grief of realizing the system isn’t built for sacredness.
The loneliness of making hard, sovereign choices most people won't understand.
The ache of breaking old survival patterns and trusting new ones.

🔮 What’s the sacred transformation or takeaway?
That sacredness isn’t found in sterile systems.
It’s found in reclaiming trust in the body, the breath, and the unseen hands that guide birth, life, and death.
Even in a broken world, it’s possible to weave magick back into every breath and decision.
It’s possible to build a new heaven with bare hands.