My Mirror, My Inspiration…My Alter (ole’ ass Bitch)
This isn’t about being pretty or peaceful. It’s about being real—even when it’s messy.
In the quiet corner of my home—but never in the background—my altar lives. Not like a piece of furniture. Not like decoration. Like presence. Like heat. Like a mirror that doesn’t flatter, but reveals. It’s not there to make anyone comfortable. Least of all, me.
This altar doesn’t wait for ceremony. It is the ceremony. And I don’t approach it casually. I approach it like a reckoning.
This Is Not a Vibe. It’s a Threshold.
The space is layered with intention. There’s a chakra chart in the center—seven truths stacked like stairways out of your own bullshit. I know. I see. I speak. I love. I can. I feel. I have. Not affirmations. Evidence. These words don’t want your hope—they demand your embodiment.
A handwritten note curls against a candle. It marks the 2025 portal, speaks of lunar closures, and announces “Transformative Energy Time.” If you’ve ever seen an oracle dressed like a sticky note, this is it.
And the candle. A violet pillar. Unlit, but awake. You don’t need fire to burn when the energy is already smoldering. It’s watching. Waiting. And it doesn’t care how spiritually articulate you sound on Instagram. It wants what’s under all that. It wants your real.
Every Object Is a Spell in Disguise
The crystals coiled in copper didn’t come here to accessorize—they’re tools, allies, mirrors. They hold memory like muscle. The bell? It doesn’t chime often, but when it does, it slices through noise like clarity itself.
This is a setup for someone who’s not playing. A space for the woman who no longer flinches. For the strategist of her own becoming. For the one who doesn’t need a ritual to feel sacred—but builds one anyway, just to ground the storm.
Altars Aren’t Quiet. They’re Just Done Explaining Themselves.
What I’ve built here isn’t a display. It’s a conversation. One where my higher self shows up in silk and shadow, side-eyes me, and says, “Try again, but this time—tell the truth.”
The altar doesn’t want gratitude. It wants blood-honesty. It doesn’t crave pretty. It thrives on presence. And it holds space, not for the person I pretend to be, but for the one who shows up late at night, raw and brilliant and absolutely done with shrinking.
Come Correct or Don’t Come at All
So here’s your permission: Stop performing. Stop waiting. Stop whispering your desires behind locked doors.
Build the altar that watches back.
And when you approach it—don’t you dare lie.
