Wild Lion*esses Pride by Jay

You Deserve Clarity When Faith Is Used for Control

An essay that gives you the language to see how Christian nationalism turns belief into political control

✨ Episode Description:

In this deeply personal and historically grounded episode, Jay—writing from Germany as a queer, neurodivergent, non-binary lesbian—offers a clear lens on how Christian nationalism distorts faith into a tool for exclusion and political control. Drawing on lived experience, historical parallels, and a comparative analysis of movements in the U.S. and Hungary, this essay-turned-audio-essay gives listeners language, context, and space to discern what’s being done in the name of belief—and why it matters, even beyond national borders.

🔑 Key Points Covered:

How Christian nationalism misuses religious language to justify control

A clear breakdown of core Christian values across faith traditions—and how they’re being distorted

The personal impact of witnessing these patterns as a German citizen, shaped by inherited societal trauma

Why secularism in post-war Germany was a response to power—not a rejection of faith

A comparative analysis of Christian nationalism in the U.S. and Hungary, revealing shared strategies of exclusion and mythmaking

How this ideology impacts LGBTQ+ rights, bodily autonomy, democracy, and pluralism

A reflection on why understanding these dynamics matters for people everywhere—not just those directly targeted

🧭 Takeaways:

You’ll gain clarity on how Christian rhetoric is used politically

You’ll learn to recognize the difference between faith-based values and control-based agendas

You’ll be offered language to name what may have felt off, but hard to articulate

You’ll see why history, identity, and language are inseparable in conversations about power

You’ll leave with a stronger sense of how to stay grounded in your values when exclusion is framed as morality

Conclusion

So, to bring it all together: Christian nationalism in the US? It's not just a political thing; it's a chilling echo of the past, a ghost of ideologies that thrived on 'us vs. them' and the crushing of anyone who didn't fit the mold. 

And let's be cristal clear, this isn't just about abstract ideas. We're talking about real threats – the flouting of court orders, people being detained without a shred of due process, and the very real possibility of this targeting anyone who doesn't align with their narrow view of who "belongs." 

This is personal. This is about protecting the right of everyone to simply exist, to live as their true selves. 

I choose to speak, to resist, to stand in what I believe. You might find your own way to act. History has shown us, the cost of silence is far too high.

In these turbulent times, information is not enough; discernment is essential. 

The ability to critically analyze the narratives we are told, to question power, and to hold fast to our conscience is, in my view, our most potent defense against the encroachment of any ideology that seeks to divide and control.

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https://wildlionessespride.substack.com/p/when-healing-means-losing-everything

Since January 2024, my mental health has forced me onto sick leave, leaving Monty and me with a mere €350 a month. And, as I shared in 'When Healing Means Losing Everything,' the reality is, this isn't sustainable. By the end of 2025, I face losing my home and my car, forced to leave a country that no longer feels like home. I'm building a new life, a new beginning, and your support could be the bridge.

The way sound can slip beneath the surface—into memory, into muscle, into places where words haven’t yet been able to tread—it’s profound. And it’s real.

It happened in response to the following Video within the ARTSTACK Poetry challenge:

🖋️ Write a poem inspired by Teezo Touchdown - UUHH (Instrumental).🎧 Include a 30-second audio clip (of the instrumental, your voice, or other relevant sounds) in your post on Substack.🗣️ Optional: Record yourself reading your poem out loud and include that audio too. Give your words voice.

What I experienced wasn’t just a reaction to music. It was a whole-body remembering. That pounding beat, the relentless drive of the bass—it didn’t land as rhythm. It landed as a trigger. A summoning. A reminder of what it feels like to be overpowered, overwhelmed, made small by something louder than my own voice.

And still—I stayed with it, if only for a moment. Turned toward the sensation instead of away from it. Not because I had to, but because I could.

So I’m not writing from the sound. I’m writing from the after. From the breath that came after the noise. From the pause. The reclaiming. Not of the music, but of my own voice.

bodymemory (in bass)

BOOM.

not a beat—

a blow.

a command:

move. —

but I freeze.

static in my fascia,

pain-spiked spine,

shoulder blades clench

like they know what’s coming.

no music here.

just a mother’s voice,

volumed-up violence

in 4/4 time.

and the floor—

it isn’t a dancefloor.

it’s a witness.

to impact.

to recoil.

to retreat into bone.

I do not move

to this rhythm.

I brace.

//cut the sound//

(quiet now.)

my breath—

a softer metronome.

irregular.

still mine.

I walk backwards

out of the noise.

into the hush.

into a meandering

remembering

not to forget but

not to relive.

I write not from the bass,

but from the space

where the bass used to be.

.

#ThePoetryHaul #artstackpoets

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Your presence here means the world. Creating art, testing recipes, and sharing these reflections is a labor of love, a way to connect, a lifeline. But, as you know, love doesn't pay the rent, or replace a car.

Since January 2024, my mental health has forced me onto sick leave, leaving Monty and me with a mere €350 a month. And, as I shared in 'When Healing Means Losing Everything,' the reality is, this isn't sustainable.

When Healing Means Losing Everything

https://wildlionessespride.substack.com/p/when-healing-means-losing-everything

By the end of 2025, I face losing my home and my car, forced to leave a country that no longer feels like home. I'm building a new life, a new beginning, and your support could be the bridge.

If my words, art, or recipes have touched you, if you believe in creating spaces of honest reflection, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your contribution directly fuels this work, allows me to keep sharing, and helps me build a future.

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My skills extend beyond this space. I offer trauma-informed, bilingual (EN/DE) editing, logo and illustration work, photo editing, and slogan support. I'm also available for DEI consulting, copywriting, personal assistance, embodiment coaching, cooking, baking, bartending, hosting, concierge services, travel management, systemic conversation facilitation, photography, or even a whimsical weather frog person. If you know of any opportunities in these areas, please pass my name along. You can see more of my work here:

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Prologue | As Nature Knows

Not all endings are tragedies. Some are contractions—waves of breaking and becoming, as raw as they are necessary.

If we look to nature, we see it clearly: Birth is not quiet. It is not clean. It tears. It floods. It demands everything before offering anything.

Even spring, so full of bloom, begins in the shattering of ice. In the thaw. In the splitting open of seed and soil.

So too, this life of mine—what dissolves is not just pain, but what no longer fits. What held me too tightly, or not at all.

And yes, it hurts. Yes, it asks more of me than I thought I had to give.

And beneath it all, a knowing rises: I am not falling apart. I am breaking open.

This is not a collapse. This is a beginning wearing the face of fire. Let each part be spoken. Let each piece fall away with purpose.

Because something new is arriving. And I intend to meet it whole.

1 | Dissolving | Relationships

Dissolving Begins

They faded quietly,not like doors slamming,but like rooms emptiedwithout warning.

At the beginning of 2024,I still said friend out loudand believed it.By January 2025,only three still reached back.Today, only one remains.

It wasn’t betrayal.It was erosion.A slow wearing awayof who I had to becometo be tolerated.

They loved the versionwho twisted into usefulness,who bore weightwithout asking for gentleness in return.

But I could no longer holdthat shape.I unfolded.And when I did,most of themlet go.

What dissolvedwas not just connection.It was the performanceof closeness,the silent contractto be small.

And in their absence,a stillness.Painful.Clean.

2 | Dissolving | The Company

Collapse and Exhaustion

I gave it everything.Before it was even mine,I gave it everything.

My thirties, my forties, into my fifties,the hours I should have slept,the years I should have been healing—all offeredto something I helped buildfrom ash.

And when it became mine,when my name was on it,when the title matched the effort,I thought:maybe nowit will return the favor.

But it didn’t.It couldn’t.

It devoured me gently.It wore my namelike armorwhile hollowing out my health,my finances,my spirit.

Fifteen years of tryingto save a sinking thing.And still, I blame myselffor the drowning.

And I am not the water.I am not the hole in the hull.

I am the onefinally swimming away.

3 | Dissolving | The House

Letting Go of Space

I look aroundat everything I gatheredto make permanence feel possible.

Books in corners.Fabrics on chairs.Walls I once touchedas if they could hold me.

But this was never mine.Not fully.Not truly.

It was a containerfor survival,not a sanctuary.

Now,I walk from room to roomand ask:Will this come with me?Will this wait in storage?Will this be released?

Two suitcases.That’s all I’ll carry.

Everything elsewill be sold, stored,or surrendered.

And somehow,this feels like clarity.Like stripping down to the boneso I can rememberhow to feel light again.

4 | Dissolving | The Community of Heirs

The Quiet Breaking

We shared a lineage,a name,an agreement writtenin inheritance and grief.

Bound by loss.Bound by law.Bound by the fragile threadof family.

My brother wants to endthe shared bondof what we’ve been given.

On paper,it’s just the dissolutionof a legal structure.But to me,it’s the quiet endof the last threadI once called home.

It does not feel like betrayal.It feels like standing aloneon the last remaining dockas the ship pulls away.

And yes,there will be money.A beginning, perhaps.A resource.

But also:a goodbyeto the illusionof being part of somethingthat could not hold me.

And in that,a loss I cannot nameexcept to say:I feel it everywhere.

5 | Dissolving | The Country

Refusal and Release

It was never safe.Not really.

The streets I walkedtaught me to shrink.The systems I worked inrewarded my silence.

This country never saw me.Only what I could produce.Only what I could endure.

I played by its rulesand was stillfound guiltyof being too much,too different,too human.

My body learnedto brace itselfevery time I left the house.Hypervigilance became habit.Tension became the tideI lived inside.

I do not owe this placemy breath.It cannot havewhat little strength remains.

I am not fleeing.I am refusing.

I will leave.Not just the land—but the violenceit taught me to accept.

I am donebeing loyalto somethingthat never kept me safe.

6 | Dissolving | My Past Life / Emergence

The Becoming

It is all gone.

The roles,the rooms,the residue.

I do not mournthe scaffolding.I mournhow long I stayed inside it.

And yet—even that grieffeels like a door opening.

No more keys.No more ownership.No more architecturebuilt from obligation.

What emerges nowis not a plan—but a pulse.

A rhythm I finally hear.A self I finally feel.

I do not know the nameof the life I am walking into.But I know this:it is mine.

Fully.Gently.Wildly.

Two suitcases.An open sky.And a selfno longer divided.

This is not a beginning.This is the becoming.

I am not dissolving.I am becoming water,light,motion.

I am not starting over.I am arriving.

With Gratitude

To all who walk with meon this path toward Emergence—thank you.

Your presence, belief, and carehave helped carry this unfoldingfrom silence into voice,from survival into possibility.

With special thanks to:Ramona Grigg , Lily Pond, Sandra Pawula, Mesa Fama,Betina Cunado, Rosana Francescato, Dr. Tara Cousineau ,Tracy Mansolillo, Linnea Butler, MS, LMFT, Ellie Bozmarova, Healing Stories , ❁ SILKE KRISTIN JUELICH ❁, Christina T. Diaz,Jules, Julie Snider, Ros Barber, Lisa Bolin, Dr Vicki Connop, Plata Life (she/her)Tracey Edelist, PhD, Teyani Whitman , Dr. Jessica de Jarnette , Becca Lawton, Kendall Lamb , Debbie | Behind Shoji Doors , Beth Cruz Cassandra Zilinsky, Susan Heathfield , Dina Bell-Laroche, Lisa Tea Constellations In Her Bones and Gloria Horton-Young —

as well as all of my paid subscribers,and those who have trusted me with their stories,their questions, their healing.

Through your support,you’ve kept this dream—of one day arriving fully in my life—vibrant, rooted, and very much alive.

With all my heart: thank you.

❤️ If you find this piece meaningful, consider clicking the heart at the top or bottom of the post. It helps others discover this newsletter and brightens my day.

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If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

If my writing, art, and recipes resonate with you, I would be incredibly grateful if you would consider supporting my work with a paid subscription to Wild Lion*esses Pride.

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Thank you for your kindness and generosity—it truly makes a difference. Together, we’re creating a space of reflection, creativity, and connection, and I’m so grateful you’re part of this journey

Music: Lonely Heart by Alex Wit from Pixabay i'm ok - Calm Sad Ambient by Clavier Clavier from Pixabay Dark Ambient Background Music (Polluted Horizons) by LFC Records from Pixabay A Lonely Planet by Universfield from Pixabay Deep Memories by Ashot Danielyan from Pixabay Dark Ambient Background Music (A Hundred Windows) by LFC Records from Pixabay Calm Classical Piano Melody by Clavier Clavier from Pixabay

A Collection of Poems from April 7–9, 2025

Episode Summary:This episode gathers five poems written and compiled between April 7th and 9th, 2025, as part of my National Poetry Writing Month practice. One is a prompt-based original. Four are found poems—shaped from the shared sentences and voices of fellow writers on Notes. Together, they explore queerness, resistance, wildness, emotional truth, and the poetry of presence.

Episode Notes:Since Monday, April 7th, I’ve been creating one poem each day as part of NaPoWriMo—some guided by prompts, others built from shared reflections, conversations, and communal insight. This episode includes:

1. A Queer Theory of Socks(Original poem, April 9)A six-part, multimodal poem that defies binaries and celebrates the joy of mismatch. These socks don’t align—they stomp queerness into wooden floors with rhythm, reverence, and riot.

2. The Tide’s Whisper(NaPoWriMo Day 9 Prompt)A lyrical response to the Day 9 prompt: write a rhymed poem with varied line lengths and a specific sound.The foghorn calls through thickening mist as the tide rewrites what we thought we knew—without flaw, and without fear.

3. Wild Doesn’t Ask(Found poem, April 9)Drawn from shared sentences by Michelle Dowd, Susan Heathfield, Tracy Mansolillo, Linnea Butler, Ana Flores, and Gloria Horton-Young.A poem about wildness, burnout, mature visibility, and the quiet fight to remain whole in a world that forgets.

4. The Awakening(Found poem, April 8)A fierce meditation on anger as love, spiritual disillusionment, and communal resilience.This poem weaves together reflections on patriarchy, truth, beauty, and the messiness of becoming.

5. The Hill We Write From(Found poem, April 7)Part protest chant, part collective memoir.Voices of resistance, survival, women’s labor, and queer strength form a patchwork of poetry, shouting across states and into history.

Lately, I’ve been leaning into more unruly forms: poems that break convention, that are multimodal, hybrid, polyvocal, and queer in structure. A Queer Theory of Socks is one such piece.

a queer theory of socks (with apologies to linear thought) i. footnote (literally) today’s outfit begins at the bottom: left foot: white cotton, punctuated by tiny rainbow hearts — red at the tip, purple at the root — right foot: a full-stripe riot with white hearts like punctuation marks, as if joy could be grammared into being. ii. who says socks must match? (mother said. catalogs said. uniform codes whispered compliance in department store voices.) they lied. these socks argue — not in anger but in kaleidoscope logic: why be one thing when I can be plural? why follow lines when I am the spectrum? iii. not exactly a manifesto (but close) these socks are not confused. they are deliberately exuberant. they do not align — they coexist. they don’t whisper queerness, they stomp it into wooden floors with the rhythm of marching bands and dance parties and that one awkward first step into being seen. iv. interlude (a conversation overheard) — are you allowed to wear those together? — allowed by whom? — i mean, isn’t it weird? — only if symmetry is your religion. v. a brief history of resistance, in fabric this is a patchwork gospel. stitched by hands that were never invited into the center — so we made our own thread. call it a zine, a chant, a mismatched hymn for the feet that walk away from rules and toward themselves. vi. epilogue (or maybe just a toe-wiggle) today, i am a walking archive of delight and defiance. i am not polished. i am not planned. i am not matching. i am composed. in every color and none of your binaries. 2025/09/04

NaPoWriMo Day 9

A poem following the dedicated prompt.

Today we’d like to challenge you to try writing a poem of your own that uses rhyme, but without adhering to specific line lengths. For extra credit, reference a very specific sound, like the buoy in Hillyer’s poem.

🌊 The Tide's Whisper The lighthouse bell tolls across darkening shores, its hollow ring a signal— not omen, not lore. Waves wash away footprints I carefully pressed into wet sand just moments before— a brief trace of presence, now more. The distant foghorn moans—a low, steady drone, cutting clean through the air as I stand here alone, watching the shore shift under each swell. My skin tightens as the evening turns raw, like time reshaping what we thought we knew into something with weight and without flaw. That sound again—foghorn through thickening mist, not mournful—just measured, like the truth we resist: we change, and remain, like sea foam. The tide pulls back, then breaks once more, not to erase— to return, to score its pattern in sand, vulnerable and true. I listen as night leans in and holds— the foghorn steady, the water bold— and nothing untouched by time's persistent hand. 2025/09/04

The “Found” Poems

“Wild Doesn’t Ask” A Found Poem for National Poetry Month Day 9 The forest lets me feel too much. It never asks me to behave. Come undone, breathe weird, be wild again. Sourcing your worth from someone else's rules means forgetting how to help yourself remember. Kindness, patience, respect—we know these values. Even then, emotions hijack the moment. We shut down or lash out fast. Sometimes we say the thing anyway. We swore we wouldn’t, but we do. Life comes whether or not you’re ready. Feeling safe is a spiritual experience. For many, it is unfamiliar ground. Today’s gentle reminder: slow all the way. The world won’t end if you do. But your burnout absolutely will, in time. My quest is quietly fierce and ongoing. It’s daily, for mature women—seen, heard. Respected for living, not patted or tolerated. They earned that simply by showing up. I fight for it in small ways. Sometimes I fight for it in big. Speaking up, refusing to shrink or disappear— like showing up when the world forgets.

A found poem with words by these wonderful writers: Michelle Dowd Susan Heathfield Tracy Mansolillo Linnea Butler, MS, LMFT Ana Flores Gloria Horton-Young

The Awakening (A found poem) A found poem for NaPoWriMo Day 8 In an instant, my entire belief system collapsed. What if anger is not disconnected from love, but a love so fierce it will go to war to protect others? After decades of spiritual seeking, I dream of the day we no longer pretend we are masters— those discontented kings, broken from Life itself. Start making something beautiful and unpredictable. The patriarchy keeps us isolated, feeling like we need to carry everything ourselves. Yet knowing that my words became part of something larger, something luminous, fills me with gratitude. It's happening right now— in all its messy glory. We are strong when we stand together. Thanking others communicates they are seen and valued. Isn't that what most of us want anyway? Go fight for what is right: the spaciousness, the deeply okay-ness, the fluid strength to be. It's not our feelings that get us into trouble, but the unchallenged beliefs we allow to arise in the wake of those feelings. Beauty at your back, we need each other— yet difference opens the door of possibilities. 2025/08/04

Thank you for all your words! This poem was made from sentences by: Lori Bickel Jeannie Ewing and Felicity Ewing ❁ SILKE KRISTIN JUELICH ❁ ❁ Don Boivin Dr. Erica Matluck Bob Lewis Gloria Horton-Young Christine Castigliano Allysha Lavino Megan Walrod

The Hill We Write From a found poem compiled for National Poetry Month Day 7 He could not easily march, but he could lay on his horn in support of democracy like none other. The power of yet rings louder than sirens. You have survived 100% of your worst days. We are with you in spirit!!! This isn’t my first protest rodeo. I’ve marched, I’ve sat in, I’ve shouted the truth through a bullhorn— and yes, I’ve absolutely locked eyes with someone holding a handmade sign and thought, well now, that’s how revolutions begin. ALL 50 STATES, ONE MESSAGE: HANDS OFF! Poetry— from its ancient origins to its contemporary manifestations— has given voice to beauty, sorrow, rebellion, and hope. I feel like I’m mining for the story every time I sit down to write. So much of women’s work is undervalued and under/unpaid— we are expected to give, and give, and give ourselves away. There’s no way around it. You’ve got to write, and write, and write some more. Trans rights are human rights— I will happily, and with pride, die on that hill.

With lines from these wonderful writers: Gentle Nudges From Renee Wood , Janet Ridsdale, Felicia A. Iyamu , Sage Taylor Kingsley , Gloria Horton-Young , Women Forward , , Mesa Fama , Amy Gabrielle , Mr. Troy Ford , Kate Mapother

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If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

If my writing, art, and recipes resonate with you, I would be incredibly grateful if you would consider supporting my work with a paid subscription to Wild Lion*esses Pride.

Subcribe: https://wildlionessespride.substack.com/subscribe

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Thank you for your kindness and generosity—it truly makes a difference. Together, we’re creating a space of reflection, creativity, and connection, and I’m so grateful you’re part of this journey

Thank you Lise Tilly, Ronald Mcknight, Kendall Lamb, Andrew Lynch, Dawn Roe, and many others for tuning into my live video with Christine Castigliano! Join me for my next live video in the app.

Welcome to the Canyon: A Journey into Creative Healing

We gathered in a live sacred space—an energetic field designed to hold the unfolding process of creative healing. Not a finished product, not a fixed destination, but a living journey. As I shared early on, “This is not a done thing. This is an ongoing beautiful journey.” (00:11)

Christine Castigliano, through her Substack Mostly Brave, hosted this conversation—a gathering place for creative souls growing their self-trust. It isn’t about being fearless. It’s about being witnessed when we show up scared, tangled in perfectionism, and still reach toward our full, wild-hearted selves. That shared intention—acknowledging fear while choosing authenticity—was present from the start.

“We are not 100% brave because we got acknowledged when we're scared, when we're having, you know, perfectionism, all of our issues, and grow the trust to show up in our full authentic wild heart self.” (00:36) —Christine

A Canyon Carved by Trauma & The Moment of Meta-Awareness

I introduced myself from Germany. “I'm looking forward to leave Germany because I'm very unhappy here.” (03:37) I said it plainly, but what lay beneath that statement was anything but simple. My unhappiness wasn’t circumstantial. It came from living in a country that never felt like home, shaped by deep, unrelenting layers of trauma. By the time of this conversation, I had uncovered 28 trauma tops. When I began, I only knew of five. I’ve never had the sense of standing tall in the world. I was always somewhere lower—emotionally, energetically, spatially. Not on a peak or even a plain. I was down in something, something enclosed.

"I was always in kind of a valley or canyon or some structure. I was not up. I was always down in something." (05:21)

So I spent years trying to escape it. Trying to fix it. Trying to find light. I thought healing meant climbing. I longed for that altitude, but I couldn’t get there.

The shift didn’t come from rising above. It came from seeing clearly—perhaps too clearly. I became aware of myself, in motion, but with no access to the controls. I wasn’t in the driver’s seat. I wasn’t choosing my behavior. I was just watching. "I could see it. But I couldn’t do anything about it." (07:06).

It wasn’t that I lacked insight. I could feel everything, name every emotion, recognize every need. But the response was already underway. The program had kicked in before awareness arrived. “When the consciousness sort of set in, the program was already running, and I couldn’t stop it.” (09:31)

To stand inside myself with all that clarity and still be unable to act differently—that was the most painful thing. The moment I saw my body hijacked by something far older than the present.

“Sometimes 50, 55 years ago. Not just 20 or 10 years ago. And I was reacting still to what happened back then.” (10:12)

That’s when I knew: this wasn’t about now. My body wasn’t reacting to this moment. It was running the script of a wound so old it predated most of my memories. And that wound had written an entire corrupted self—an identity assembled not by choice but by survival.

That self knew how to please. How to function. How to perform, and to push through. But it didn’t know me. It didn’t know how I feel when I’m free, or how I move when I’m not being watched. It was designed to survive in environments that denied my truth. And I watched it—this self, not me—take over my body.

I had called it the corrupted self long before I understood its full architecture.

A patchwork version of me, built on compliance, fear, and adaptation. Highly functional. Deeply disconnected. Structured around everything I needed to be in order to avoid rejection, abandonment, or punishment.

And for decades, it worked. I showed up. I achieved. I kept going. I looked strong. But I wasn’t in the car. I was watching it drive from the back seat, powerless to intervene. The breakthrough came not from judging it, but from seeing it for what it was—a survival code. Not evil. Not bad. Just no longer needed.

That insight didn’t change everything overnight.

And it was the first true foothold. The first time I realized that what was happening to me wasn’t some mysterious failure of willpower or character. It was a program.

A script. A pattern. And patterns can be unlearned—once they’re seen.

That was the moment I began.

In the actual recording Christine does a short recapitulation of what we discussed in part 1 of this talk, which was mostly about my past and a summary of some of my life changing experiences.

(00:13:08) - (00:15:10)

Trauma Mapping: The Side Canyons

When I began talking to myself and my therapists about the canyon model, I hadn’t expected it to unfold with such clarity. But it did—one image at a time. Each element carried weight. And the more I named them, the more I realized: this canyon wasn’t just metaphor. It was memory. A map etched into my body, my psyche, my way of being.

I started by recognizing that my main canyon—the one I’ve always found myself wandering—was shaped and reshaped by trauma. Not one moment. Dozens. Each left its own distinct trace. And some didn’t just shape the canyon walls—they carved into them, branching off as side canyons.

Each side canyon held a story.

Slot Canyons — the sharp, narrow wounds

Some were tight and dry, where light barely entered. Slot canyons. They marked singular, acute traumas—an accident, a moment of violence, a rupture with no before or after. These cuts didn’t connect to anything else. They stood alone, smooth-walled and silent. Places I’ve felt but can’t climb into. Places I don’t visit often, but I know exactly where they are.

Rift Canyons — the structural breaks

Others came with force—explosions that fractured the entire system. Rift canyons. These weren't just wounds. They tore through everything: sudden death, family implosions, destruction that shook the ground beneath me. I still feel the aftershocks. These canyons didn’t scar—they split. And nothing around them stayed the same.

Braided Canyons — the exhausting, endless paths

Some canyons didn’t start with a single event. They wound in every direction, no beginning, no end. These were the complex traumas. The slow, tangled ones. Emotional abuse layered with neglect. Environments where nothing made sense and everything required adjustment. They were confusing, and more than that—exhausting. Always turning. Never done.

Stable Canyons — the slow, quiet shaping

Not all side canyons came from devastation. Some were shaped over time by pressure—cultural, systemic, social. They didn’t crack or slice. They wore me down, slowly, like water carving rock. These canyons formed through repetition, through the demand to fit in, to perform, to stay functional. I adapted. I survived. But not without cost. These places look smooth and stable, but freedom doesn’t echo there.

Inheritance Canyons — the humming legacy

And then there’s the deepest layer—the canyons I didn’t dig myself. Intergenerational trauma. Patterns etched long before I arrived. These don’t scream. They hum. They move in my posture, my fears, my voice. I didn’t choose them. They came with the lineage. Seeing them—without shame, without blame—was its own act of healing.

Each side canyon impacts the main one. Some divert the flow. Some block it. Some lead to new paths I didn’t know I needed.

And not all of them are accessible.

Some have wide entrances—I’ve done the work there. I know their trails. Others remain hidden, layered behind fear or forgetting. And some are still sealed. Closed by shame or silence or the simple truth: I’m not ready.

And that’s okay. I’ve stopped forcing. I meet each canyon when it reveals itself.

The Dam and the Reservoir: A Journey Through Internalized Oppression

There came a point in my journey when I saw it clearly for the first time—the Dam. (00:18:26)

Not metaphorically, but as a real structure in my inner landscape. It appeared in the canyon, not as something that belonged to the terrain, but as something distinctly foreign. Artificial. Constructed. And when I saw it, I said it out loud.

“The dam is… not something that is nature-made. It is man-made.” (00:34:54)

I hadn’t built it from curiosity or creativity. It wasn’t a product of my essence. It was put into me. Built from the outside in. Layered over time, silently and methodically, with every message I received about who I had to be in order to be acceptable. What I had to suppress in order to be safe.

At first, I only sensed its shape. Its function. It was there to regulate. To block. To keep something in.

But then I realized what it was really built for. It wasn’t designed to serve my life. It didn’t protect me the way a boundary would. It was something entirely different.

“It’s there to produce an outcome which is not for myself. It is for some external person or force.” (00:37:13)

That sentence didn’t come from theory. It came from my body. From recognition. The dam didn’t exist to support my growth, or to channel my energy for my own nourishment. It existed to make me productive. Presentable. Palatable. Compliant.

It had been formed by all the external expectations that had governed my life for decades.

Not just spoken rules. Also the unspoken ones. The ones I learned through rejection. Through silence. Through punishment. It wasn’t one person who laid the bricks. It was everyone who reinforced the message: that who I was in essence wasn’t quite right, wasn’t quite enough.

So I adapted. I bent. I built.

And this Dam—this internalized structure—grew strong. I didn’t even question it, because it was there so early. It felt like it had always been part of me.

But when I stood in front of it this time, really saw it, I knew: it wasn’t mine. Not in origin. Not in purpose.

It had been assembled from:

* Parental conditioning

* Silent contracts within my family

* What teachers rewarded and punished

* What culture considered appropriate

* Gender roles, religious morality

* What Germany had taught me as a child, implicitly and explicitly

* Trauma inherited across generations

And from all those “shoulds” that had become muscle memory—so deeply embedded I didn’t know where they ended and I began.

The Dam wasn’t made of my fear. It was made of everything fear had built inside me. Everything that told me to keep things inside. To silence the true flow. And behind it? There was no clear water. No fresh reservoir of potential. What waited behind that dam was stagnant, dead weight.

Descent into the Reservoir

“It was dead… oily surface… no nutrients in it.” (48:24)

That’s what I said because that’s what I saw.

Not a thriving lake of untapped dreams—but a poisoned holding tank, full of everything I’d suppressed just to stay functional. Grief I had no space for. Rage I was never allowed to feel. Joy I learned to mistrust. Desires I buried so deep I couldn’t recognize them anymore.

There was no light reaching that water. No life moving through it. It didn’t just hold things back—it dissolved them. It swallowed memory and instinct. And I could feel it, not just as a metaphor, but in my body.

I didn’t know yet what to do with it. But I knew I had to go in. Not in theory. Not to fix or drain or understand it. But to be in it. To feel what I had spent a lifetime protecting myself from.

That’s when the work began. The real kind. The quiet kind.

I didn’t blast the dam open. I didn’t destroy the walls. That would have flooded me. I had to descend, consciously. And when I did, I didn’t find abstract fear. I found a little one waiting. Still whole. Still alive inside the muck.

Her name was Judilie.

In the first encounter she was three years old. In kindergarten. Frozen in the very first trauma I ever experienced, being gender-non-conform. For the girls I wasn’t a girl. For the boys, I still remained a girl. I stood there, in between all chairs, that had already been taken, with no chair left for myself. And I was mobbed and bullied because of it.

“I started with integrating the first trauma... the trauma at three at the kindergarten.” (00:56:07)

And I went back there. Again and again. Not to relive it. But to meet it.

I didn’t rescue her. I listened. I stayed. And then I came back again. Eighteen times, to be exact. Not because I planned it that way, but because that’s how many returns it took to integrate what had been frozen there.

This wasn’t psychological processing. It was full-bodied.

What Changed After Integration

And something miraculous happened—not because I tried to force a change, but because I stayed present long enough for the system to remember it didn’t need to react anymore. “With every trauma I integrated that way, the automatism... was broken.” (37:29). That word—automatism—was crucial.

I didn’t stop having reactions because I became better at controlling them. I stopped having them because my body no longer needed them. The neural pathways simply didn’t fire the same way anymore.

“I was no longer reacting. The body is in fact healed because otherwise I would experience these automatisms again and again.” (01:00:55)

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t a new spiritual practice. It was integration—a gradual dissolution of the dam’s power, not by dismantling it, but by entering the place it was meant to protect me from.

And here’s what mattered: I didn’t suppress the response. It didn’t arrive. The circuitry had changed. The trauma had released itself, not through catharsis, but through presence.

That was the first true proof that I wasn’t just collecting insights. I was re-embodying.

And that gave me a new kind of confidence. Not the surface kind. The deep-rooted, cellular kind.

So when I talked about becoming the canyon—it wasn’t a metaphor anymore. It was the truth of how I lived inside my own body.

I looked up at the canyon walls, expecting to see the same layered stories, the same familiar terrain I’d spent years mapping. But it wasn’t just that I knew them. I realized something I had never been able to say before:

“I was looking at these walls and suddenly I had an epiphany... I am this Canyon.” (00:16:32)

Not the explorer. Not the cartographer. Not the person navigating from outside. I had become the landscape itself.

I no longer walked the canyon like a visitor. I was the canyon. Not only the walls and passages, but the echo, the depth, the space that held it all.

From that moment on, I stopped thinking of this as just my story.

It became a framework. Because I realized that what I had built—the Canyon Model—wasn’t only personal.

Not for coaching. Not for teaching. For witnessing.

For understanding how deeply systemic forces shape our inner terrain. How trauma and patriarchy and familial expectations aren’t just emotional events. They become architecture.

It held within it a way of seeing how external forces become internal terrain. How culture and patriarchy and religious conditioning don’t just shape opinion. They shape geology. “I have structures with which I can implement how these outside influences affect my canyon.” (01:07:50)

And once you begin to see that, you can stop blaming your struggle on willpower. You can start understanding that you didn’t fail at healing. You just hadn’t seen the structures inside you yet.

So the model gave me language. But the experience gave me embodiment.

And it’s from this place that the Canyon Model became more than just a personal map.

Closing: A Living Canyon

This isn’t the end of the story. It’s a foothold. A resting ledge. A place to breathe before we continue.

The Canyon Model isn’t something I built and now present as finished. It’s still forming—layer by layer, path by path. Each trauma I’ve named, each pattern I’ve unlearned, each structure I’ve uncovered—it all reshapes the terrain. And every time I return, I see something new. That’s the nature of canyons. They deepen with time.

What began as survival turned into mapping. What began as exile turned into return. And what began as metaphor revealed itself to be memory, body, structure, and truth. The canyon is not outside me. It is me. It holds not just my pain but also my possibility.

And now, it holds yours, too.

We’ll be continuing this conversation on

Friday, April 11—early evening EST / late afternoon PST

where I’ll share more about what it means to become the canyon, and why that shift changes everything. Christine and I will co-host this next part, and we’d love to hear from you.

What questions do you have? What parts of this living terrain do you want to explore? Because this isn’t a map I hand to others—it’s an invitation to trace your own.

Thank you for walking this stretch with me.

Until next time,Jay

— Written to accompany the video conversation between Jay and Christine, April 2025— Written to accompany the video conversation between Jay and Christine, April 2025 ❤️ If you find this piece meaningful, consider clicking the heart at the top or bottom of the post. It helps others discover this newsletter and brightens my day.

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🎙️ Hope in the Canyon: A Personal Letter to you in the Face of Fear and Loss

In this solo episode, I open the canyon of my life—layer by layer—and speak directly to you. I share my journey through identity, trauma, and the slow, ongoing work of reclaiming my true self after decades under toxic shame.

This isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a deeply personal invitation to sit with grief, complexity, and change—and discover the quiet ember of hope that can keep us going, even when everything else is gone.

Key Takeaways:

Hope is often a whisper, not a rescue.

Labels assigned by others can erase the truth of who we are.

Integration matters more than survival alone.

Avoiding pain deepens it. Meeting it can soften its edge.

Accepting change doesn’t mean liking it—it means allowing room for life to move.

We carry patterns that don’t belong to us. Letting go frees us.

True safety is built—not assumed—and begins within.

Healing isn’t linear. It moves like a canyon trail: unexpected, layered, real.

A tiny belief that life can be different is sometimes enough to begin.

Letting go of what was never ours makes space for what is.

🌀 Reflection Prompt:What parts of your story did you inherit, and what parts are yours to write now?

📝 I’d love to hear what spoke to you—feel free to share in the comments or reply privately.---

Wild Lion*esses Pride is read across 49 US states and 40 countries.

Wild Lion*esses Pride is a space for honest reflections and conversations that matter. Reflections on trauma healing, authenticity, and personal growth—grounded in mindfulness and self-compassion. If you connect with biographical essays that explore the complexity of identity and the journey toward wholeness, this space is for you. and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a valued patron for only $5 a month. Or a “Buy me a coffee” tip would be very generous. Thank you! 💚

Wild Lion*esses Pride by Jay resonates? Share it with someone who could use a fresh perspective on life’s journey.

Thank you Amy Brown, Kendall Lamb, Christine Castigliano, Kara Westerman (she/her), Belinda Ivy, and many others for tuning into my live video with Christine Castigliano! Join us for my next live video in the app.

Summary of this special live talk between Christine Castigliano and Wild Lion*esses Pride from Jay :

The imprints of trauma weren’t a distant echo or sudden revelation. They were daily air. From the age of 2.5, I lived in a body and world that told me I didn’t belong. Not with the girls. Not with the boys. Not even in my own home. I adapted because I had to—but adaptation isn't healing.

Then came the car crash in 1985. My father died. I didn’t. That trauma didn't begin my story—it simply pierced through the surface of a life already shaped by rejection, isolation, and survival.

By 1986, I came out as a lesbian. And again, I lost nearly everything. I stood on the edge—literally—just months later, in January 1987. Only my baby brothers tethered me to life.

It took years of therapy to name what I had lived through: abuse, not discipline. Conditioning, not care. I thought that awareness meant healing. But what I had really done was look at a snapshot of my pain—not yet step into it.

When my partner died in early 2020, it all cracked open again. The pandemic silenced distractions. Grief and insolvency brought me to my knees. And in that quiet, I finally began to hear myself.

I reached out for help. Coaching became my lifeline. Slowly, I began remembering. Not just facts—but feelings, fractures, forgotten parts. I saw how my beliefs, shaped by early conditioning, weren’t truly mine. The canyon inside me started to reveal itself.

That’s how the Canyon Model emerged—not as a theory, but as lived truth. A metaphor at first, then a map. A place where trauma isn’t a story we tell once but a terrain we walk—layer by layer, memory by memory. A way to trace what shaped us and choose how to walk forward.

And here’s what’s next:

There will be a second episode—where I’ll take you deeper into my Canyonlands, and show how the Canyon Model can help make sense of your own past. How the inner landscape, once feared, can become familiar. Mapped. Illuminated. Not to erase what’s been—but to reclaim it.

If you're standing somewhere in your own canyon, unsure of the path—maybe my story can help you find a light of your own.

Let’s keep walking.

Learn How to Notice What You Accept and Choose What Truly Serves You

By exploring German bread traditions, you can reclaim authenticity and understand the cultural stories they tell.

Wild Lion*esses Pride is a space for honest reflections and conversations that matter. Reflections on trauma healing, authenticity, and personal growth—grounded in mindfulness and self-compassion. If you connect with biographical essays that explore the complexity of identity and the journey toward wholeness, this space is for you. and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a valued patron for only $5 a month or 50$ a year. Or a “Buy me a coffee” tip would be very generous. Thank you! 💚

Episode Description:What do you do when every craft bakery in your town closes—and all that’s left is bread that collapses under the weight of butter? In this personal essay, I take you with me on a quiet Saturday morning in Germany, through a memory-filled Brötchen-Tour with my father, and into the deeper question of what happens when tradition is replaced by convenience.

You’ll hear about the slow disappearance of regional bread culture, the systemic forces behind it, and how I slowly began to reclaim my own connection to bread, to presence, and to choice—by baking it myself.

This episode isn’t just about crusts and crumbs. It’s about learning to notice what we’ve accepted without question. And it’s about choosing, deliberately, what truly nourishes us—on every level.

In this episode, I explore:– What German bread once was, and what it has become– The quiet rituals that shaped my early relationship with food– How Easter traditions and old stories still hold memory in their form– Why I began baking out of necessity, not trend– How systems preserve themselves through our passive acceptance– What it means to reclaim presence in a fast, disconnected world– The simple act that helped me remember what enough tastes like

Whether you’re a baker, a curious listener, or just someone trying to reconnect with something real—this story is for you.

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Call to Action:You don’t have to bake your own bread to make a shift. Just start by noticing what you’ve been taught to accept. Then ask—does this truly serve me?

Each twist, tweak, and taste test comes with the joy of creativity—and yes, a little bit of cost, too. If this recipe resonated with you and added a touch of nostalgia or delight to your day, I’d be incredibly grateful if you’d consider leaving a tip. Or, better yet, indulge in a monthly or yearly subscription to support this publication

Your generosity helps keep these flavors alive and ensures I can continue exploring, experimenting, and sharing them with you.

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Own Your Mornings, Own Your Life

Episode Overview

Think about it—each morning, you wake up with a choice. Do you start on autopilot, scrolling through notifications and rushing into your day? Or do you take ownership of your morning, create space for yourself, and set the tone for what follows?

A conscious morning routine isn’t about perfection or rigid habits. It’s about choosing presence over chaos, clarity over reactivity, and intention over habit. Small, intentional shifts in your morning can create lasting momentum—leading to weeks, months, and ultimately, a life lived with more purpose.

In this episode, I share practical self-coaching tools that can help you reclaim your mornings—without needing hours of meditation or an elaborate routine.

Key Takeaways

💡 Your Morning Routine – A Conscious Choice

The first hour of your day shapes the energy you bring into the world.

Shift from reacting to intentionally creating your day.

Find a morning rhythm that works for you—it’s about consistency, not perfection.

✨ Tips for a Meaningful Morning Routine

Set aside enough time—avoid rushing.

Wake up at the same time each day to establish rhythm.

Prepare the night before—what’s on your agenda?

Define the sequence of your routine and how much time each step will take.

Create a minimum routine for busy mornings.

Be patient with yourself—this is for you.

📖 Morning Rituals for a Positive Start

Self-Coaching Questions: The quality of your questions shapes the quality of your life.

Movement: Dancing, stretching, yoga, or running—wake up your body.

Meditation: Whether five minutes or half an hour, mindfulness helps you reconnect.

Gratitude Practice: Write down three things you’re grateful for.

Affirmations: Use positive statements to reframe your mindset.

Reading & Inspiration: Start the day with something that fuels you.

Goal Setting: Write down your life goals—every single day.

🧩 Why Self-Coaching?

Most people react to life instead of creating it.

Self-coaching helps you pause, realign, and make intentional choices.

Inside my Own Your Mornings, Own Your Life guide, I share 50+ open-ended self-coaching questions spanning 13 life areas, designed to spark growth, self-awareness, and action.

🌟 What If Tomorrow Felt Different?

Imagine waking up clear instead of chaotic.

Imagine setting your own intentions instead of letting the world set them for you.

Even five intentional minutes can change the way you move through your day.

🎧 Listen in as we explore how small shifts in your morning can lead to powerful transformations.

📖 Want More? Get My Ebooklet!

Get the full Own Your Mornings, Own Your Life PDF & EPUB for just $4.99—no subscription needed!

🔗 Buy it here: Buy Booklet now ($4.99)

💛 Support My Work: Subscribe and Contribute

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Thank you for being part of this journey.

Thank you for your kindness and generosity—it truly makes a difference. Together, we’re creating a space of reflection, creativity, and connection, and I’m so grateful you’re part of this journey

Let’s create intentional mornings and meaningful days—together. ✨

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Episode Title: Finding Strength in Compassion, Joy, and Mistakes

Reflect on how your experiences, both painful and beautiful, shape your connection to yourself and the world around you.

Wild Lion*esses Pride Podcast

Wild Lion*esses Pride is a space for honest reflections and conversations that matter. Reflections on trauma healing, authenticity, and personal growth—grounded in mindfulness and self-compassion. If you connect with biographical essays that explore the complexity of identity and the journey toward wholeness, this space is for you. and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a valued patron for only $5 a month. Or a “Buy Monty some cat food as support” tip would be very generous. Thank you! 💚

A sacred land shaped by time, wind, and presence—like the canyons within us, carved by experience, resilience, and connection. In this episode, I sit by my canyon’s edge, watching the morning light carve new stories into the rock, reflecting on what healing truly means. Healing is not about leaving. Healing is about inhabiting.

I explore the Brahmaviharas—Metta (loving-kindness), Karuna (compassion), Mudita (sympathetic joy), and Upekkha (equanimity)—and how they weave through my personal journey. Through the lens of the Canyon Model and the wisdom of Ubuntu, I uncover the ways in which love, presence, and interconnectedness shape our healing and growth.

Join me in discovering how kindness does not always announce itself, how compassion lives in the unseen crevices, how joy flourishes when shared, and how equanimity teaches us to trust the path even when control is an illusion. Ubuntu whispers through every moment: I am because you are.

Poetic Reflection: We Are Because

This episode also includes a special reading of my poem, We Are Because, a reflection on belonging, love, and the unbreakable threads connecting us all. Through imagery and rhythm, the poem invites you into a space of deep recognition—of yourself, of others, of the shared breath between us.

Lessons in Mistakes: 50 mg of Mistakes

I once believed mistakes defined me, carving regret into my ribs and mistaking survival for silence. Yet mistakes are not tombstones. They do not bury us. They are stepping stones, guiding us toward understanding, resilience, and transformation. I share a personal reflection on how each fall has whispered a new truth—not failure, rather flight; not ruin, rather rhythm.

Closing Reflection & Invitation

This is why I write, why I share my stories, and why I reach out my hand. Because we do not walk alone. Because the breath between us matters. Because somewhere, in the hush before dawn, in the hush before breath, we already belong to each other.

We are because we are.

Glad to have you walk beside me.

❤️ If this episode speaks to you, please consider showing your support. Click the heart, leave a review, or share it with someone who might find comfort here.

Wild Lion*esses Pride is read across 48 US states and 40 countries.

Support My Work: Subscribe and Contribute

If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

If my writing, art, and recipes resonate with you, I would be incredibly grateful if you would consider supporting my work with a paid subscription to Wild Lion*esses Pride.

If a monthly or annual subscription isn’t feasible for you right now, you can also show your support with a one-time tip via my Tip Jar here.

Thank you for your kindness and generosity—it truly makes a difference. Together, we’re creating a space of reflection, creativity, and connection, and I’m so grateful you’re part of this journey