Finding Light After Darkness
The True Nature Of Awakening
Where do awakenings truly happen? In the truths we avoid and the actions we take.
In 2025, so many things happened that I could barely process them. It all began after I made a decision through my music to remove myself from political tensions altogether. After I released the song Popularity Contest, a shift began without me even realizing it.
At first, there was a honeymoon phase—being admired, adored, and respected for my passionate leadership and problem-solving. But then things started to grow more intense.
In April, I suffered an ME crash. The pain became so severe that I could barely breathe. My hospital stay was brief, and I convinced myself it was just a fluke that I would recover from quickly. But it evolved into something far more serious than I expected.
For 20 years, I had suffered from degenerative disc disease caused by an injury I experienced as a child due to bullying. On May 3rd, it reached a critical point. I had to be rushed to the hospital because I could no longer walk, and the pain was unbearable. I was admitted immediately, and after an MRI revealed how severe the condition had become, surgery was my only option.
Was I scared? Yes. Did I show it? No.
But something horrifying happened about four days before my surgery. Physical therapy was ordered to evaluate me. It was not my usual therapist—the one who understood my condition—but someone I had never worked with before. I never imagined I would be subjected to such treatment. She became forceful. I was heavily medicated for pain, and even the slightest movement made the pain worse.
I held onto the bedrail, sobbing and begging her to stop trying to force me to move because it hurt too much. Instead, she pulled my arm from the bedrail and forced me into a sitting position.
For the first time, I screamed. She immediately let go and ran out of the room.
Unfortunately, my husband was out running an errand, and although my brother was present, he did not know how to react. I sobbed as I called for the nurse and for my husband. He arrived within ten minutes, furious, demanding accountability for what had happened to me.
The nights leading up to surgery were terrible. I had nightmares that woke me up shaking, and they eventually gave me Valium just so I could sleep.
Did it stop there? I hoped so, but I was wrong.
Part of the reason I live with chronic pain is because people have repeatedly tried to make decisions about my body while downplaying the severity of my suffering. The double standards were obvious. I felt treated as though I were drug-seeking, even though I was simply exhausted from having treatments constantly changed just when they began to work.
After surgery, I began focusing on energy healing and distancing myself from toxic people. One of those people was my father, who disrespected me over the phone shortly after I returned home from surgery.
Was it over then? No.
Tensions on the app Rap Fame were escalating, and I was being drawn into conflicts I did not even fully understand. After my surgical wound healed, I briefly started to feel more like myself again—but it did not last long.
In August 2025, during the hottest month of the year, the pain from my myalgic encephalomyelitis returned intensely. Between political tension, social unrest, and the systemic struggles my household was already facing, I reached emotional burnout. I stopped crying. I stopped reacting to chaos. I continued meditating and trying to remain centered.
Then September arrived, bringing even more turmoil. The assassination of Charlie Kirk, the murder of an immigrant woman on a train, and the waves of compassion and cruelty surrounding those tragedies weighed heavily on me. Deep in my heart, none of it felt right.
On September 16th, the pain struck again. I went to the emergency room, frustrated with my body more than ever. During triage, a nurse asked me how I felt about Mr. Kirk’s murder. I answered gently, saying, “No one should ever have their life ended for speaking their mind.”
The look she gave me told me I had stepped into something I did not fully understand. From that moment on, the level of care shifted. I felt dismissed and judged. They gave me one dose of morphine and a bottle of Valium before sending me home. My husband and I walked home slowly together, and I still felt disconnected from everything around me.
A few days later, on the 21st, the pain became critical. I returned to the ER and was admitted, but after I settled into my room, I felt that personal opinions and assumptions affected the way my pain was managed. I was in agony, trying desperately to stay positive and hold myself together.
They offered minimal medication only if I agreed to oral pain medication, despite my repeated explanations that oral medications severely aggravate my gastrointestinal issues. IV medication had always been more effective and caused fewer complications.
Then came September 24th—the most terrifying moment of all. While talking with my mother over Facebook, I suddenly became dizzy and violently ill. I told her I loved her and needed to lie down, but the symptoms escalated rapidly. I called for the nurse and texted my husband an SOS message with the last bit of strength I had left.
Then I blacked out.
My blood pressure had surged dangerously high. I could hear my husband desperately confronting the doctor, demanding they take my condition seriously. During a CT scan, I aspirated while they tested me for a stroke. Through the haze, I heard the letters that terrified me: ICU.
If proper pain management had been provided sooner, I believe much of this escalation could have been prevented.
I did not remain in the ICU long, but it was only after my husband aggressively advocated for me and contacted a prominent medical figure connected to the hospital that my treatment finally improved. Unfortunately, once I was transferred back upstairs, the same issues resurfaced.
That was the point where everything emotionally collapsed for me. I stopped eating. I could barely drink water. My body felt like it was shutting down. My husband continued fighting for me while I sobbed, exhausted and terrified, begging for the treatment plan that had worked for me in the past.
I felt unseen. Unheard. Disposable.
That night, after everyone left and the room finally went quiet, I whispered through my tears to Jesus that I could not survive this alone anymore. I surrendered what little strength I had left.
The next morning, my husband called me. I thanked him for being my warrior, for refusing to stop fighting for me when I no longer had the strength to fight for myself. He cried because he understood what I meant.
Eventually, after explaining my medical history yet again, they returned me to a treatment plan closer to what had worked before. But the damage—physically and emotionally—had already been done. Even after discharge, I did not feel the same. Every breath hurt. My body felt traumatized. Eating was difficult, and exhaustion consumed me.
So I wrote music.
I poured everything into three songs, preserving the pain, fear, and heartbreak in sound. When I listened back to my own voice, so broken and exhausted, I cried against my husband’s chest, confused and devastated by everything I had endured.
But the chaos did not stop.
Conflicts on Rap Fame intensified. Trolls mocked me, baited me into battles, and exploited misunderstandings. My body was still recovering, yet emotionally I was unraveling.
Then came Judas, the final song of Honibea the Humanist, part of a larger musical podcast already in production.
Everything shifted on December 15th, just days after another wave of online attacks began. Diss tracks were released targeting my disability, my illness, and my life itself. One of the people involved was someone I had genuinely supported.
I stared at the screen, numb.
When I asked why they would do this to me, the response was dismissive: “That’s just how it is.” They continued mocking me while others cheered them on.
And in that moment, something inside me broke.
All my life, I had been the agreeable one. The calm one. The safe one. The one who stayed composed even while carrying storms internally.
Finally, I realized it was time to let go.
I sent one final message:
“I tried to help you, but since you want to do this, I can’t anymore.”
Then I blocked them all.
I turned my phone face down, played calming audio like I always did when the world became too heavy, and cried until exhaustion pulled me into sleep.
The next day—December 16th, eleven days before my birthday—I looked at the bright colors and smiling images tied to the identity I had built online, and instead of comfort, I felt anger.
One thought echoed in my mind: I remember them saying they hoped I would die.
So I erased the smile. I erased the bright colors. I erased the light of the app—and with it, Honibea herself.
From that darkness, I transformed into Angel Of Darkness.
Months have passed since then. I still encounter disrespect at times, but I have reclaimed my light, and now I protect it fiercely. I set firm boundaries. I speak my truth openly. And through everything I survived, I unexpectedly became an inspiration to many people.
Now, with this new chapter, I intend to teach the world—one verse, one hook, and one song at a time.
Thank you for reading.
