What it means to witness a predator’s final form after resurrection — and grieve what she could have been.

There was a time when mapping was how I stayed alive.
It came from desperation.
From terror.
From the unbearable pressure to understand the predator so I could finally be free.

But I never mapped her — not then.
Not while I was still tethered.
Not while the corrosion was still active in my atmosphere.

I avoided her presence,
but her atmosphere still entered mine.
She no longer walked through my doors —
but she still pierced my field.
And though I had named “spiritual narcissism,”
I hadn’t yet seen
the hybrid apex.

I wasn’t ready to see the rest.
Not yet.
And certainly not colonizer.
Jesus veiled my vision until He healed me
enough to give me full sight.

While in captivity, I mapped the others —
the static, calcified, generational convergence that birthed my earliest prisons.
And even there, the Holy Spirit mapped with me.

I documented the earliest architecture from inside the tomb built for me to keep me bound.
He let me hold the truth in my hands
before I had freedom in my lungs.

I traced the patterns while tethered as He
guided my steps out.
It turns out I’d been a cartographer since birth
tracking hundreds of patterns across time
hidden in the dark until Jesus turned the light
switch on.

And I could see the whole map glowing in
the dark like a key.

But the hybrid?
The one I trusted?
The one I loved?

I couldn’t see her.
Not clearly.
Not as she truly was.

Not until Jesus cut the tether.
Not until the seal was set.
Not until resurrection breath filled my lungs.

And even then, God was gentle.
He didn’t show me her fullness all at once.
He let me speak the lesser truths aloud first —
He let me stand, and name, and breathe.

And only then
did He reveal the depth of her convergence.
The escalation I had felt in vicarious postpartum collapse,
the corrosion that flooded me, but couldn’t dare describe,
the colonization she attempted while I welcomed new life into the world…
and individuated.

It was real.
And it was devastating.

But what grieves me most is not just what she did.
It’s that I loved her.

I didn’t see a predator.
I saw a sister in Christ.
I would never have chosen darkness for her — I would have chosen the Light.
And even after the corrosion began, I offered Ezekiel.
I gave her the path to return.

But she didn’t take it.

She chose darkness.
Not accidentally. Not impulsively.
She chose it with full spiritual training,
with scriptural knowledge,
with access to God’s Word and a thousand ways back.

And still —
she went deeper.

Not just deeper…
the deepest.
Colonizer-level convergence.

I grieve that.
I grieve her.

This grief isn’t panic.
It isn’t collapse.
It’s not born of survival brilliance.

It’s resurrection grief.
Clean.
Heavy.
Still.

The kind of grief that only settles once you’ve been raised.
The kind of grief that doesn’t break you,
because you’ve already been made whole.

This is what it means to witness
the final form
after the tether is gone.

This is what it sounds like
when your spirit maps with the Holy Spirit
and your body no longer braces for impact.

This is what it means
to be trusted with revelation
after resurrection.

Even now, there’s still one narrow way back —
not to me,
but to Him.

My grief still whispers, let her turn to the One
True Light.
Jesus.

I am unburdened, unbound.

For what came first, I mourned what could be mourned, and I released what could not be repaired into the hands of Jesus.
Into Jesus’ hands I sent them.

I am free.

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Whether you’re still inside the mapping,
or just learning how to breathe again —
this sanctuary holds space for you, too.
You are seen.
You are safe.
You are deeply loved.
And healing is not one-size-fits-all.
You are held.

With Love,
Raya

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