A deep-seated need for gold stars lovingly smacked me back into my own lane and reminded me: the only validation I need is already inside.
The Setup: Me, Looking for a Gold Star from the Gurus
It started innocently enough. A scroll here, a podcast there.
You know the type—the cool kids of awakening:
- YouTube astrologers dropping planetary truth bombs,
- truther tarot readers decoding the matrix in real time,
- wise masters who were awake before awakening was cool,
- psychic seers with timelines mapped and merch to match.
Even the rare unicorns who’ve somehow built a living teaching esoterica with clarity, elegance, and a respectable follower count.
And then there’s me.
Still working a corporate job.
Still folding (okay—ignoring) laundry.
Still paying taxes like a good little 3D sheep.
Still wondering if my sassy blog post about Atlantis will offend the algorithm… or my aunt.
This time it didn’t start as a fame fantasy.
It started with that old skool Open Source energy where sharing what you know helps the next person using google search for breadcrumbs.
Like the early internet days, posting a bit of JavaScript on a forum to help a fellow tech nerd debug something at midnight.
I’ve been helped by strangers’ words so many times that it’s a core piece of my soul to return the favor whenever possible.
And I love my own posts.
I use them. I refer back to them all the time.
Alainn Library is my materia medica, my Book of knowings, my soul notes—portable, searchable, sacred.
Somewhere along the way… it got murky.
Yes, I was posting to help.
But I caught myself… hoping.
Hoping the right person would see it.
Hoping someone with reach might share my words.
Hoping I’d get pulled into the inner ring—not just spiritually, but practically.
Because here’s the part I usually don’t say out loud:
I want it to work.
I want a blog or a channel or a podcast that could pay the mortgage.
I want my inner truth to also be my exit strategy.
I want spiritual alignment to come with a direct deposit.
And it could. Maybe someday it still will.
But when that desire gets tangled up with my need to be seen by the “already-arrived,” I lose the thread.
“Do they like me?”
“Am I doing it right?”
“Do I belong here?”
The Longing That Lives in Our Bones
I wasn’t aware of this shadow.
I tell myself that it’s just me knowing my own worth.
A little self-valuing, some healthy self-esteem building.
I’m beginning to recognize that it can invert into something sneakier:
A secret trap that starts in truth (I am valuable)
and quietly morphs into distortion:
“I’ll believe it more once someone luminous reflects it back.”
That’s not sovereignty.
That’s energetic codependency in a cuter outfit.
Another Stan
No lie, I had a ride-or-die crush on Eminem for decades of my youth.
The kind of crush you keep secret because it’s just that intense.
(And yeah, never stopped hoping he’d write a song about me.)
I just knew that if he ever saw me, he’d fall instantly in love, write a devastating, well-turned phrase about how amazing I was, and somehow I would be instantly desired by… everyone.
I daydreamed about being seen by him.
Known. Chosen.
Turned into proof that I mattered.
Even though I’m fully aware he’s not actually a real person—
more like a cultural construct.
A myth. A mouthpiece.
Probably MK’d into oblivion by the time he dropped his second album.
Yeah, yeah, I know how fame works, what celebrity really is.
But still—
some deep part of me wanted him to see me.
To write a line so raw and sharp it breaks the net.
To prove I was special.
To make everyone else feel what I already suspected:
That I AM worth falling in love with in full view of the world.
It wasn’t just me
Years ago I was deep in a very different world:
Church culture. Fundamentalist, buttoned-up, patriarch-approved Christianity.
And I remember watching—smirking at—the young homeschooling moms in the pews.
They’d hang on the pastor’s every word.
Eyes a little too bright. Laughter a little too loud when he told a joke.
They baked casseroles and joined Bible studies and dressed modestly, sure.
But I saw it.
That unspoken hunger.
They wanted to be seen. Not just spiritually.
Personally. Intimately.
They wanted to be the one he lingered on just a second longer after service.
The chosen one. The special one.
I rolled my eyes.
Thinking to myself, “How pathetic. Idolizing that dude just because he stands behind a pulpit.”
I didn’t make the connection that I was doing the exact same thing, just with a Marshall Mathers soundtrack.
As the Contemporary Christian music culture made it’s way even to the most conservative churches and it evolved.
The casserole crowd gave way to something slicker.
Cooler. Louder. Sad-boy sexier.
Enter:
The tattooed worship leader with indie hair, a flannel, and just enough shadow in his testimony to feel “real.”
He’s not just preaching anymore—he’s performing redemption.
He quotes C.S. Lewis and Bon Iver.
He cries mid-sermon.
He looks like he’s been through hell and back—just like you, girl.
And somehow, in that new church aesthetic, the old fantasy shape-shifted.
Now, wanting to be seen wasn’t just allowed—it was encouraged.
Be the broken girl who gets healed.
Be the muse who helps the sad pastor find God again.
Be the girl with the most profound DM he’s ever received.
But it didn’t stop there.
I stepped out of church, but the projection kept its passport.
Because next stop was the New Age influencer scene—and let me tell you, the vibe is the same… it’s just wearing linen now.
They’re no longer called pastors.
They’re facilitators. Channels. Oracles.
They don’t stand behind pulpits—they sit cross-legged in reels, whispering about timelines and inner union and soul mission.
And I wanted to be chosen there, too.
Not by God.
Not by Marshall.
Not by the pastor in flannel.
But by the spiritual tastemakers of the moment.
The cosmic cool kids.
The Original Wound (That Made It All Make Sense)
Somewhere along the way—lifetimes ago, dimensions ago, maybe this morning before coffee—
I forgot.
I forgot I was Source.
Not in a dramatic-fall-from-heaven kind of way.
More like… a slow erosion.
A quiet slipping into the hum of a lie that got passed down like a family recipe:
“You’re not that special.”
“Don’t get too big.”
“You need someone else to choose you before you can choose yourself.”
And damn, that lie is sticky.
It shape-shifts to match the culture:
- In church, it sounds like submission.
- In fame, it sounds like desirability.
- In new age land, it sounds like alignment.
But the core inversion is always there:
“You’re not whole on your own.
You need someone else’s spotlight to remember your own flame.”
And so we go chasing:
- Pastors.
- Podcasters.
- Planets and placements.
- Lovers and likes.
- Anyone who looks like they already know the way.
We chase them because on some deep level, we’re not really looking for them.
We’re looking for evidence of what we KNOW.
Proof that we matter.
That we carry the spark.
That we’re not invisible in the universe.
Because if we remembered who we really were—sovereign fractals of Source?
The whole control matrix would collapse.
That’s why this fan-grrl shadow runs so deep.
It’s not just psychological—it’s ontological.
A program we’ve all been looped through for lifetimes, designed to keep us looking out there instead of turning in here.
Idol Culture: A Timeline of Disempowerment
t didn’t start with YouTube or TikTok.
This pattern of projecting power outward is ancient:
- We used to worship Greek gods—demanding, shiny, dramatic beings with mood swings and lightning bolts.
- Then it was royalty—divinely appointed monarchs who “embodied” the will of God on earth.
- Then came Hollywood—glamour and control dressed up as fame and freedom.
- And now? It’s the spiritual influencer, the intuitive channeler, the stylish mystic dropping 5D buzzwords and offering group activations in a curated grid.
Different costume.
Same core distortion:
“I don’t have it unless they say I do.”
Flipping the Fan-Grrl Script
At some point, I had to ask myself:
What would it look like to stop chasing the mirror and just… become the light?
What if the real medicine wasn’t in being noticed—but in being embodied?
What if the high I’ve been chasing from someone else’s recognition…
was actually just a cracked version of my own radiance, trying to reflect back at me?And what if I stopped outsourcing that spark altogether?
Because here’s the real truth bomb I had to swallow:
The ones I look up to?
They’re just farther down the trail.
They don’t hold the map.
They are the map—for a version of the journey that’s not mine.They can be mirrors.
They can be companions.
But they can’t name me.
Only I can do that.6. The Tarot Smackdown (10 of Wands + 4 of Cups)
So yeah. I pulled cards.
Because when the ego gets all tangled in cosmic performance art, sometimes Spirit needs to… intervene.
And oh, did it.
Ten. Of. Wands.
“You’re carrying way too much.”
“You’ve turned your light into a performance review.”
“Put it down.”And right next to it?
Four. Of. Cups.“You’re fixated on the cup that isn’t being offered.”
“You’re missing the divine gift being handed to you right now.”
“Stop waiting for someone else to blink first. Close your eyes and go inward.”It was the kind of read that doesn’t scold, it just knows.
Not because I was wrong to want connection.
But because I’d forgotten who I already was.This wasn’t a rejection.
It was a redirection.Back to Source.
Back to Self.
Back to the wild, weird, wonderful me that doesn’t need anyone’s permission to shine.7. The Final Whisper
I don’t need to be famous.
I don’t need to be crowned.
I don’t even need to be seen by “them.”Because I already saw myself.
And that?
That changed everything.
