Mainely Mystics – Rooted in Salem, guided by spirit, walking the veil so you don’t have to
There are days that look ordinary to the outside world. You work a shift. You eat. You sleep. You dream. You wake up to a phone call.
But some days are disguised initiations.
Yesterday was one of them.
I returned to the night shift for the first time in years, stepping back into the CNA role not as the woman shaped by survival, but as the woman shaped by truth. I was not performing, hustling, or over-giving. I was simply bringing my natural medicine into the world connection, presence, breath, steadiness the essence of what I have always carried. It felt like a quiet reclaiming of a part of myself that I had put on hold.
But the real initiation happened after I slept.
I had a dream of the Northey Street house — the Cooney home, the psychic ground zero of my story. The dream wasn’t soft. The world was freezing, chaotic, hostile. The narcissistic adults I grew up with were tearing at the house, stripping off the siding, trying every tactic to break it down. It mirrored the emotional climate of my childhood so precisely that my body recognized the truth before my mind did.
Except this time, I didn’t collapse.
This time, I stood firm.
I claimed the house.
I claimed the address.
I claimed my right to belong to myself.
And when the siding fell away in the dream, what stood beneath it wasn’t rot or damage. It was stone solid, ancient, unmoving. Wrapped around that stone were living roots, thick and powerful, coming up from the earth like ancestral arms.
The message was unmistakable:
Nothing from my past ever touched the integrity of my foundation.
Nothing they tried to take ever reached the roots beneath me.
I woke from that dream different clearer, stronger, anchored in a way that felt new.
Moments later, I saw a missed call from my youngest child. My Dylan. My Bubby.
When I called him back, what unfolded wasn’t a conversation. It was communion.
We talked about the world, war, politics, fear, patriarchy & all the noise that overwhelms a young man trying to find his place in a chaotic generation. But as he spoke, something in me shifted. I wasn’t speaking to him as the mother who raised him under pressure. I wasn’t speaking from old patterns or survival instincts.
I spoke as the Mystic.
The elder soul.
The lighthouse he has always known me to be.
I reminded him that he is a spark of the same divine energy that animates all things. That nothing forged against him can prosper if he remembers who he truly is. That hell is self-created, and fear is the only beast that ever-needed feeding. That he carries free will, purpose, and a path that is illuminated from within and that even when he wanders, the light never leaves him.
And when I told him, “We choose our parents,” he didn’t miss the soul-level truth behind it.
He simply said, “I chose well.”
I felt something in me soften, open, and heal in that moment. After everything I had survived in my own childhood the chaos, the emotional neglect, the instability & now to hear my child reflect that he was grateful & proud that he chose me was a reclamation of a lifetime’s worth of doubt.
Then, before we hung up, he sent me a song.
Not a casual song — but a raw, honest one. “Money Game Pt. 3.” A story about indoctrination, fear, power, illusion, and the fragility of the human psyche under systems we didn’t ask to be born into.
His choosing to share that with me was its own confession.
Its own vulnerability.
Its own offering.
It was his way of showing me the landscape of his inner world & of trusting me enough to hold what scares him, confuses him, shapes him. It was him standing spiritually naked before me and saying, “Here is what I’m trying to understand. Here is who I don’t want to become. Here is what I’m waking up from.”
And the truth is, despite the miles between us, we were right there with each other.
Mother and son.
Soul to soul.
Two sparks remembering themselves at the same altar.
Everything about the last 24 hours was spiritual. From the patients I helped during my night shift, to the ancestral house in my dream, to the ministry with my son, to the song that revealed his inner landscape.
It was a rite of passage disguised as a normal day.
It was a reminder that healing happens on every plane the physical, the emotional, the ancestral, the spiritual, the interpersonal, and the unseen.
And it was proof that no matter where life takes us, no matter how far apart our physical homes may be, my children and I are connected in a way that defies geography, time, or circumstance.
The roots run deep.
The foundation is stone.
And the light never stops shining
Mainely Mystics 
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