Dying in our Dreams ... Waking in our Life

Oh my goodness—holy transformation.

Last night I died.

The most complete, reality-altering death yet.

Of course it happened on the Aries Full Moon—fire moon for a Fire Goddess. Nearly ten of my houses burn with fire, including my Aries Sun. This dream was not symbolic in the casual sense. It was real, precise, and potent. If you’re reading this, I invite a check-in first. Only continue if there’s a fuck yes. Some dreams are gateways, and I don’t want you to fall in unintentionally.

This dream was the culmination of the collective work of a retreat I was empowered to be part of this weekend. And yes—of course—I died.

(Don’t worry. I’ve been dying in dreams since I was around eleven or twelve, when I first began traveling consciously in my sleep. For years, I died night after night until death became… familiar. I have guides—Father Thyme, who insists on spelling it that way, and Aaron, who has shown me the cosmos more times than I can count. Lately, though, when I die, I arrive alone—in vast, black, star-filled ethers. Magick.)

The dream began with me driving through the mountains toward the coast with a couple of friends. They became excited, pointing out a community on the roadside—people farming hemp and cannabis, structures mid-construction, a place still becoming. The energy was open, inviting. As I drove, I realized I was dreaming—traveling multidimensionally. I breathed in the air and said, “I think this is Sam’s community.” (Name changed.) “So cool.”

We drove along ocean edges and rough dirt roads, past rocks and unfinished buildings, until we reached a massive structure painted like metallic brick—red and cream, shimmering. Across it, in waves, were the words: Love is the only Way.

I parked.

Suddenly, Sam appeared in the passenger seat.

“Charlotte is right,” they said. “This is my community. But here’s the thing—Charlotte is not invited.”

Immediately, my body went cold. A hollowing sensation—like a portion of my essence had been pulled out. And in that moment, I knew: I was not just dreaming. I was traveling. I took a deep breath and chose not to collapse into sadness. I chose something deeper.

Beyond all experiences, all choices, all exclusions—I love myself. I will always be me.

“Oh, no worries,” I said. “I’m just dropping my friends off.”

And then—relief. Profound relief.

It felt good not to be accepted into someone’s quantum reality when they did not yet have the capacity to love me fully. Becoming part of a reality that cannot love us costs something. We do it over and over across the spiral—for learning. But it’s tricky. It generates immense cosmic cleanup and pulls the soul through unnecessary dualism.

I was grateful they didn’t let me in. In another moment, I might have overridden my body’s no. My friends exited the car and enjoyed themselves. I drove on.

Beyond the boundary they named, I continued—not asking permission to exist. I respected their reality, but I did not shrink mine. I am not asking permission to be here. Earth is not owned. Creation is infinite. There is room for all of us.

Police cars appeared on all sides. Each time fear arose, I closed my eyes, breathed, felt my limitlessness, and affirmed my trust: in myself, in learning, in creating, in the process itself. Each time, they passed by, unable to find me.

Eventually, I pulled over near pine trees and an ascending path. Sam appeared again, shouting that I was not accepted. I told them plainly: I wasn’t seeking their acceptance. I don’t need it to be me, to create, to gather my power, to exist.

That’s when I saw it clearly—they weren’t real. They were a simulation. A construct for learning.

At that moment, others began waking up with me. Aaron was there. We ascended the mountainside together.

The terrain shifted into a massive green pipe beside a vast lake. Aaron—Fire God—said he would jump in and let the pipe explode, collapsing the reality so we could begin again. As it happened, we fell—flew—into blackness that became a bus traveling through the cosmos.

We arrived on a new planet.

We arrived on a new planet.

At the doorway, the simulation spoke again. I looked at them and said, “None of this is real. We created it. The only thing that’s real is that we’re flying in the ethers.” I placed my hands on what appeared solid and peeled back the layers, revealing pure black nothingness beneath.

“This has always been true,” I said. “We are cosmic matter and ether. Physical reality is a creation—mutable, alterable, transmutable at any moment.”

As I peeled the layers away—like unzipping a mesh tent—others watched. They wore swimsuits and were radiant with excitement, ready to trade places with us and enter physical matter. Seeing all of me, my emotions, they asked, “Should we be afraid? Will we come back?”

I smiled. I told the truth. The soul cannot be destroyed—but I wouldn’t pretend the journey is easy. Relieved and thrilled, they boarded. We disembarked.

More happened—exploration, teachings, maps of Lemuria and Earth games—until Aaron appeared again, now in feminine form. They led me to a spa.

“It’s time,” they said, handing me a bottle of shampoo. “If you want, you can die again and be reborn. Wash your hair. Rest.”

I asked what the shampoo did.

The label read: To release all rules and religion.

I woke in my physical bed.

“Fuck yes,” I whispered to the Multiverse.

I got up and showered, washing my hair, infusing the water and shampoo with the transmission I had received.

Thank you to everyone from this weekend. My soul moves through oversoul realms like a mermaid—diving into collective subconscious depths to help clear, purge, and create. We are powerful. Far more than we remember.

And yes—the photo is literally me, swimming with a mermaid tail.

Of course it is.