Remembrance Series: Part I – The Rose, the Dream, and the Doorway

A pilgrimage of memory, medicine and mystery…

The Words That Made My Bones Vibrate

I was in the middle of a 1:1 Akashic Reading when my client—who also happened to be one of the few souls whose podcast deeply resonated with me at the very beginning of my awakening—paused, her voice soft but certain.

Her voice had been a thread I followed through the fog in those early days, when I was still trying to discern what was real, what was resonance, and what was fear. She helped me bridge the unknown. She was a lighthouse in the foggy in-between.

And now, there she was, speaking to me through the screen, with the kind of certainty that makes your bones remember. 

“You know you’re part of the Order of the Rose, right?”

I blinked. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know?” she smiled gently, and gave me a brief explanation. But that moment wasn’t informative—it was catalytic. 

Her words stirred something ancient in me. Like a bell that only I could hear. A code clicking back into place.

That was a couple of months ago.
And now, here I am—unraveling, remembering, recording.

Order of the Rose.

Those words lit a fire in me. And that fire lit what I thought was a new path. But it wasn’t new. It had always been beneath my feet, woven into my breath, hidden in plain sight. I just hadn’t named it, until now. 

And soon you’ll understand why.

So I walked down the path.

Discovering the Order of the Rose

This remembrance journey begins back in October 2021, the month of my awakening. At the time, I was preparing for a move back to Denver from St. Louis. The official relocation wouldn’t be until January 2022, but the soul migration had already begun.

I didn’t realize how disembodied I was back then. I was mind-heavy, spiritually starved, still very much inside the matrix.

Back in Denver, I began working with a therapist—I’ll call her Miranda. She was half clinical, half mystical. One hand in the practical, one hand in the ether. She did Reiki, somatic work, and held space in a way that helped me feel safe enough to begin asking bigger questions. One of those questions was about plant medicine.

**All names used from this point forward have been changed to honor the privacy of those involved.**

I told her during a session: “I feel like I need to work with the medicine. Something is calling me. I don’t go deep in my meditations—I feel like I need help peeling back the layers.”

She just looked at me and said, wide-eyed, “Did you really just ask me that?”

For a split second I thought I had said something wrong.

She shook her head, “No—it’s just wild. I was literally typing in our private Facebook group asking about any upcoming medicine ceremonies in the area. As you spoke, my hands were typing.”

A Prophetic Dream Leads to Plant Medicine

That night, I had a dream.

In it, I was working at McDonald’s, and my manager’s name was Emily. (I actually did have a manager named Emily, at one point, but it wasn’t at McDonald’s…)

I kept calling out her name: “Emily… Emily!” Over and over again, like I needed her.
I also held a baby girl in my arms with piercing green eyes. She wasn’t mine, but I loved her instantly.

The next morning—Wednesday—I checked my email. And there it was.
An introduction email from Miranda… to a woman named… EMILY! My jaw was on the floor!

Emily was the one hosting the upcoming plant medicine ceremony. I was stunned. And when I clicked her website?
The medicine she worked with was Tepezcohuite, grandfather tree medicine—the exact medicine I had tried to sit with on an earlier trip to Tulum.

Let me pause here.

Back in September 2022, I had traveled to Tulum. I met a local man who asked me, “Have you ever communed with Tepezcohuite?”

I hadn’t even heard of it before. I was looking for ayahuasca at the time.
He told me about this tree medicine, how powerful it was, and said he’d check if the shaman was available.

He later told me, that the shaman was in Mérida holding a ceremony.
I didn’t chase it. No worries. If it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t going to force it.

Turns out it was, just not yet…

The Rose Inside the Pyramid— My Sacred Sigil

Flash forward to January 2023.
I dreamed the name Emily.
I woke up to an email from someone named Emily.
And she worked with the exact medicine I tried to find in Mexico.

The medicine found me.

We had our discovery call—what was meant to be 20 minutes turned into a soul-deep hour. And when I finally saw her in person, I realized why she looked so familiar.

She had the same green eyes as the baby girl in my dream.
The threads were undeniable now.

The February ceremony was my first. The visuals, the giggles, the revelation—it was all new to me. But the way Emily held space… sacred, clean, loving… I knew I wanted to keep working with her.

So I booked a 1:1 energy healing session.

When I arrived, she said she felt called to do something different than what was originally booked.
I agreed and laid on the table.

We called in the Divine Feminine. And when she asked me, “Who is here?”

I said: “Goddess Isis and Mary Magdalene.”

Mary Magdalene and the Divine Feminine

At that point in my journey, I was more familiar with Goddess Isis. I had called upon her before, danced with her in meditations, felt her regal presence in the quiet. Egyptian mythology had always pulled at something in me I couldn’t name. So when she arrived in that session, I recognized her immediately.

But Mary Magdalene…she was new to me. At least, on a conscious level.

I grew up Catholic. I’d heard heard her name in passing—always paired with shame, with sin, with redemption through a man. That version of her never stuck. I never really knew her. Not in my mind.

But in that moment, her energy came through like warm honey and rose petals. My soul recognized her. Even if my mind hadn’t caught up yet.

Emily then said, “Ask them for your power tools. Sacred objects to help you remember who you are.”

So I did. And I was shown a vision.
A pink rose inside a glowing pyramid of iridescent light.

A symbol. A sigil. A seal.

I spent months searching for a physical version of that symbol—earrings, pendants, anything.

I couldn’t find it. So I let it be.

Divinely Inked—A Portal in the Skin

Until July 17, 2023, in Gili Air, a small, beautiful island in Indonesia.

I was fresh out of my 200-hour yoga teacher training. A new sister from the program invited me to her tattoo session with a bamboo tattoo artist.

I was drawn to his energy. I told him about my vision: the rose and the pyramid. 

He drew it exactly as I saw it in my mind’s eye. 
That was my first tattoo.
But more than that—it was a ritual, a rite of passage.

Tattoos, to me, are portals. They hold memories.
And this one? It sealed my vow.

This wasn’t just a plant medicine story.
This was an initiation. Part two comes soon. Stay close.

With Love and Gratitude,
Dulce Olivia🌹

Originally posted on my Substack on 01 June 2025

I Choose the Bear, Part 1 – Surviving Silence, Finding My Voice

Not kidding… It’s 3:33 AM as I begin to write this. I found myself telling this story over and over, so I figured why not put the pen to paper and clear my mind? Then maybe sweet slumber will meet me in the space between my ears instead of these words.

This story has a happy ending. I feel guided to lead with that before I walk us through this dark, thorny part of the path I traversed to get to where I am today.

I was young and sweet, only 17, having the time of my life. I attended a house party with my close friends at that time. The guy I was dating invited me, but we met there. It was in the basement of a house that was under a 10-minute drive from my parents’ house. Music, laughter, the kind of night you don’t think twice about… until you do. Until years later, your bones remember what your mind could not.

Of course, there was booze, lots of it, and of course, I drank lots of it. I remember I wore a white dress. It almost looked like a nurse’s costume with the buttons that ran from the neckline down the length of the dress. I also remember pineapple juice. Whatever alcohol I drank was mixed with pineapple juice.

We were dancing, having a good time.

Then, it was morning.

I woke up on my friend’s couch. I was hungover, and my body was sore.

I went to the bathroom… There was blood on my underwear.

I assumed I’d had sex with the guy I was dating.

I don’t remember if it was the day after, or in the days or weeks to follow, that I learned the party we went to was a bachelor’s party… and that I was offered to the groom-to-be by the guy I was dating.

Looking back now, I believe the shame, guilt, and disgust that I felt towards myself numbed the anger, betrayal, and disgust that I should have felt towards them.

I branded myself with the scarlet letter. On a very subconscious level, I loathed myself. I felt dirty, unworthy, unlovable.

That was the programming that was running in the background. And to operate from such a place of little-to-no self-love is a recipe for self-destruction.

But I am a survivor. And because I had survived, without the tools to process what had happened, I began to destroy the very things that brought me joy. Fleeting moments. Beautiful connections. I pushed them away, not because I didn’t want them…but because some part of me believed I didn’t deserve to keep them. I destroyed everything, but not to the point of death.

I kept myself alive. Smiling on the outside…while on the inside, I felt the opposite.

I buried those feelings deep, deep inside my bones.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I don’t like the word sabotage.

It feels too conscious, too cruel.

But in hindsight, I can see how I would end things before they could end me. I pushed love away before it could prove me right about being unlovable.

Fast forward maybe four or five years. It was around the time Sports Authority was closing down their brick-and-mortar locations. I drove to the one closest to my house to take advantage of their sales. I wanted a pair of rollerblades.

I had a pair on and I was rolling down the aisles, giving them a test roll…

When I saw my abuser walking around with his daughter and his mistress, might I add.

I knew it was his mistress because, at that time, I didn’t understand why, but I had grown obsessed with him and my ex, so I would creep on their Facebook pages. Like, I had to know what they were doing. Hence why I knew that was his mistress.

We locked eyes.

My chest turned to cement.

Heat crawled up my neck.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t move.

The shelves became my anchor as I dragged myself out of sight.

I had never experienced anything like that before in my life.

I remember feeling embarrassed. Like I was the one who fucked up. Because in that moment, I still believed I was at fault…for getting so drunk, for not knowing what my limit was, and for blacking out. For doing that to myself.

I mean, for fuck’s sake—a friend of mine, she was actually our DD (designated driver) that night…she tried to pull me out of the bedroom. And she was kicked out of the party.

And yet, I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.

I thought that was the last time he would enter my life. I was wrong. He returned years later — not in person, but in headlines and hashtags.

Fast forward to the #MeToo movement. I remember reading the stories of all the brave women who came forward, and I remember saying to myself:

”Wait… that’s what happened to me. That sounds like my story!”

It wasn’t until then that I realized I had been graped. That I was a victim of sexual assault. That I had been taken advantage of when I was vulnerable.

Fuck.

So now, a whole slew of new, or maybe not new, but deeply repressed emotions began to bubble up into my chest. The sad part was that I couldn’t even fathom the thought of being a victim of SA. It almost felt worse. Because at least before, it was MY doing. It was MY choice. I overgave.

This realization meant that I had been silenced.

That MY choice was ignored and completely disregarded.

That they took. They overtook.

And somehow, that was worse.

So I buried that realization and the emotions it stirred up deeper into my bones. I locked the door and threw away the key.

And life went on…

I thought silence was safety.

I was wrong.

Part 2 is the moment I chose the bear.

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If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please know: You do not have to stay silent. You are not alone. Your voice matters. Your healing matters.

There are resources available to support you:

📞 National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN)

1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

Free. Confidential. 24/7.

https://rainn.org

This is deeply sensitive material, and if you’ve read all the way through, thank you for holding space. Thank you for witnessing this piece of my story. Thank you for honoring yours..

Originally posted on my Substack on 21 July 2025

The Most Spiritual Path: Anchoring Divinity into Humanity

A Journey of Reuniting Divinity and Humanity Through the Body

We are divine beings—yes. But the real magic?
Is in the human experience. Emphasis on human. 
We awaken to who we are… and instantly want to outrun our flesh.

But this is a gentle reminder that we chose this. This beautiful, complex, strong, yet fragile, fleshy temple. We chose to experience this reality through this body and from this body—this home we get to call our own.

I know I sound like a broken record when I say this, but I can’t emphasize it enough:
We aren’t meant to escape our humanity. The whole point of this journey is to anchor our divinity into our humanity.

Plot twist:
We are the star people who have incarnated to help humanity evolve—to transcend these denser energies. It’s been almost four years since my abrupt spiritual awakening, and I’ll admit—the greater part of my journey was spent meditating, channeling, transcending my body.

Without sugarcoating it: I was escaping.

It wasn’t until my last birthday in December, after gifting myself an Ayahuasca retreat to celebrate my Christ year—that something shifted. That experience pulled me from spiritual bypassing back into trauma-informed, body-based healing.

Grandmother Ayahuasca didn’t tell me what to do or hint at the path I’m now walking. But what she did do was show me all the pain stored in my body. Pain I thought I had meditated away, healed with divine light, and painted over with affirmations I wasn’t yet ready to embody.

When the Light Tried to Outrun the Body

And I’m not saying that I didn’t heal.

When my I AM Presence entered this body, it brought in its own core lessons—what we like to call “wounds.” 
So now, those lessons are compounded on top of the ones this vessel inherited through its lineages.

The learnings, or what we call “healing,” they registered on a soul level. 

So, yes—I did heal. But it happened on a soul level. Meanwhile, my body was telling a different story.
So now… two stories were being told at once. 
My soul was dancing. My body was still aching.

⸻

It wasn’t until much later (earlier this year) that it truly dawned on me what anchoring my divinity into my humanity actually meant—for me.

(As always: take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.)

I—my I AM Presence—have seen the light, felt it, swam in it, bathed in it. But I didn’t share much with my parched body. I thought I was living fully embodied, but it was all surface-level. Because deep down, my body still ached.

Was I spiritually gaslighting myself?

I then realized embodiment isn’t a concept; it’s daily, physical choices that either ground you and anchor you into the body, or separate you from it.

GASP!!!

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It was easy to get away with it, too. Because my channel is strong. When I channel for others, the current is strong, flowing, and pure. 
So I’d tell myself I was “good.” Otherwise, how would I be able to channel like I do?

But remember earlier, when I called our human bodies complex?
They have the ability to compartmentalize. It’s so easy for me to be of service to others because I deprive myself of my own sweet medicine. But not fully, which is why I was able to get away with it for so long.

Ai’s attempt at recreating what I see when I am greeted by Grandmother Ayahuasca

The Body Keeps the Real Score

Grandmother Ayahuasca took me deep into my bones—where untold stories were finally ready to be heard. Fully. Without shame and with compassion.

So yes, I still channel. But now I channel through my fascia, my bones, my muscles, my breath—through lingering, silent aches.

Our bodies indeed keep the score. As Bessel van der Kolk explains in The Body Keeps the Score, trauma imprints on fascia and the nervous system…exactly why somatic tools matter.

When I first started consciously channeling the Akashic Records, it told me: 
It lives in the body. Passed down in our DNA. Written on the fascia.

I recently realized that in having a conversation with my body, I was talking to the universe itself!!!

(Say what!?)

⸻

Your Body the Altar

I might have lost a few of you here, but think about it…
We are light. Correct?
And we traveled into our individual bodies and “powered” them up. Correct?

Imagine a lighthouse.
The body is the structure. Your soul is the light beaming through it.
But if your windows are dirty, cloudy, the brightness and even the reach of your light will be hindered.

Anchoring divinity into our humanity starts with honoring and respecting our sacred temples, the structures. Because that’s what our bodies are.

Actually…

I’ll do you one better: Your body is your altar.
Just as we so readily and excitedly build ornate altars for benevolent light beings we call upon, we should be doing the same with our bodies.

YOU are the altar.

It won’t matter if you have fresh flowers, expensive crystals, and oils on a tapestry—if your built-in altar is covered in dust and cobwebs.

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And I’m not one to judge. I see why we do it. It’s easier. It’s easier to look outward than within. And I think I’ve discovered why: Because that is where the real magic lies. And once you take a hold of it—of your essence, there is no turning back. Because being a divine creator on Earth comes with a depth of responsibility that humbles the soul and expands the heart.
Not a burden, but a sacred honoring. A choosing to live in alignment with the power you now remember you hold.

⸻

Why We Avoid the Real Magic

I know why it took me so long to get deep into the nooks and crannies, to clear the dust. It was scary and painful to remember. 
But my body recently told me something—I don’t need to remember the why or the how in order for her to close that loop.

All she needs from me… is presence. 
My presence reminds her that she is safe. She is in the present moment— in the now, and not stuck in the loop.

Closing the Loops

And these days, presence looks different.
It looks like:

• Honoring my sleep cycles

• Nourishing with foods that support hormonal balance and emotional stability

• Moving my body with the intention of regulating my nervous system, not overriding it

• Tending to the sacred intelligence of my system through breath work, through tapping, through full-body shakes, through complete stillness

These somatic practices are how I maintain coherence between my humanity and my divinity. This is how I clean the altar that allows me to channel, create, and serve from wholeness.

Because my altar isn’t just a place I visit. It’s the vessel I live in. It’s the vessel I stay present in. 

And the way I care for it on a deep cellular level determines how fully I can show up.
In light. In leadership. In service. 

But most importantly, for myself. 

For the Little Girl Who Dreamed of Freedom
The one who used to imagine a life where her softness was safe. Where her voice wasn't too much. Where her body wasn’t a battlefield, but a sanctuary. Where play was sacred. Where laughter was medicine. Where she danced barefoot through fields and spoke to the sky, because she knew it was listening.

She is my why. She is my anchor. She is my greatest teacher. And she lives in my body.

These wounds, these lessons, were never punishments. They were initiations. Invitations. Portals into remembrance.

And I… the student… have finally become ready to receive her teachings. Not from a book, not from the ethers, but from within me. From her.

She is proof that this path works.
Because embodiment isn’t a trend. It’s the transmission.

Circa 1995, somewhere in San Diego, CA

This story, my story—is the signal.
The frequency that calls in those who are ready to remember themselves, too. To tend to their own inner child, and to meet that child not with control or criticism, but with curiosity and utmost reverence.

So if you ask me?

The greatest spiritual journey you can embark on, here on Pachamama, is a very human experience.

Originally posted on my Substack on 7 July 2025