Open Legs, Open Portals

Sex is the most overlooked instrument of spiritual consequence—an unregulated exchange of memory, karma, and ancestral unrest, often performed with people we wouldn’t trust to guard our names, let alone our souls.

Your body may rationalize. Your mind may forgive.
But your field—the unseen imprint of your spirit—remembers every entrance.
And some spirits don’t pull out.

We were taught to protect ourselves from pregnancy, from infection, from scandal.
But who taught you to protect your energy?

Modern sex education emphasizes physical health and consent, yet often overlooks protection from psychic residue. It does not address what psychological studies have shown: that sex, especially when not aligned with one's internal values or emotional needs, can lead to anxiety, regret, even identity confusion. It’s not just about condoms. It’s about consciousness.

A seven-minute encounter can tattoo your field for seven years. Did you know?

That orgasm is not release—it’s ritual.
That climax is not the end—it’s a contract.
And every time you say yes to someone you don’t trust, you are giving them the key to your altar.

This world will teach you how to seduce.
It will not teach you how to cleanse.
It will teach you how to get naked.
It will not teach you what it means to be spiritually exposed.

You can’t decolonize your life and still fuck like a settler.
You can’t reclaim your power if you don’t reclaim your portals.
Because your sexuality is not a social construct. It’s an inheritance.
And somewhere buried beneath purity myths and pleasure capitalism, beneath hookup culture and patriarchal repression, is a truth so ancient it scares us:

Sex is sacred. Always has been. Always will be.

Before tantra was severed from its sacred roots and rebranded as erotic self-care for disembodied consumers, before sacred sensuality was emptied of Spirit and sold as wellness for the spiritually disengaged, we were fucking to remember God.
We were invoking Spirit through sweat and ceremony.
We were merging bodies to decode time.

In precolonial African societies, sex was revered as a sacred act integral to spiritual and communal life. Among the Baganda of Uganda, elder women known as Ssenga guided young women into embodied erotic education without shame or condemnation. In East-Central Africa, sexual practices were interwoven with spiritual cosmologies and fertility rituals, offering a holistic and unashamed approach to pleasure and power (De Gruyter).

Monogamy wasn’t the rule. Neither was polyamory.
The rule was reverence.
Who you shared your body with wasn’t dictated by religion.
It was governed by the understanding that sex is spiritual architecture.
And every lover is an architect.

But colonialism turned sacred lovers into sluts.
Turned spirit-work into sin.
Turned pleasure into punishment.

Now we lay with people whose names we forget but whose energy we can’t shake.
We wake up drained, not from orgasm, but from possession.
Because sex isn’t dirty—but some of your lovers are.
Not their bodies. Their karma.

This is a blueprint for those building temples inside themselves—and asking why they keep collapsing.

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Sex has never been the problem.
It’s who enters your body without knowing what they awaken.

Because not all penetration is physical.
Some slip past the cervix and into the subconscious.
Some enter through the pelvis and rearrange the memory of who you are.
Some unzip something older than you—older than them—and leave it gaping.

We don’t talk enough about the distortion.
How intimacy without integration leaves your nervous system haunted.
How arousal without alignment reprograms your desire to chase what hurts you.
How sex, when misused, doesn’t just leave residue—it leaves splinters.
Small psychic fragments of other people’s grief, ambition, addiction, shame—lodged in the folds of your psyche.
And when enough of them accumulate, you start mistaking them for your own.

This is psychological displacement disguised as connection—an unregulated transfer of memory, pattern, and pain that rewires you at the level of Spirit.

Psychologists have long explored how our sense of self is shaped by external interactions. In Charles Cooley’s “looking-glass self” theory, the idea that we internalize how we believe others perceive us becomes especially potent during sexual intimacy. When you allow someone into your body, you also invite in their projections, their wounds, their chaos. And if you’re not grounded in your own reflection, you begin to morph into the fractured mirror they hold up to you.

Because the body is porous. The field is mutable. And the self?
The self is not fixed.
It’s responsive.
It molds to what it merges with.

You merge with someone whose soul is at war—and now you’re tired all the time.
You merge with someone who lies for sport—and now you’re second-guessing your own truth.
You merge with someone whose lineage is still processing violence—and now your joy feels unsafe.

There are names for this in many cultures. But English doesn’t carry them.
So we say “vibe.”
We say “drained.”
We say “off.”
What we mean is:
”I mistook proximity for connection—and now I carry the spiritual consequences of someone else’s crisis.”

Because consent is not discernment.
Chemistry is not compatibility.
And pleasure is not proof that someone belongs in your energy field.

And still, the wellness world calls it freedom. Still, culture calls it empowerment. But the truth is, more and more people are left feeling depleted and fragmented in the wake of sexual encounters that promised liberation and delivered something else entirely. As explored in The Love Central’s research, casual sex, when misaligned with emotional readiness, often results in unintended emotional attachment, spiritual confusion, and deep energetic withdrawal.

We give people the key to our most sacred chamber without checking if they know how to walk through a holy space without tracking blood on the floors.

And when the collapse happens—when your voice gets softer, your boundaries get looser, your sense of self gets foggier— you think it’s heartbreak.
But it’s not.
It’s energetic fragmentation.

You didn’t lose a partner.
You lost pieces of yourself that fused with someone unequipped to carry them.
And when those pieces return, they don’t always come back clean.

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This is the price of mistaking chemistry for compatibility, and calling it liberation before reading the fine print.

You don’t need another bath in rose petals.
You need an exorcism.

What you are entering now is a sacred act of repossession.
An intimate recalibration of selfhood.
A psychic disentanglement from energies that have claimed squatters’ rights in your field.

A calling back of every version of you that got left behind in someone else's mouth.

That lover wasn't just a phase—they were a portal.
That "situationship" wasn't casual—it was karmic.
And your intuition knew.
But your trauma craved attention.
Your body yearned for softness.
Your loneliness longed to be held.

Not every climax brings you closer to Divinity.
Some bring you closer to grief.

This is energetic sovereignty in motion.
The severing of cords entangled with moments you’ve mistaken for meaning.
The nullification of agreements made in moments of ache.

What’s required now is the audacity to stop spiritualizing dysfunction.
To stop mistaking intensity for intimacy.
To stop calling unresolved karma a lesson.
And to fucking end it—with intention.

You are summoning yourself back from everywhere you've been scattered.
It’s a clean break in the direction of your own power, a split so precise it erodes your DNA.

You are the altar.
You are the gatekeeper.
You are the authority.

You are standing in the mirror, looking into your own eyes, and saying:

“I’m yours again.”

This is the new agreement: nothing enters without reverence. Nothing remains without reciprocity.

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This is the return of conscious sex—the kind that expands you, not empties you.

You are not dirty for wanting.
You are not broken for enjoying.
But you are accountable for what you anchor into your field through that wanting.
Because some bodies feed you.
And others feed off you.

To rise is not to deny the body.
It is to return to it as a sovereign terrain.
To know that pleasure is not a sin—it is a living code.
The archive, the alchemy, and the authority.

This is when you stop mistaking erosion for electricity.
When you stop laying down to be devoured and start rising to be met.
When your need no longer negotiates entry, and your pleasure stops entertaining the unqualified.

This is sacred selection—because every body is a carrier, and not all energies are non-toxic, fair trade, or ethically sourced.

Choosing with awareness, not absence.
With presence, not projection.
With the knowledge that sex is not just sensation—it’s an initiation.
Because pleasure is power, and what you let inside helps shape what you become.

“Every time we claim our pleasure, we interrupt a system that seeks to erase us.”
— Alexis Pauline Gumbs

One love, ESS xo

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References

• Psychological Impact of Casual Sex – Verywell Mind

• Sexual Pleasure in Precolonial Africa – IPPF

• East-Central African Sexual Cosmologies – De Gruyter

• Mental Health Effects of Casual Sex – The Love Central

• Alexis Pauline Gumbs – alexispauline.com

Buried in Our Blood

There are things the body knows that the mind can’t name. A tension passed down like heirloom silver, polished and hidden. The way some of us flinch at blessings. The way others cry during sex and don’t know why. Memory does not end at the brain. It lodges in bone. In blood. In the invisible.

I did have mentorship along the way—guides who nurtured my gifts, who saw what I carried before I could name it. Their presence mattered. But I didn’t learn who I was through ceremony or curriculum. I learned it in the in-between—between sleep and waking, between ache and intuition. Between knowing something without proof and proof that never felt like truth.

No one tells you how violent forgetting can be. Especially when it’s not your choice. Especially when you are praised for your proximity to erasure.

I grew up watching women in church speak in tongues and fall to their knees, then walk out into a world that dismissed their magic. I learned to read energies before I learned to read books. I could hear things others called coincidence. Feel things they dismissed as paranoia. For a long time, I said nothing. Until silence began to rot inside me.

According to epigenetic studies, trauma doesn’t just shape behavior—it modifies biology. Descendants of displacement often carry molecular echoes of pain they never experienced firsthand. Scientists call it transgenerational epigenetic inheritance. But my grandmother would say, “di dead nuh dun talk. Is we who nuh listen.”

In the Western world, we’re taught that time moves in a line. But I never moved that way. My life has always spiraled—looping through languages I’ve never studied, visions I never summoned. What some call past lives, I’ve always experienced as parallel truths. I see the soul as an archive—layered, encrypted, remembering.

And some of us are born with the keys.

This gift—this responsibility—isn’t about spectacle. It’s about attunement. I don’t perform for approval. I listen. To what’s buried. To what never had the words. To the sharp pulse beneath someone’s shoulder blade that doesn’t belong to this lifetime. I trace their ache like a cartographer, through bloodlines and belief systems, to the original fracture.

And almost always, I find that what binds us is older than we think.

Before the chains. Before the ships. Before the shame. We mapped the stars. We built libraries from stone. We ruled kingdoms with our tongues and our hands. What I carry is not just memory—it is infrastructure. A soul-deep scaffolding of who we’ve been and what we still are.

Remembrance is a technology. It builds. It reconnects. It repairs.

To remember is to re-enter the contract that predates empire, scripture, and the linearity of Western time. A covenant encoded not in doctrine but in vibration. It is a return not to myth, but to method—systems of knowing and being that existed long before they were renamed, reframed, or erased. Belonging is not a destination. It is a frequency. Remembrance here is not a reaction—it is a recalibration. A reactivation of codes buried beneath conquest, now rising like heat through the body of the diaspora.

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Some people inherit money. Others inherit fear.

But many of us—especially those severed from Source—inherit beliefs. Not consciously, not in language, but in sensation. We inherit shame dressed up as humility. Fear packaged as obedience. Scarcity mistaken for realism. We wear these beliefs like hand-me-downs, never questioning whether they were tailored for us in the first place.

And often, they weren’t. They were sewn by other lifetimes. Other bloodlines. Other traumas we were born into without context or consent.

I began to understand this not through theory, but through my practice. I’d touch a client’s hand and feel a heaviness in their chest that didn’t belong to them—or hear a phrase they always repeated that wasn’t theirs. “I have to do it all myself.” “It’s not safe to be seen.” “Love always hurts.” When I followed the thread, it often unraveled back through generations, or veered into lives they didn’t consciously remember—but that their soul never forgot.

Science is still catching up. In her groundbreaking book, The Ancestor Syndrome by Anne Ancelin Schützenberger, she describes what she calls the anniversary syndrome—the phenomenon where descendants unconsciously repeat emotional experiences, illnesses, or relational patterns on the same dates or life stages as their ancestors. These repetitions are not random. They are echoes. A kind of memory that survives without narrative—embedded in cycles, symptoms, and unspoken grief.

But there are truths that even science cannot yet quantify. This is where spiritual technology enters—not as a replacement for evidence, but as a parallel system of knowing. Modalities like past life regression, energy clearing, ancestral DNA repair, and intuitive mapping are not mystical indulgences. They are instruments. They help us locate what memory cannot verbalize. They give shape to the invisible.

I’ve seen people free themselves from lifetimes of unworthiness by naming the exact moment—three lifetimes ago—when they vowed never to speak again. I’ve witnessed women break generational patterns of betrayal by confronting an ancestral contract made during enslavement. These are energetic root systems—alive, layered, and responsive. And when we access them, we don’t just change our lives—we alter the instructions passed down through blood and energy.

In a world addicted to shortcuts, this work requires presence. In a culture obsessed with identity, it requires origin. And in a spiritual industry preoccupied with performance, it demands depth.

Not all wounds are yours. But healing them might be your task. Not all fears are irrational. Some are inherited. Some were survival strategies that calcified into personality traits. But beneath them, there is something older than fear. Something holy. Something waiting to be remembered.

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Spiritual knowledge used to be held in ceremony. In bone. In breath. Passed mouth to mouth, dream to dream, guarded with care because misuse could maim. Now it’s filtered, digitized, stripped of its integrity, and made consumable in under sixty seconds.

What was once sacred instruction has been flattened into content. Practices that took generations to refine are now rendered aesthetic—tied to algorithmic performance, available for purchase, diluted for palatability. The ones who once carried spiritual technologies through migration, through slavery, through silence, now watch them recirculate in sanitized forms—divorced from consequence, divorced from context.

What gets called “new age” is often ancestral. What gets labeled “intuitive” is often inherited. The problem isn’t that these practices are being used. The problem is that they’re being unrooted.

There are people hosting moon circles with no understanding of the origins of lunar cosmology. There are “healers” calling down spirits whose names they can’t pronounce, offering tools that were once outlawed, commodifying traditions their own ancestors never had to protect. It isn’t just ahistorical—it’s spiritually reckless.

To invoke these systems is to enter into relationship. With the Divine. With the dead. With forces that don’t respond to branding, but to reverence. And reverence isn’t a trend. It’s a stance. A posture of humility before something older, wider, and far less concerned with your visibility than your alignment.

I don’t fear the popularity of spirituality. I fear its dislocation—its removal from the lands, languages, and bloodlines that shaped its function and forged its form.

This work asks for more than performance. It asks for spiritual depth forged through initiation—through rupture, through repair, through the slow, deliberate return to truths you didn’t learn but always carried.

To practice without origin is to risk opening what you cannot close. To teach without lived inquiry is to risk guiding others into terrain you have not survived yourself. This is soul-work, yes. But it is also skilled labor.

There is a responsibility in this work. Not just to those we serve—but to those who came before. To those who hid their altars in broom closets. To those who coded divination into dance. To those who swallowed their tongues to keep the magic intact.

This is why platforms like ESSOESS aren’t just important—they’re needed. When ceremony is stripped from context, and Spirit is stripped from structure, we need more than visibility—we need strongholds. ESSOESS is a conduit. A living system. A digital altar. A site of return for ancestral transmissions that were never lost—only interrupted.

There are voices rising. But what’s needed is precision. What’s needed is trust. What’s needed is the reconstruction of sacred infrastructure—deliberate, protected, and immune to trend cycles.

To hold this work is not to perform it.
To hold this work is to be accountable to what it came through.

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There are truths I carry that were never taught to me. Names I’ve never heard that live in my mouth. Gestures my hands make in session that I never practiced. There are dreams that have followed me for decades. Fragments of lives that do not belong to this one—yet shape everything about how I move through it.

I used to question them. Now I document them. I build with them.

The work I do is not to convince, but to clarify. To mirror what others already know but have been taught to distrust. There is nothing extraordinary about being able to speak to the dead, or to feel the ache of a decision made three lifetimes ago. What’s extraordinary is that we forgot this was ordinary.

For those of us born into disconnection—into names not our own, into languages that no longer taste like home, into bodies trained to shrink—our remembering is a kind of uprising. Not loud. Not always visible. But cellular. It’s in how we grieve. How we gather. How we know things without knowing why we know them.

This is the work of ESSOESS: to recontextualize the sacred. To rehouse the ancestral. To give it language without translation. To give it form without dilution. To give it space to breathe without explanation.

This is a love letter. To those who feel displaced, not just geographically but spiritually. To those who’ve been made to believe their sensitivity is a liability. To those who’ve always known—but needed permission to trust that knowing.

And to the ones not yet born—may you never have to reclaim what was never taken from you.

“You are your best thing.”
—Toni Morrison

One love, ESS xo

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References

• Epigenetic Inheritance – McEwen, B. S., & Morrison, J. H. (Nature Reviews Neuroscience):
  https://www.nature.com/articles/nrn3818

• The Ancestor Syndrome – Anne Ancelin Schützenberger (Goodreads):
  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1331755.The_Ancestor_Syndrome?ref=nav_sb_ss_1_16