It happened quietly, with no warning, no explanation, no fanfare. Just gone. A new Substack I had created, a place I had so much hope for, disappeared into suspension after only five posts. It was my second Substack, meant to house a unique project, a Christ Consciousness syllabus built on the Catholic Lectionary. The idea was beautiful to me. I would follow the Church’s readings day by day, gently upgrading their meaning for those ready to move beyond doctrine into higher understanding. I saw it as a gift for initiates who still held a deep love for Jesus but needed help stepping beyond the limitations of Religion. It felt like a sacred assignment. I was laying the groundwork for what might have become a future book. I had no plans to advertise, no desire to be provocative. Just a simple, faithful structure where I could quietly work through the daily readings, one at a time, offering a higher perspective.
And yet, within one week, the entire page was suspended. Not flagged. Not put on hold. Not reviewed. Suspended. I never received a notice. I wasn’t told why. I didn’t violate any rules, and even if I had, I was never given the opportunity to address it. The door was simply shut, locked, and bolted from the outside. And in that moment, I realized something I think every writer must one day face. Substack says “your work is yours,” but that’s only true until it’s not. Because I couldn’t access the page to copy my work. I couldn’t download anything. And I couldn’t delete the page myself. I was locked out of my own house, unable to even salvage the furniture. I sat there stunned, staring at what used to be a doorway and now was just a wall.
For the sake of closure, I deleted the Google account I had used to sign up. It felt symbolic. A way to bury something that had already been taken from me. But the emotional impact was real. That account had hope in it. Vision. Purpose. I was willing to give it a year. I saw it as a foundation for something important, something sacred. And now it was ashes, and no one at Substack has offered a word. Perhaps no one ever will.
This experience has forced me to look closely at where I place my trust. This current Substack holds over three hundred posts. It is my sanctuary, my archive, my living book. If this page were suspended, all of it would be lost. I would be devastated. Not just for the time invested but for the wisdom encoded in those writings. That’s what this is really about. The preservation of wisdom. The sacred trust between a writer and their work. I know now that Substack, like every centralized platform, holds the final say. They can lock you out. They can shut you down. And they don’t have to explain why.
I have asked myself over and over why I was targeted. Was it because I dared to combine the Catholic Church with Christ Consciousness? Was it because the algorithm didn’t know how to categorize what I was doing? Was it simply an error? I’ll never know. And maybe that’s the point. The not knowing, the unreachability, the silence. That’s how control operates. Not through shouting, but through the quiet removal of access. You don’t need to be censored when you can be erased.
I don’t write this in anger. I don’t want to create contrast or generate outrage. I write it because I know there are others like me. Writers and mystics and sovereign beings who believe in the power of the word. People who are building something meaningful and may not realize how fragile it is when it sits on borrowed land. I’m not leaving this platform, but I am aware now. I am awake to the risk. I will be more careful. I will protect my work. And I will not let one moment of disappearance undo what I have built.
Because the voice they silenced still speaks. And it is stronger than ever.
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