I woke up and said out loud: "WTF was all that?"
Then I made coffee. Then I wrote it all down. And now I'm sharing it with you, because this dream wasn't just for me.
It was a message. A rehearsal. A coronation.
And by the time I got to the end of it, I realized something I need you to hear too:
I passed every test. And so will you.
Part One: The Ex in the Car
The dream started in a car. An ex was sitting next to me, trying to manipulate me into having sex. He was acting like I was a drug — desperate, pervertish, overbearing.
But here's the thing.
I kept saying NO.
Firm. Clear. Repeated.
And I didn't let him touch me.
In the old days? That might have gone differently. But this version of me? She doesn't fold. She doesn't cave. She doesn't feel guilty for protecting her body and her energy.
That was the first test. And I passed.
Part Two: The Knock on the Window
While I'm holding my boundary with this old energy, a short blonde Caucasian woman knocks on my passenger side window.
She says she had to go through a lot of measures to find me.
In her left hand, she's holding a key fob with a piece of paper wrapped around it with a rubber band. Blue ink on the paper. I felt like it was my name written on it.
I cracked the window — not all the way. For my safety. Because something already felt off.
She started whispering.
I told her to speak up. "I have nothing to hide," I said.
She insisted on whispering. Said it was nobody's business.
I said it again: "It's okay to speak up. I have nothing to hide."
She got upset. Frowned up her face. Opened my door. Demanded I get out. Leaned in to touch me and pull me out.
That's when I stopped her cold:
"Don't touch me. I get out by myself."
Part Three: The Entourage Arrives
As soon as I said that, her people appeared.
About twenty women. Caucasian, Indian, Hispanic, Asian. Different races. Different faces. Same energy.
They had notebooks and pins. Silent. Watching. Taking notes.
I didn't know if they were on jury duty concerning me or what. But I knew one thing: I was being observed.
The blonde woman said, "There's a discrepancy with your social security number."
She started to say it out loud — my private information — right there in front of everyone.
I stopped her immediately. "We need to go inside my office to talk. That's very private information."
She refused. And now she wasn't whispering anymore. She was loud. Rude. Demanding.
The women with the notebooks just watched. Never said a word.
Part Four: Righteous Indignation
Something rose up in me.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Fire.
I stood up. And I cussed her out.
Not pretty. Not polite. The way my late grandmother Elizabeth used to cuss when somebody came for her family.
I said: "Bitch, you don't even know me! There's nothing wrong with my social security number. I've never been out of the country. I am a US Citizen. My identity is not stolen. I have all the proper documents to prove this. But who are you? Show me your identification. Who sent you?"
And just like that…
Their faces changed.
Frightened. Embarrassed.
They started backing away.
But I wasn't done.
Part Five: The Witch Wakes Up
I counted them. Every single one.
Then I raised my hand and started circling their faces in the air — tracing a fiery red line around each one. Then I crossed them out. One by one.
And I said:
"Y'all didn't know I am a witch. A real witch. So since y'all want to be disrespectful and harass me, I curse you all."
They scattered like little rodents.
The short blonde woman? Disappeared into thin air.
Just… gone.
It was over.
Part Six: The Rocking Chair
I was relieved. Exhausted. Amped.
I went to sit down in one of the big beautiful rocking chairs on the cement platform outside my spiritual school. My mother loved rocking chairs. I want to get a big old house one day with a wrap-around porch full of them, in her honor. That's probably why it was there.
I just wanted a minute to breathe. To wrap my mind around what just happened.
But I didn't get a minute.
Because then the men appeared.
Part Seven: The Witnesses
Beautiful Black men. Sitting in the rocking chairs around me. Discussing what happened. How I handled it.
They were intrigued. Tickled. Impressed.
They called the event powerful. Said they'd never witnessed anything like it before.
They looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. But in my mind, I was still trying to figure out what the hell was happening.
I kept it chill, though. Because they made me feel safe.
Part Eight: Obama Had My Back
Then former president Barack Obama walked up.
Dress shirt. Sleeves rolled up. No tie.
He sat down. Looked at me. And addressed me by my name:
"Queen Tiyi."
He asked what happened.
One of the men said, "Let us give you the edited version."
I said, "No. I'm going to tell it like it is."
I looked at him and said: "Mr. President, these muthafuckas showed up on my property demanding and trying to tell me what to do. I cussed them the fuck out."
The men were shocked. But still tickled.
Obama asked if I was aware of what they were talking about — the social security thing.
I said, "Yes, I got some paper in the mail about a week ago. I thought it was a scam. Nothing urgent."
He asked when I got the letter. I told him.
Then he said:
"You did the right thing."
He stood up. Looked me dead in my eyes. And said:
"I'll take care of this for you."
Then he walked past me off the platform.
And in the distance? Michelle. Smiling. Proud.
I woke up.
What This Dream Means
Let me break it down simply.
The ex in the car was old energy trying one last time to manipulate me. I said no. I held my boundary. That part of my life is over.
The blonde woman was false authority — anyone or anything that shows up demanding access to you without your consent, whispering like they have a secret, trying to shame you into compliance.
The entourage with notebooks was the silent crowd. The watchers. The people who will witness your test and never say a word. You don't perform for them. You just be you.
The social security number attack was an assault on my identity. My legitimacy. My right to exist as a sovereign being. But I know who I am. I have my documents. I have my proof. And I don't owe anyone my private information just because they ask.
The cussing and banishing was my ancestral fire — my grandmother Elizabeth flowing through my voice — and my real power as a witch. I didn't just get mad. I performed magic. I circled their faces. I crossed them out. I declared who I am.
The scattering is what false authority always does when you see through it and fight back.
The Black men in rocking chairs were witnesses. Safe masculine energy. They didn't save me. They watched me save myself. And they celebrated me.
Obama was the highest symbolic authority in my dream. He called me Queen. He asked for my truth, not an edited version. He validated me. And then he said: "I'll take care of the rest."
Michelle smiling was divine feminine pride. No jealousy. Just joy.
And that's the part that still gets me.
Obama had my back.
The Spiritual Message
Here's what I need you to understand.
This dream was not literal. It was a rehearsal.
Your subconscious runs these scenarios so that when something similar shows up in waking life — a manipulator, a false authority, a crowd watching, an attack on your identity — you already know what to do.
You say NO.
You demand transparency.
You protect your private information.
You flip the interrogation.
You call on your ancestors.
You use your power.
You curse if you have to.
You banish them.
You sit back down in your mother's rocking chair.
You tell the truth without editing it.
You let the highest forces handle the rest.
You are not weak. You are not powerless. You are not at the mercy of people who show up with rubber bands and whispers.
You are a witch. A real one.
And when you stand in that truth, even presidents will have your back.
For Anyone Who Needs to Hear This
Maybe you've had people show up in your life demanding access to you. Maybe they whispered lies about you. Maybe they brought silent witnesses to watch you fall.
Maybe you've been afraid to cuss them out. Afraid to curse them. Afraid to be "the bad guy."
Let this dream release you from that fear.
Righteous anger is not sin. It's protection.
Banishing is not evil. It's hygiene.
Cussing is not unspiritual. Sometimes it's prayer.
And telling the truth — unedited, unfiltered, uncensored — is the most powerful magic you will ever wield.
Closing
I don't know if a letter is coming in the mail. I don't know if false authority will knock on my door. I don't know if Obama is going to handle anything for me in the waking world.
But I do know this:
The version of me in that dream is the version of me I'm becoming right now.
The one who says NO.
The one who demands respect.
The one who cusses like her grandmother.
The one who circles faces in fiery red air.
The one who sits back down in her mother's rocking chair.
The one who tells the truth without editing.
The one who lets spirit take care of the rest.
That woman is not waiting for permission.
And neither are you.
Queen Tiyi, they called me in the dream.
And honestly? That's exactly who I am.
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