Right ❓ By now everyone here should know how to use discernment and listen 👂 You will feel it. Tongue heavy - tense shoulders - hairs raising - Listen & Be QUIET ‼️

FROM OUR CLASSROOM: CHANNELED MESSAGE FROM YESHUA - THE LIVING BLUEPRINT - LINK CHANNELED MESSAGE FROM YESHUA - THE KEYS TO THE KINGDOM - LINK @Clarissa Rodriguez INTERVIEW SUGGESTION TO WATCH - LINK FOR ALL OUR PAST RECORDINGS OF LIVE EVENTS & CHANNELINGS, PLEASE USE THE CLASSROOMS TO WATCH. #recording #navigateskool #jesus #messagesfromjesus #yeshua

Smoke and Mirrors Life is smoke and mirrors. Have you ever noticed that when you’re walking through the gutter—when life has stretched you to the thinnest threads of your own strength—you somehow attract people carrying the exact same wounds you are trying to survive? They find you. And suddenly, you become fluent in hope. You know exactly what to say. You offer perspective, encouragement, grace. You remind them that this season will pass, that they are stronger than they feel, that they are worthy of rest, love, and another chance to begin again. And somehow, your words help them rise. But wait a minute. You’re going through the same bloody thing. So why is it easier to believe in their healing than your own? Why are you so convincing when speaking life into another person, yet so hesitant to offer that same compassion to the one staring back at you in the mirror? Smoke and mirrors. Perhaps life isn’t punishing you. Perhaps it is reflecting you. Every encounter, every conversation, every person you feel called to rescue may be revealing exactly what your own soul is begging you to hear. The wisdom pouring out of you was never meant to stop at someone else’s doorstep. It was meant to make its way home. So maybe the next time you tell someone, “Be gentle with yourself,” pause long enough to ask if you’ve been gentle with you. The next time you whisper, “You are going to be okay,” let your own heart hear it too. Because the mirror has been waiting patiently. Not to expose your flaws, but to remind you that the love, understanding, and grace you so freely extend to others were never things you lacked. They were always yours. To the reader: The advice you keep giving away may be the medicine your own heart has been waiting to receive. — Nekesha Burrell To my SSA Family. Please be as gentle with yourself as you are with a stranger - as patient as you are with a child and as caring as you are with everyone else - BUT you ❤️💙 have. A great weekend.

Have you listened to @Clarissa Rodriguez interview on Collective Souls with @Bergomy Jeannis and @Midgi Cadet Amazing conversation. Please listen 🎧 https://open.spotify.com/episode/4xhF5AsaBlM6lHVOj3Zmf7

But not in the way you think. I am the woman who gets things done. The one who carries the meetings, remembers the birthdays, meets the deadlines, holds the family together, smiles while saying, “I’ve got it.” I am resilient. I know how to rebuild from ashes. I know how to turn grief into gratitude, heartbreak into wisdom, fear into fuel. I speak of hope as if I invented it. I tell others, “You’ll get through this.” I remind them that storms pass. I quote the lessons. I wear the courage. I stand at podiums and call it strength. I have mastered the art of carrying mountains without anyone noticing my knees are shaking. I know how to say, “I’m fine,” in seven different languages. I know how to make pain look productive. I know how to laugh at dinner after crying in the car. I know how to comfort everyone else while forgetting that I, too, am someone. I know how to perform healing. I know how to wear the mask. And tonight, it slipped. I cried because the truth finally asked to be heard. Not the polished truth. Not the inspirational one. Not the version with the perfect ending. The small truth. The trembling truth. The truth with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands. I am three. I am three years old, looking up at a world far too big, trying to understand why love sometimes leaves, why voices become sharp, why silence feels like punishment. I am three, learning that being “good” might keep everyone close. I am three, mistaking responsibility for safety. I am three, becoming remarkable because remarkable children get noticed. I am three, becoming strong because softness felt dangerous. I am three, still waiting for someone to kneel down, hold my face in their hands, and whisper, “You never had to earn your place here. You never had to carry what was never yours. You were never too much. You were never not enough. You were always worthy of being held.” And perhaps healing was never about removing the mask. Perhaps it was about taking it off long enough