Defying Gravity, Defining Me
A blog. and a spiritual reintroduction.
" Something has changed within me.
Something is not the same. "
Something has changed—not into something new, but something old. Something original. Something intrinsic to who I am.
It’s not that I’ve become someone else, but rather, that I’ve returned to myself—to what I was before the world shaped me, before I took my first breath.
Wicked is now on Netflix, and last night I lay in the bath and watched it for the first time since seeing it in cinemas. I know it’s a story that has resonated deeply with many, for many different reasons. I’ve had countless conversations with friends about what it stirred in them. But last night, for the first time, it stirred something in me—a private, precious moment in which lyrics gave language to hidden, unfolding places within.
For those unfamiliar, Wicked reimagines the story of the Wicked Witch of the West—Elphaba—not as a villain, but as a misunderstood, principled young woman who dares to think differently, love deeply and defy the expectations placed on her. It’s a story about otherness, integrity and the courage to choose what feels deeply true—even when it costs you everything.
Lately, I’ve been digging into the layers of identity, asking: Who am I, really?
The answers have emerged slowly, like unearthing fossilised pillars. I’ve chipped away at these ancient artefacts and uncovered them, one by one: Artist. Writer. Bohemian.
These have felt true and fitting. Yet, I sensed something remained—waiting to be uncovered and named; something that encapsulates the core of my spiritual identity.
And inescapably, I’ve found myself returning to one word: Mystic.
It’s a term that holds many meanings and, naturally, invites many interpretations. It’s not as tidy, nor does it fit comfortably within traditional boxes like Evangelical Christian, Pentecostal or Anglican—it drifts at the edges, resists the frame. It can feel slippery, suspicious or even subversive. But I keep coming back to it—not as a trend or a title, but as a home.
Because when I look at the life of Jesus, I see a Mystic through and through. And I find deep peace in being in the company of such as this.
You see, as Defying Gravity played last night, tears streamed down my face. The lyrics wrapped themselves around me—tender and true—and spoke my truth. That something has changed within me—something is not the same. That I’m done playing by the rules—of religion, of someone else’s game. It’s too late for second-guessing, too late to go back to sleep. It’s time to trust my instincts, close my eyes, and leap.
To leap into the unlimited—to look into the face of religious scarcity and restriction, and that voice that says, "Can't I make you understand? You're having delusions of grandeur!"
And answer: I'm through accepting limits—'cause someone says they're so. How could imagining the boundless grandeur of God ever be a delusion?
You see, for too long I’ve been afraid of losing love. But I now realise that if that’s love, it comes at much too high a cost.
Is it really love if it fades when you shift from Pentecostal Christian to Mystic? When you no longer believe in a limited God who only saves and can be seen in a select few?
Give me the life of a mystic—where my understanding and experience of God—He, She, They—expands with every passing day.
Give me the life of a mystic—where the road may be lonely, but friendship with the Divine is more than enough.
Give me the life of a mystic—that of an ever-evolving spiritual pilgrim, unconditionally held every step of the way. Where any other titles that may come—wife, mother, friend—are simply blessings added to an already whole and complete identity.
And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free.
Unlimited.
Unlimited.
Unlimited.
