Why I Wrote Fatima’s Alchemy

The Truth No One Wants to Say

Blood, Bone, and Alchemy: When Healing Isn’t Pretty

The Alchemy of Speaking the Unspeakable-

Four long years of complete solitude and isolation, with nowhere to turn and no one to turn to—me, my soul, and I. No distractions. No friends. No extended family. Only the sound of crickets. It was not a comfortable place.

Still, I stayed the course. Fatima’s Alchemy became the gold I forged in that silence—the treasure I discovered along the way. The key to my survival was refusing to grow bitter, despite having lost faith in people. I would not become that cold. My mission was to protect my heart and keep my creative spirit alive—to never let the world’s behaviour extinguish it.

Even without support, I would not join the bitter crowd. I continued to support others, no matter how little I received in return. I am still that same person. I stand against the hollow facades, even when I see them often. I choose not to judge, but I also choose not to follow.

Many people today speak of alchemy as if it were a trend, a poetic word to sprinkle into conversation. But do they truly understand what it means to embody it?

I am not talking about mixing herbs or crafting potions.

I am speaking of the real alchemy—raw, spiritual, moral, and metaphysical. The kind that happens when you stand naked in front of your own soul and every illusion is stripped away. True alchemy is the fire that burns through lies and façades until only essence remains.

You cannot know alchemy until you know yourself—what you stand for, what you will not follow, what you will not become.

Alchemy is the courage to see through veils and illusions, and still choose to stand apart from the crowd.

So again, I ask:

What is it?

It is to sit alone in the dark with yourself—no distractions, no validation, no escape—and face every shadow, every truth, every fracture in your own being.

It is to survive that reckoning.

And then wake up to find you are still not accepted or celebrated—

But the strength within you is so undeniable,

You walk anyway.

And when you walk anyway, your eyes become sharpened and clear. A quiet witnessing settles upon the one who knows the fire, who understands what it takes to stand in the dark and still choose to honour the light of the heart. This is the alchemist’s path—embracing both shadow and light, refusing to bypass the dark, and holding the heart as the flame.

The refusal to pretend the dark does not exist—

This is the truth. This is integrity.

This is the real alchemy, the kind most people avoid because it demands everything. Most prefer comfort, but this path is anything but comfortable at first; true comfort only comes after you have burned a thousand times. And when you have, you emerge—almost metaphorically—immortal, because you carry a wisdom no one can steal, no one can mimic.

This wisdom cannot be downloaded from a book, learned from a course, or captured in a YouTube video. It is etched into the salt of your skin, earned through fire, silence, and the courage to face your own shadows.

This is Why I Wrote Fatima’s Alchemy

Through the four long years of solitude —

And one more year of passage.

Through doubt, fear, and the question that haunted every page:

Who cares what I have to say?

I never set out to market a book.

I set out to leave behind something real.

A map drawn in blood and breath, not branding.

This is how she came through me.

This is why I wrote her.

This is what healing actually looked like.

Not the curated kind.

Not the kind you can post, sell, or hashtag.

But the kind that strips you bare —

And stitches your soul back together only after it has torn you apart.

I wasn’t going to share this.

But truth has a timing.

And I’m done pretending that healing is a performance.

This is what it really looks like when you walk through the underworld…

and return with your soul intact.

⚕️ Me, My Couch, and I: A Descent into the Bones of Alchemy

I remember the moment I surrendered.

Not graceful. Not pretty. Not peaceful.

Just… defeated.

February 2019.

The beginning of the unravelling.

Guttural shock.

The kind of rupture you don’t name until much later —

When your bones finally admit what they felt.

A split between illusion and real.

A tremor at the root.

The first crack in the veil.

November 30, 2019.

That’s when it began — the real descent.

A New Year — 2020.

Again, I pushed to show up. But I was numb.

Still trying — the mask, the compliance, the appeasement.

But the human?

She failed. Again and again.

And still, she tried.

Each year, she reached for the known.

For what once worked.

But the soul…

The soul had already chosen.

What the human could not yet choose, the soul had already left behind.

The soul was leaving the known.

And So I Began to Write

Not for publication.

Not for legacy.

But because I couldn’t breathe.

The mud needed to be recorded — the raw, unfiltered dark.

Because the human part of me no longer wanted to be here.

She wanted out.

But the writing held me.

It gave me reason to stay.

To breathe. To clear. To live.

And then —

Fatima arrived.

Not as a character.

But as presence.

As a mirror.

As the one who could hold what I could no longer carry.

She became the ink.

The bridge between grief and grace.

By August 1, 2023, I Saw It — All of It

360 degrees. Not with emotion, but awareness.

Shadow and light. Mine. Ours.

The world was spiralling too —

Lockdowns. Dismembering. Division.

But I?

I faced mine.

No audience. No hand to hold.

No soft place to fall.

Just me.

My couch.

My thighs.

My tears.

My spirit.

My wine.

Sometimes tequila.

Reading.

Walking.

Driving in silence.

Fasting.

Crying.

Rising.

Screaming.

Dying inside.

Over and over again.

I Tried Everything They Offered

Psychologists, therapists, naturopaths, monks, herbalists.

Instagram coaches with bright teeth and bullet points.

Motivational speakers who’ve never met the dark.

I followed every rule.

And still, nothing broke the crucible.

Why?

Why had I come to this place?

After Pluto ravaged my 4th house,

Squaring my Ascendant and my Moon?

Saturn pressed his weight on my soul.

Uranus electrified my Moon.

Neptune veiled me in fog.

I walked through my Saturn return,

My Chiron crossing,

And not the kind you can journal through with a latte.

I was bleeding out.

My soul turned inside out,

Torn at every seam — until there was no fabric left to be stitched.

I was a tiny boat on a wild ocean,

At the mercy of the sky and sea.

With no one coming.

Ashes and Dust

In the acid rain of the cosmos.

I surrendered.

Not because I was enlightened.

Because I had no choice.

No shoulder.

No backups.

No net to catch me.

No help unless I could pay in blood.

And I paid.

Thousands.

Hundreds of thousands.

To crawl back to myself.

Over many years, not just four — it has been a lifetime gaining wisdom.

And this — this soul-flesh, this blood-offering — this became my book.

Not a product.

A resurrection.

Not 50% “authentic.”

100% cost. Paid in full.

The Truth No One Wants to Say

I walked all the paths.

Tasted all the potions —

The bright branding with no fruit inside.

And now I see.

In ways I sometimes wish I could unsee.

Because once you know… You know.

And still I pray to be wrong.

But over and over, I’m proven right.

So let me say this:

Unless you’ve burned in the blood of direct experience —

Unless you’ve crawled back from the void, entirely alone, with no one watching,

Don’t talk to me about healing.

That’s not insight.

That’s gaslighting.

A trick to keep you spiralling.

Second-guessing.

Handing over your wisdom so someone else can profit from your pain.

I Call Bullshit

On the factories of words.

The polished quotes.

The “products” of healing.

With no blood. No bone. No cost.

Words rusted with repetition.

Pretty. Profitable. Hollow.

I’ve been there.

Scrolling. Starving. Spending.

Trying to find the truth in someone else’s formula.

And I found something else.

The Truth No One Wants to Say

Healing isn’t sexy.

It won’t make you a brand.

It won’t always get you followers.

Real alchemy?

It doesn’t trend.

It destroys you before it resurrects you.

It strips you bare before it dresses you in light.

And unless you’ve wept into your own hands,

Wondering if you’ll survive the next hour,

Don’t tell me what healing is.

Don’t sell me a five-step system.

Don’t quote Rumi if you’ve never descended.

Don’t pretend grief is glamorous.

This is Why I Wrote Fatima’s Alchemy

Not to impress.

But to break the spell.

To tell the truth, no one else would.

Because I didn’t survive all this to market a lie.

“No fabric left to be stitched together.

Only ashes. Only dust.

Floating in the acid rain of the cosmos —

And still, I rose.”

So when I say I know how to walk through fire,

It’s not a metaphor.

It’s memory.

I didn’t learn this in a classroom.

I earned it in the underworld.

No certificate.

No polished brand.

Just bone-deep knowing.

Writing Saved My Life

The page held what no one else could.

Fatima’s Alchemy

Wrote me back into breath.

Into blood.

Into belonging.

If I hadn’t picked up the pen,

I don’t know if I’d still be here.

The ink became my witness.

The stories didn’t just come through me.

They brought me back.

Delahrose Roobie Myer

Lifestyle Alchemist | Astrologer | Author

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