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So… Is Your Higher Self the Same as Source?

By The Artful Woman
  Not exactly. Think of it like this: Source is the origin —pure consciousness, God/Goddess/Divine Light, whatever you want to call it. It’s the everything-and-nothing energy from which all things come. Your Higher Self is your personal bridge to Source. It’s your soul in its purest form , untainted by fear, ego, or human distortion. Your Higher Self is you , just on the zoomed-out level —the version of you that remembers the full story, all lifetimes, all lessons, all missions. So: Source is the sun. Your Higher Self is the sunbeam that still holds its essence but is uniquely you . Is Your Higher Self Your Soul? Pretty much— but here's the nuance: Your soul is eternal. It’s the part of you that has lived countless lives. Your Higher Self is like the fully awakened version of your soul —the one not currently squeezed into a human body trying to pay bills and avoid family drama. When you're in human form, you're kind of like the tip of the i...
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A Miracle on the Ortega Highway

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By The Artful Woman


One rainy day, I was driving home from the beach, facing a 28-mile journey across the twisting, treacherous Ortega Highway—one of the deadliest roads in California. The rain poured relentlessly, but the highway was eerily empty.

I’m not a fast driver anymore—at least, I’m a recovering one—so I took my time, carefully navigating the wet, winding road. As I ascended the mountain, the road curved sharply. I turned with it, but suddenly, I hit an oil slick.

My car started to hydroplane.

Instinctively, I tried to straighten the wheel, but I overcompensated. In an instant, I lost all control. My car spun—one full 360-degree turn—hurtling toward disaster. To my right, the sheer rock face of the mountain. To my left, a steep, thousand-foot drop into the abyss.

I had no control. No way to stop.

Then—impact.

My car slammed into the only thing between me and death: a cement barrier separating the road from the cliff's edge. When I finally caught my breath, I found myself staring at a roadside memorial—a marker for someone who had lost their life in that exact spot.

I later realized it might have belonged to someone whose story had been told in a documentary, a person who had been shot and killed on the Ortega Highway. I don’t know why, but I’ve always believed that soul was my angel that night. And every time I pass that spot, I whisper a thank-you—to them, and to God.

A white plumbing van had been driving behind me, and it pulled over to check on me. A man stepped out, and even in the middle of my trembling, near-death shock, I couldn’t help but notice—he was stunning. Gorgeous.

Somehow, even in moments like these, life still has a sense of humor.

He asked if I was okay. I managed to nod. And just as quickly as he appeared, he left.

But the miracle remained.

It was just one more of a thousand times I could have died. And one more time that I didn’t.

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