By BoJenn
Once in a while, if you wander around the wild jungle of social media, you’re bound to get jumped—verbally, of course—by someone armed with nothing but their keyboard rage and a fragile sense of normalcy. And let’s be honest, it happens most often to those of us who don’t quite fit the cookie-cutter mold. When I say “stand out,” I don’t mean writing the usual daily chatter—politics, religion, movies, or tonight’s chicken casserole. No. I’m talking about the kind of writing that pokes at the edges of reality, the stuff that makes the so-called “regular folk” squirm. To them, anything outside their tidy little human box of beliefs is instantly “weird,” “crazy,” or “stupid.”
But here’s the thing: being called weird isn’t new. People like me—the questioners, the seekers, the ones digging at the whys and wherefores—have always been targeted. Witches were burned for standing too close to the fire of knowledge, and early scientists were killed simply for daring to say, “Hey, maybe the earth isn’t the center of the universe.” Fear, as it turns out, makes humans do absolutely ridiculous and horrifying things. And the pattern hasn’t changed—it’s just moved online.
Every single day I watch people on social media slap lazy labels on what they don’t understand. “Demon.” “Devil.” “Luciferian.” Like it’s some cosmic catch-all for “I don’t get this and I’m too scared or too lazy to figure it out.” Instead of learning, they reach for their holy water—or worse, their CAPS LOCK. Fear is exhausting, and when it speaks, it’s loud, dumb, and dangerous.
Case in point: I was recently ambushed by someone who sounded intelligent enough until their brain short-circuited over the fact that I write about my near-death experience. Their brilliant argument? Accusing me of being a child molester and a scam artist. Let me just pause here to say—what the actual hell? I’m a 72-year-old unmarried woman who has been single longer than most people keep a mortgage. Trust me, the last thing on my mind is stealing someone’s wallet or their innocence. I’ve never conned a soul, never asked anyone for money, never demanded that anyone believe me. All I’ve ever done is share my experiences, because writing is how I try to find my tribe—the people who’ve also brushed against the extraordinary, whether through NDEs, ETs, or other “taboo” truths.
So call me weird. Fine. I’ll take it as a compliment. But don’t come at me with torches, pitchforks, or comment threads dipped in venom. Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that burning witches and silencing seekers doesn’t stop the truth from existing—it just proves that fear is still running the show.
And, for now, that’s all I have to say. If you don’t like what I write, ✍️ just turn the page and find your nitch, but please don’t burn me on your stake, otherwise, your karma, or your own history, will always follow you (and me).
My art
Ah yes, the classic social media response: “You must be a scam artist and a child molester because you wrote about an NDE.” Really? That’s the leap? I’m 72, unmarried, and my idea of living dangerously these days is drinking coffee after 5 p.m. I’ve never scammed a soul, unless you count convincing myself I’d only eat one cookie. I write about ETs and near-death experiences because I’m looking for my tribe, not because I’ve got a secret offshore account labeled “Weird Grandma Hustles.” Call me strange, fine—I’d rather be strange than boring.
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 