The World of Broken Glass Windows

I woke up to a world of shattered windows.

The glass was everywhere—scattered across the streets, reflecting fractured light, and crunching beneath my feet as I took my first steps. The buildings still stood, but their eyes were broken, their vision splintered. It was as if the world had tried to hold itself together while something deep inside had already collapsed.

But maybe the world had already collapsed, and I had just been too asleep to see it.

Before, I was like everyone else—walking through rooms with perfect windows, seeing reflections that only told me what I wanted to believe: that life was stable, that people were what they said they were, and that what we were taught about success, love, and belonging was all real.

I spent years trying to fit into that world.

Even though something in me always knew I never belonged.

Even my name, Delahrose, was a signal. A frequency. A detector.

People’s hesitation, avoidance, mispronunciations, and attempts to shorten it as though it made them uncomfortable—each one revealed their energy even before they realised it themselves. Not always, true: but it happened sooo many times to me and continues to that now I see deeper, what is happening.

But I didn’t always understand that.

For decades, I played along. I tried/wanted to find belonging, even in places that drained me. I was willing to accept it to belong to someone, an idea, a group, a team, a person, a friendship, a career, a job, or a place; I gave my energy to people who didn’t even know how to value it. I let a man strip me of my wealth because, back then, I didn’t fully grasp the magnitude of my frequency. I endured losses that shattered me because I still believed I had to endure.

That’s the thing about the sleeping world—it keeps you in the game.

It convinces you that suffering is just part of it.

Until one day, something cracked.

Maybe it was a sound, distant but sharp. Perhaps it was the way the air shifted, carrying whispers of something I wasn’t supposed to hear. Either way, when I opened my eyes, the illusion had shattered.

And now I was here.

No one tells you that waking up is violent.

They speak about transformation as if it’s soft and gentle unfolding. But that’s a lie. Awakening rips through you. It is a breaking—a dismantling.

When I realised the truth—not just about the world, but about myself—I had to watch everything around me crumble.

Friendships? Gone.

Support systems? Disintegrated.

Every false foundation I had ever built? Obliterated.

No one came to save me.

No one even noticed.

Because the world only responds to those who speak its language, and I had stopped speaking it.

It broke me before it remade me. You will want to go back, to pretend the windows are still open, that the world is still soft, and that people still understand you.

But they don’t. They never did.

They only understood the version of you who played along, spoke their language, and needed something from them.

And now you need nothing.

And that makes you dangerous.

This world is not designed for those who wake up.

Even the preferred teachers, guides, and awakened souls won’t share the whole truth because they rely on their students and followers. They won’t tell you that genuine awakening makes you untouchable, uncontroable. (In good way not a harmful way).

That if you see too much, you become invisible.

People don’t just ignore you; they can’t see you. It’s like a spell woven into their perception—wake up too far, and you slip between the cracks of their reality.

I learned this first through my words.

I would speak the truth—not some abstract, esoteric idea, but this reality's honest, raw, undeniable mechanics.

And people’s faces would change. Their expressions would go blank; their attention would scatter, and their energy would recoil.

It wasn’t that they disagreed.

It was that their frequency could not compute it.

That’s when I realised—the truth isn’t just isolating. It’s exile.

So what do you do?

You learn to walk barefoot.

You learn how to navigate a world that no longer sees you.

You let the glass cut, allow the wounds to form, and keep walking anyway.

Because what else is there to do?

The illusion is gone, but the pieces remain. The glass is broken, but that doesn’t mean it’s useless.

You learn to take the shards and shape them into something new.

Maybe a mirror—so others can catch glimpses of what you’ve seen if they’re ready.

Maybe a window—one that doesn’t lie, one that doesn’t shatter when the truth comes knocking.

Or maybe you let the glass be, let it remind you that the world was never meant to be pristine.

This is the real work—not just seeing the truth but using it.

Not just waking up but walking forward.

I used to think there would be an end to this path.

I hoped that one day, I would reach some destination, someplace where everything would click into place, and I would finally be free.

But there is no final arrival.

There is no point where you’re done.

Because this is what I finally understand—I am not here to fit in.

I never was.

I was given this frequency for a reason.

I was given this name for a reason.

I was given this journey for a reason.

And now, after all the loss, breaking, and solitude, I finally see what it was for.

To stand sovereign.

To exist beyond the system.

To hold a frequency that has never been seen before.

I now know that wealth will return, not as I knew it and—not because I chase it, but because it was always a part of who I am and still becoming.

I now know that my solitude was a protection, not a punishment.

I now know that the world of broken glass was never a tragedy—it was a revelation.

The Truth is Lonely, It’s lonely because so much loses meaning.

When you wake up, when you really wake up, the things that once held weight—beliefs, relationships, even your sense of self—start to disintegrate. They don’t fit anymore. They don’t align. You see through them, and because of that, they no longer hold power over you.

And in the emptiness that follows, you find yourself seeking one thing.

Safety.

Not safety in the way the world defines it—security, belonging, comfort—but safety from the world itself. Because the world does not embrace one who can see, the world does not welcome one who can hear.

When you stop reflecting on what people want to see and when your words no longer confirm what they want to hear, you become something unrecognisable to them.

It's the opposite, not because you carry a vibration that brings harm.

You carry a vibration they can’t reach.

That they can’t understand.

That they can’t control.

And what humanity cannot reach, it either worships, fears, or destroys.

So what does the world do with a frequency it cannot manipulate?

It restrains it.

It cages it.

It blocks it.

It suppresses it.

It shuts it out.

When Did I First Realise People Couldn’t Hear Me Anymore? It wasn’t one moment. It was a pattern I had noticed my whole life, but only indeed saw once I had stepped far enough outside of it.

At first, it was subtle. I would speak, and there would be this flicker—a hesitation, a pause, a shift in the air, a tightening around people’s eyes. It was like my words reached them, but something in their system rejected it before it could land. It was as if I was speaking in a language that should have been understandable, but their minds refused to process it.

And then there was the way people deflected. I would say something profound, something obvious—not abstract, not esoteric, just a truth that should have been recognisable—and instead of responding, they would gloss over it.

Change the subject.

Nod politely and move on.

Or even worse, act as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

The more I started expressing what I saw, the more I noticed this pattern—not just with strangers but also with people I had known for years. It was as if I had become invisible to them—not physically but energetically.

Then came the silence, when I finally realised they could no longer hear me. I was invited to speak, be direct and honest, and cut through the noise, but there would be no response—not rejection, debate, or comfort.

Just nothing.

That was when I realised: it wasn’t that they disagreed; their frequency just couldn't grasp it. Was there a conversation, a silence, a moment that made it undeniable? Yes. I’d been chatting with someone I once thought genuinely saw me. Someone who spoke about awakening, expansion, and moving beyond illusion. But when I shared my truth and laid it bare—not merely bits of it, not the watered-down version others are comfortable with, but the raw mechanics of what I now understood—I saw it unfold. The flicker, the blankness, the moment they should have responded, but instead… they paused. And I realised they were searching, not for understanding, but how to respond. Because what I had said had no place in their framework. They couldn’t meet it. And so, they did what people always do in those moments.

They changed the subject.

They distanced themselves.

They made their exit. Even though they lived by the words of be authentic, be honest, though these were words and not words to live by, I then learned. That was when I knew I had stepped too far outside. I was comfortable with the raw truth, even when it didn’t fit my attire. I had become clear about what must be faced in myself or others. It was just the only way to get clarity beyond the mind games.

It wasn’t just that people wouldn’t hear me.

They couldn’t.

It struck me the hardest when I realised that nothing had ever really meant what I believed it did.

Not love.

Not belonging.

Not success.

Not even suffering.

For so long, I had been playing the game. Even when I knew I was different and could feel the disconnect, I still believed in the value of what the world offered.

But then came the realisation.

None of it was real.

The world was built on agreements—silent, unspoken contracts that only worked if you believed in them.

Once I saw through them, they held no power.

Wealth? A construct. Depending on who is watching, and measuring.

Relationships? Mostly, transactions are disguised as connections.

The need to fit in? It is a survival mechanism, not a truth.

And suffering—the thing I had endured and fought my way through—was not some test of worthiness.

When I started to see and saw through the illusion

People responded in patterns.

They didn't engage with me when I spoke about what I was seeing. They didn’t reflect, consider, or even challenge my views. Instead, they reached for the nearest familiar platitude—something they’d heard before, something they’d read, or something that had been said to them in a moment of uncertainty.

They pledged words of wisdom—but not from wisdom. From memory. From repetition.

It was easier to repeat something familiar than to endure the discomfort of genuinely experiencing it themselves.

I’d talk about breaking illusions, and they’d say, “Everything happens for a reason.”

I would speak about losing everything I once believed in, and they would say, “Trust the universe.”

When I spoke about profound transformation, they would say, “Surrender.” “Let that go.” “Move on.” But I wasn’t holding on—I was waking up! I was waking up to see how quickly you are silenced when you don't conform to the standard narrative. 

And it wasn’t that these words were false. But they weren’t real either.

Because they weren’t coming from a depth of knowing.

They were parroting teachings, regurgitating spiritual phrases, repeating, not realising—the mental mind of thinking, not the depth of experience.

That’s when I started to see it—the circus.

The world is a carnival of surface-level games.

People spend their lives chasing prizes—jobs, status, relationships, enlightenment—each one no different from a rigged game at the fair.

You win a stuffed bear and feel victorious, but the thrill is fleeting.

Then you chase the next prize.

And the next.

But then, if you step off the ride and stop playing the games, you see something else.

You enter the House of Mirrors.

And suddenly, everything distorts.

Nothing is what you thought it was.

Reality bends, perspectives shift, and you realise the mind is not what we’ve been taught.

It’s bigger.

It’s wider.

It’s perception stretches beyond what can be contained.

And this becomes deeply unnerving.

No one really wants to wake up; I know I didn’t. Pluto's 16-year passage crossed my I.C., then joined my Capricorn Sun in the 4th house, squaring my Libra ascendant for years, and it’s still doing the same. My Moon in Aries in the 7th house has made it impossible to ignore. My body, mind, and soul have endured so much electrical shock and excavation that I’ll never see life the same way again. It has cost me my entire reality and existence. I've been metaphorically forced to become a stone mansion to learn how to chip and carve out a whole new world, slowly and resiliently, with plenty of bad weather and critical eyes from afar. So yes, it’s been incredibly lonely. Eventually, I will become wealthier for it, deep, rich, and wise, which can only be achieved through the experiences of knowing and seeing what you know because you know, and no longer taking or praising or bending to the word of another who thinks they know more. 

They want to believe in waking up and discussing non-duality, detachment, and enlightenment. But they don’t want to understand the depth of what that truly means.

Because the truth is a paradox.

Everything is duality—even the concept of non-duality itself.

People speak about oneness, surrender, and divine truth—but they don’t go deep enough to see the contradiction woven into it.

They don’t go to the Eighth House in astrology—the house of death, transformation, and what cannot be controlled.

They don’t go to the Twelfth House—the house of undoing, dissolution, the unseen forces that pull reality apart.

Instead, they stay on the surface.

Because on the surface, you can swim in the ripples.

But in the deep ocean, there is no ground beneath you.

And that is the thing no one is prepared for.

It was just part of the game.

I had lost the life I built—the one I wanted and worked so hard for—but now it was gone, as was the person (myself) I once knew. I had been betrayed and shattered beyond repair, unable to mend the old versions of myself. My vision had faded. It felt like I had walked through a portal without trying or wanting to. Now, I was forced to confront a raw truth; I had to muster courage I wasn't prepared for. I needed to view everything from a fresh perspective, including watching my world dismantle while I struggled to maintain, fit in, belong, measure up, wear the labels, and get the invites. Ultimately, I woke up to realise that the people I surrounded myself with weren't who I thought they were, and I never truly belonged; only the labels I wore mattered, which was harsh on my psyche. I didn’t want to believe it. Now my soul urged me to walk away from everything I had built. But in truth, I hadn’t lost anything real. For further down the path through the portal, I now see I was always alone. And now, I'll never be the same again. It's not about healing; it's about perception, and once you know something, you can't go back to not seeing it.

And that’s when the weight of it all hit me. How do you grieve something that was never real to begin with? How do you move forward when the rules that once dictated your choices no longer apply? So it’s not about letting go to start anew; there is no anew! That's the paradox. The same goes for moving on… You cannot move on until you fully grasp the magnitude of the entire experience. Walking through a portal into a new existence isn’t a moving-on shift. It’s an exit into a whole new reality. For a time, you find yourself between worlds, remembering what was and trying to accept what is, as you are reminded daily of what was, knowing it’s not your reality now.

That was the breaking point.

That was the moment I understood: I wasn’t just waking up. I was exiting.

And once you exit, there is no going back.

They try to limit it through material means—money, status, legal systems, exclusion, rejection—because they can’t control the energy itself, only the vessel that carries it.

But that doesn’t stop the energy.

The energy is absolute.

And once awakened, it can’t go back. It doesn’t un-see. It doesn’t forget.

So, yes, this path has been lonely. Even the groups that gather do not fully understand, nor can they grasp how each individual's experience is felt independently. We are not the same; we don’t all experience life or learn similarly. So why assume we are? Many offer opinions like lollies. How could they possibly know or understand? I mention this without any intended shade towards them. If only they would consider this before passing judgment and misdirection.

Yes, waking up is tough; it strips away everything false. Yes, it makes you yearn for safety in a world that doesn’t welcome those who see. But it also grants you freedom. This freedom isn’t what you might imagine; it’s the freedom to perceive everything clearly for what it is. You’re no longer shackled by the desire to perform, measure, and fit in; you are as you are, knowing you’re wiser than this moment, and this is merely a passage of time. It is never the end; the soul's life never ends; it evolves. The only power that exists is the power you believe in and choose to give your attention to.

So what is left, once everything false has fallen away, is you.

So, where does this path lead?

I don’t know.

Maybe nowhere.

Maybe everywhere.

But I do know this: there is no going back.

This journey is not a straight line. It is not a doctrine, a map, or a neatly packaged enlightenment course with a step-by-step guide. No one gives you the answers. Spiritual teachings seldom reveal what is truly happening—they provide fragments, ideas, and theories, but they don’t disclose its fundamental mechanics. They neglect to mention that awakening is a treasure hunt, where you continuously move in and out of yourself, into the world, back into yourself, and then out again. It’s akin to piecing together a puzzle where the pieces don’t arrive in order, and half are missing until you set out to find them.

This is why I’ve understood that truth cannot be given.

Truth is built.

It is constructed, uncovered, tested, broken, and reassembled.

This is also why absorbing other people’s words and knowledge as a foundation for your truth is dangerous. Their truth is based on their experience, and no matter how wise or articulate they are, their truth is still filtered through their own limitations—their conditioning, their subconscious, and their reference points.

Truth is subjective—subjective to a person’s depth of understanding. Some secrets will remain unknown or misunderstood—not because they are hidden, but because many people’s conditioning prevents them from awakening to their depth. Their minds are wired to reject these truths before they become possible. This is the holograph of the soul—the multidimensional, multilayered, fractal experience oscillating within, without, above, and below.

The duality.

The paradox.

This is why it can feel so confusing: there is no absolute truth.

There is only your experience of things.

When you break free, you’re no longer part of the majority sharing similar realities; you’re not moving in synchronised patterns or absorbing the same wavelengths of perception.

You become a singularity.

“A singularity. A lone frequency in a world that no longer speaks your language. The weight of knowing is yours alone to carry.”

A minority of one, experiencing the world through eyes that have chosen to awaken in a world of broken glass windows.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose to wake up. But Pluto doesn’t care about what. He strips everything false and leaves only what is real. And now, as he moves through Aquarius, we are all being forced into the depths, whether we are ready or not.”

So now I ponder—is this the beginning?

Is Pluto in Aquarius waking us up to the depths of the Eighth House, both within ourselves and within the world?

Pluto rules the Eighth House. He is the master, the magician, the alchemist, the God of the underworld. He doesn’t skim the surface. He lives in the depths. He understands the shadows because he is the shadow. He does not offer gentle transformation—he rips it from you.

And now, as he moves through Aquarius, ruled by Uranus and Saturn, we are waking up through discipline, constraint, and the rewriting of reality itself.

We are waking up through breaking.

Because Pluto does not ask us to evolve.

He does not invite us to see.

He forces it.

And here I stand, reflecting on this journey—this path I was dragged into, initially unwilling, initially fully masked, kicking and fighting every step of the way.

I didn’t ask for this. (But my soul did).

I didn’t want to wake up.

I didn’t choose to shatter the illusion.

But Pluto doesn’t care about want.

He doesn’t care if you are ready.

He doesn’t care if you are comfortable.

He drags you into the depths, strips you of everything false, and leaves you staring at what is undeniable. Eventually, the broken glass windows will be everywhere.

Until eventually, you cannot look away.

And if you’re still standing in the ruins, if you’re still breathing in this sharp, silent world, then you’re already stronger than you ever were before.

A Profound Realisation, Not Madness

I know most won’t understand this.

Not fully.

Not yet.

And I accept that.

I’ve never been the type to echo what others have taught; there’s just too much to express. Mostly because my memory only holds what feels right to retain. Their words never lodged in my mind like my direct experiences. I can’t recall scriptures verbatim or quote sacred texts word for word—because my truth has never really been rooted in books.

It has been lived.

It has been uncovered through the accumulation of lifetimes, including this one.

And maybe, in speaking this, I am trailblazing into an area that the rest of the world is only now approaching. Perhaps the things I have learned merely foreshadow what the collective will soon begin to face within themselves.

2030 is the crossing of the threshold.

This is not just an earthly shift.

This is a cosmic shift.

One that we do not yet have a language for.

Because we have never left this journey.

We have never stood outside of it long enough to understand what it truly is.

This reminds me of the 2016 film Passengers—a beautiful, haunting story about awakening in the vast unknown, of waking up before the rest of the world is ready.

And perhaps that is what this is.

Not insanity.

Not delusion.

But being awake first.

So all I can say is this:

Prepare. Not in fear, but in awareness.

Not for destruction but for dissolving everything we once believed to be true.

Because whether we are ready or not, the crossing is coming.

By Delahrose

Author-Astrologer-Alchemist