Spiritual Odor Is Real™ 🦨
🦨 Spiritual Odor Is Real™
Not everyone can smell it. But when you know (nose), you know (nose). 🫢😵💫👃🏽✨
I come from a family of olfactory intuitives. Three generations deep — that I know of. Me. My son. My grandma, Doña Fela. None of us went pro, but the gift is real. 🎁💀
“¿Y ese funk?”
We didn't call it that, but that's what we were sensing. That thick, sticky funk that doesn’t show up on paper. Not in résumés, diplomas, or designer clothes. But ohhh, it walks into the room before someone says a word.
It's not B.O. It's S.O. Spiritual Odor™.
My son — yes, the one currently incarcerated — can walk into a cell (his or someone else’s) and sniff out the real danger. Not the tattoos. Not the crime record. The vibe. “Yo… what IS that funk?” he’ll say. 😷🌀
Same thing happened to me, for years. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched. 💦 My body releasing shadow energy like a backed-up sewer system. Funk from childhood. Funk from my ancestors. Funk from me. 😮💨🥣
I’ve lit enough Pablo Santo™ to fund a wellness retreat in the Andes. 😂🔥🌿
And sometimes, no amount of prayer or incense works — because the funk... is yours. That shadow stink of things left unspoken, unfelt, unhealed.
I’ve done the work: • 10-day silent retreats since 2015 🧘🏽♀️🔇 • 12-step meetings with burnt coffee and soul fire ☕🔥 • Two therapists — one too holy, one too judgy. No way, José. That’s not my God.
I was trained to beg God, to bargain, to plead with the divine like it was my parole officer. But my spirit got tired of groveling. That kind of funk? I threw it out with the pew dust. 🛐🧹
These days, I talk to the funk.
“¿Qué quieres?” “Are you mine, or did I absorb you?” 🧽💔
Sometimes we inhale generational fear. Sometimes we marinate in other people’s shame. Sometimes we ARE the source — we just finally got honest enough to smell ourselves. 🤷🏽♀️
Doña Fela? A funk-sensing legend. She could sniff out a manipulative pastor from a handshake. She once said to me:
“Mija… nadie puede obligarte a hacer lo que tú no quieres hacer.”
And let me tell you — that sentence hit deeper than a sermon. She also said: “Just because they smell like soap doesn’t mean they’re clean.” 🧼💅🏽
I remember telling a spiritual friend once, “I feel like something rotten is trying to leave me.” She said: “Yup. That’s the stink of suppressed pain. Shame, fear, grief — it has a scent. You’re not crazy.”
🎄👻🫠
We don’t teach our kids to trust this. We call them rude. Sensitive. Dramatic. We shut down the sacred sensors. Not me.
Two of my granddaughters have the gift too. One said to me, “I remember you.” The other? She called me a witch. I smiled and said:
“Don’t you forget it.” 🧙🏽♀️✨🥣
Smelling the truth is a sacred sense. Don’t let anyone gaslight your gift.
💃🏽🇵🇷🦨🥣🌿
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