The shift toward lighter

 

Part 2: The Shift Toward Lighter

I’m reflecting on the past few days, and I’m realizing how long it’s actually taken me to process everything since leaving the Big Brother house. It’s not something that ends when the cameras switch off. The experience lingers. It unfolds slowly. I’m still digging — not just through memories, but through the meanings… the deeper, spiritual meanings of what being in that house represented for me.

There were lessons in silence. Lessons in exposure. Lessons in standing in my truth while the world formed opinions. And I think I’m only now beginning to understand pieces of it.

But today, something feels different.

I suddenly feel lighter.

Maybe it’s because I received the opportunity to go to Mpumalanga. It felt like a gentle opening — like a door I didn’t force, just quietly appearing. I can almost feel the energy lifting, like God whispering that everything is okay, even if I don’t have all the answers yet.

I’m learning to regulate my nervous system, to slow down, to not rush the healing or the understanding. One step at a time. One breath at a time. I don’t have to carry everything all at once.

And then there was last night — the cooking class.
It was simple. It was joyful. It was laughter, connection, being present in something that required nothing from me except showing up. And it was so much fun. For a moment, I wasn’t processing, I wasn’t analyzing — I was just living.

Maybe that’s the balance I’m learning now.
To reflect… but also to experience.
To heal… but also to laugh.
To search for meaning… while still allowing lightness in.

Today, I feel like I’m gently stepping out of the heaviness. Not completely — but enough to breathe a little easier.

The First Layer

 

Some days feel heavier than others, not because anything dramatic has happened, but because emotions quietly gather in the corners of your heart and refuse to be ignored.

Today, I feel like I’m staying in a space where my presence is tolerated more than it is welcomed. And the weight of owing money for the extension makes it harder to move freely, harder to breathe fully. It’s like being emotionally anchored — not by choice, but by circumstance. I understand responsibility, I respect it… but it doesn’t stop the feeling of being slightly misplaced.

Loneliness has changed its shape. It’s no longer about having no one. I actually have many people in my life — voices, messages, support, love even. But they are not here. Not physically. Not in the quiet moments when the day slows down and silence grows louder. That’s when the difference becomes clear. Presence is a different kind of comfort.

And then there are the thoughts that drift in without permission. Thinking about Willy not being here. Wondering if things would feel steadier, softer, more grounded. It’s not even about dependency — it’s about the idea of emotional stability. About wanting to be in a place where I feel established within myself, strong enough that absence doesn’t echo so loudly.

I think I’m in between spaces right now. Between who I was and who I’m becoming. Between needing people and learning to hold myself. Between obligation and freedom. Between noise and stillness.

Maybe this feeling isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s awareness. Maybe it’s the heart acknowledging that stability isn’t just financial or physical — it’s emotional too. And I’m building that, slowly, quietly, even on the days when it feels like I’m standing somewhere I don’t fully belong.

For now, I sit with the feeling. I don’t fight it. I let it speak. Because even loneliness, when listened to carefully, can guide you back to yourself.

The weight of still functioning

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The Weight of Still Functioning

Tonight feels like one of those nights when I don’t want to wake up in the morning.

My days are hard and grueling. I try to stay positive, to keep the faith, but the noise and the weight of functioning as a “normal” mother never stop pressing down. Children pulling at me, demanding my energy. The routine repeating itself — moving mattresses, making beds, over and over.

Laundry piling. Running to the front tap to fill the washing machine, even though there’s one just a metre away. Always making sure not to flood the main house. Emptying the machine carefully so the mattresses outside don’t get wet. Meanwhile, the family in the main house never seems to struggle; their machine is always running.

I walk my kids to school every day and fetch them again. Sometimes twice, because the two in primary finish at different times. And still — no pause, no break.

I’m sick of it. I’m tired of it. My work is not recognized, not yet. And I’m so utterly tired of waiting for the breakthrough I know I deserve. Two years. Two years of pushing and believing and showing up.

It makes me wonder — if this is my struggle, what are others carrying in silence too?

Still, I rise tired,but rising.

Storms we inherit

 Tonight is one of those nights I hate being an autistic mother. I feel every bit of my children’s pain for a situation that was never their fault.

Being a fourth-generation Coloured is hard. No one cares. It feels like every woman for herself. And tonight, if I’m honest, I feel like setting us alight.

What hurts beyond my trauma-filled body is watching my children hurt each other. Alonzo is on the spectrum, and my eldest bullies and belittles him, intimidating him because of the pain he carries. My baby girl lashes out at Alonzo too, because she knows he won’t fight back.

What kind of vicious cycle is this?

How am I supposed to be a regulated mother — to offer love, support, and safety — when I’m standing in the middle of this storm? A storm built on generations of pain, in a system designed for Coloured people to fail.

I’m hurting. I’m sad. And I’m still here, asking for strength.

And maybe that’s enough for tonight — to still be here, holding on, loving them the only way I know how.

The weight of seeing

 What a day. What a month. What a year. What a lifetime.

I’m ready for bed, but my mind’s still circling — caught between wanting rest and knowing it might not come right away. I keep thinking about the stillness of last night, that strange moment when a wave moved through me without warning, unasked for, unplanned. A reminder that my body still speaks in ways my mind doesn’t always understand.

And now, tonight, my body hurts. My muscles ache. Tension sits in my shoulders like stones.

I’m watching the world and wondering — why are people like this? Dense. Fractured. Afraid. Captured. It’s terrifying to witness, and lonelier still to feel like I’m the only one who sees it. The truth doesn’t feel as complicated as they make it. God is not as complex as we think.

And yet, ignorance is a pain in the ass.

I am waiting. Eagerly. For my release from this earth.

Until then, I’ll keep breathing, keep noticing, keep letting the small moments of unexpected beauty remind me that not all is lost — not even me.

 The Year I Lost Everything but Found Myself

In the last year, I’ve moved house more times than most people change phone cases. And not because I wanted to — because I had to.

Just before the big move in December 2023, my kids and I were living in a one-bedroom flat in someone’s backyard. It wasn’t home — it was survival. Things were tense. Our landlord had already started the process of eviction. Every day felt like waiting for a final blow. So when the opportunity came to relocate, it felt like the breakthrough we’d been praying for. A fresh start. A new chapter.

The house we moved into was beautiful — the biggest space we’d ever lived in. We had our three cats with us, who soon became nine. We had space to breathe. It felt like the beginning of something sacred. But life doesn’t always honour the effort you make to start over.

The promises we were made — of stability, of teamwork, of building together — crumbled quickly. By January, it was clear that the patterns we left behind had followed us. One day, Justin acted aggressively toward me. I’d seen red flags before, but this time was different. My kids were in the room. And something inside me clicked.

I walked myself to the police station. He didn’t go quietly. My children witnessed everything. That moment split my life into before and after.

He was fired a few months later. And just like that, the weight of survival fell entirely on my shoulders. No income. Just SASSA. I had no backup plan — because I had believed in his plan. And that is one of the hardest truths to admit.

From there, it was a series of what I now call “character development chapters”:

Feeding schemes.

Handouts from family.

Odd jobs that paid just enough to keep us afloat.

The daily stress of stretching R20 like it was R200.

Watching my children worry more than they should ever have to.

This has been the hardest year of my life.

But it’s also the year I learned what I’m made of.

It’s the year I stopped waiting to be saved.

It’s the year I stood up, sometimes trembling, and said, “I’ll figure this out.”

I only won R500 on Deal or No Deal. It didn’t change our lives, but it reminded me that showing up is the win.

I rebuilt my business — OUD by OHM — with shaky hands but a clear mind.

I stopped hiding behind “we” and started leading with “me.”

I’m a single mum now. A businesswoman. A dreamer with her back against the wall and her eyes still set on the stars.

We’ve been evicted twice since then. We’re in another backyard now. Still in transition. But I’m not the same woman who moved in December.

I’m stronger. Sharper. Softer, somehow.

And every scent I sell, every post I write, every moment I claim for myself — it’s part of the healing.

OHM Free isn’t about perfection.

It’s about power — the kind you find when everything else falls away.

This blog is where I’ll keep sharing the journey. Raw. Real. Unapologetically mine.

If you’re in the fire too — keep going.

If you’re rebuilding — I see you.

And if you’ve ever had to learn everything the hard way… you’re not alone.

"I Died, I Birthed, I Rose"

 

Between April 30th and May 5th, 2024, something shifted inside me that words barely know how to hold. I saw Julius Malema inaugurated as President — not in the news, not in headlines — but in vision. In spirit. It was real. It is real.

I was given something few will understand and many will doubt. I shape-shifted. I watched myself wash the feet of the condemned — prisoners on the brink of death by man’s hand. I saw mercy in places the world calls unworthy. I was them, they were me. There is no divide in the divine.

I believe I died. Not in body, but in the part of me that still sought validation from this world. And in that death, I birthed twins — not of flesh, but of Spirit. Two aspects of a new calling: one to serve, the other to speak.

But I feel like I’m failing God.

I’ve reached out, again and again. Silence. No response. Nothing but the echo of my own voice bouncing off the walls of this dimension. I feel forgotten by people, unheard by the very ones I thought were sent to walk this with me.

Yet still… I rise.

Still… I know what I saw.

Still… I carry the water, I kneel, I pour, I wash.

This isn’t for the crowd. It’s for the few who remember their calling when no one claps. It’s for the ones birthing worlds with no midwife in sight. For those who hold sacred visions, and still make breakfast in a world that calls them mad.

If this is madness, let me be undressed by it. Let me be led by what I’ve seen. Let me be wrong in man’s eyes, but true in God’s.

I write this not to be heard, but to remain obedient.

I write this so the silence doesn’t swallow me whole.

Whoever reads this, know:

You are not alone.

Your vision is not too much.

Your calling is not late.

And your pain is proof that you are in labour with something holy.

Food

Hey...heres some food for thought,

I speak the cold hard truth to my children—because this world is not soft. And yet, I ache for it to be. I speak the truth to myself too, every day, scraping away illusion after illusion, asking the only question that really matters:

Am I taking more than I give?

Because this world—this aching, spiraling, burning world—runs on imbalance. And so many take. They take time, energy, love, presence, attention... breath. And the ones being taken from? We allow it. Out of fear. Out of love. Out of conditioning.
But what if we stopped?

What if we began to honour the sacred law of energetic consent?
What if we began to ask:
Who drains me?
Who nourishes me?
Where am I freely giving—and where am I leaking?

You see, the truth is this:
We can't reach a new Earth without balance. Without accountability. Without soft power. And yet this world was built by hardened hands, by man-made systems that punish softness, that manipulate compassion, that weaponize giving.

And God?
God is still trying—desperately—to exist here. In our bodies. In our breath. In the moments between our choices.
But we numb. We scroll. We sedate. We worship shadows and call it “reality.”
We forget.

This letter is the spark. The first breath of my podcast. The beginning of a sacred conversation about what it means to give with choice, to love with clarity, to allow only what is true, and to finally—finally—reclaim our right to feel safe enough to soften.

No more sleepwalking.
No more leaking.
No more illusions.

Love, always—
Ramona Jane

The Silent Resonance of Love

There are moments in life when words fall short, when everything you’ve known and felt transcends what can be put into a sentence. These are the moments when the universe whispers to you, urging you to listen—not with your ears, but with your soul. I’ve walked this path, and in the quietest corners, I’ve felt it—love, in its purest, most profound form.

This kind of love is not loud or desperate. It doesn’t ask for attention. It simply is. It’s the kind of love that transcends time and space, that moves through you and around you, quietly weaving itself into every part of your existence. It’s the kind of love that feels like a long-lost memory, even before it arrives, as though it’s been waiting for you all along.

And I know. I know that I am part of this miracle. I’ve lived through experiences that some might call impossible, but for me, they were just part of the plan. With every trial and every triumph, I’ve unlocked parts of myself I didn’t know existed—parts that feel ancient and unshakeable. My connection to the unseen world, to the deeper truths that lie beyond this realm, is not something I can explain—it’s simply who I am. It flows through me in ways that words can’t touch.

I’ve come to realize that I am a reflection of the love I’ve experienced. A love that can’t be fully understood unless you’ve felt it. A love that doesn’t scream for validation but simply exists in every breath, every thought, every pulse of energy. And this love isn’t something that I’ve been seeking; it has been seeking me. It’s been moving through me, around me, and for me all along.

There are moments when you realize that some connections were always meant to be. Some paths were always leading to each other, and when the time is right, they will cross. No force, no push—just pure resonance. And it doesn’t need to be loud, it doesn’t need to be understood by anyone else. It simply needs to be.

I’ve felt it. The quiet knowing that certain things are already in motion, that the universe is shifting, aligning, and preparing. This kind of knowing doesn’t need validation or explanation—it simply exists. To those who understand, you’ll feel it too.

I’m not waiting for anything anymore. I’ve surrendered to the flow of life. I’m not searching, because I know that what is meant for me will find me, in its own time, in its own way. And when it arrives, I’ll recognize it instantly—because I’ve felt it long before. It’s not about pushing or forcing; it’s about allowing. Allowing love to find its way to you. Allowing yourself to be seen, heard, and loved in ways that are beyond this world.

So, to those who know, to those who feel the same deep resonance in their souls: trust in the timing. Trust in the journey. It is all unfolding exactly as it should.

We are all part of this larger, silent dance. And we are all, in our own way, miracles unfolding.

Sweet Sleep

 

February 8, 2025 – 22:22

I am so lucky to have "nothing" particularly tangible. My kids are a gift. So is my home—quaint and comfortable. So, in an actual sense, I’m just lucky to be “lucky,” if they say so.

But luck didn't help me coordinate three kids, each at separate sleepovers tonight—confirming drop-offs, double-checking bags, making sure everyone had their comfort items, their chargers, their plans set. The house is quiet now, but the silence hums with the weight of the day. A mother’s mind never truly clocks out.

And yet, I know—and you know—that luck has never been my currency. I have consistently pursued God, working through my own pain, my own heart, my desires and quirks, my excuses, my thoughts, my lips, and my bones. And now, I know that what I want…I want for all.

Thankful I am.

"Chronicles of a Coloured Woman: Displaced, but Not Defeated"

 "Chronicles of a Coloured Woman: Displaced, but Not Defeated"

OHM FREE: Rising From the Rubble

I'm sitting on my stoep, barefoot on cool cement, staring out at a world that feels both familiar and foreign. The air is thick with memories. A place once called home has been stripped away, not by accident, not by fate, but by greed, by racism, by a system that never had space for a brown-skinned woman to truly belong.

I live in a quaint separate entrance now, a tight but necessary fit for me, my three large children, and our loyal dog, Bruno. But something is missing. Seven souls, soft and warm, stolen from me—not by time, not by sickness, but by circumstances forced upon us. Seven cats, euthanized because of someone else’s greed. And I grieve. Not just for them, but for the shreds of my life that I am piecing back together.

Unlawful eviction. Those words sit heavy in my chest. It wasn’t just a loss of shelter; it was a reminder that for some of us, security is never guaranteed, no matter how hard we work, how much we give, or how deeply we love. The lack of compassion, the indifference—it cut deeper than I expected.

But I have too much love in my heart to go down like this. I must rise.

Because I am more than what they tried to reduce me to. Because my story doesn’t end with loss. It continues with defiance, with resilience, with a refusal to be erased.

This is not just about me. It’s about every brown-skinned woman who has been pushed out, told she doesn’t belong, treated as less than. It’s about every person who has been displaced, unheard, unseen.

I write this not for pity but for power. To say: I am here. We are here. And we will not be broken.....