"You Can’t Sell What You Don’t Own"

Golden hour painted my face like a spotlight. It wasn’t Heaven, but it was close. A million views in less than an hour, and for once, the world saw me.

That was the beginning.

But every kingdom comes with a crown—and a price.

It started in my bedroom—like most viral dreams. Just a ring light, a Bible I barely read, and a desire to be seen. I didn’t ask for a miracle, just attention. And I got it.

His name was Elian.

He slid into my DMs like a serpent with skin made of honey and algorithms. Snakey.

“Seen you,” he wrote, “You're meant for more than small-time reels. Want help unlocking your true influence?”

There was no pitch. No contract. Just a voice message.

A deep, warm voice. Like velvet on fire.

“You were born to be worshipped.”

The algorithm turned into a wildfire after that.

My face was everywhere. My laugh was trending. Brands emailed. Celebs reposted. I had an assistant I never hired. Money showed up in my accounts. And every mirror whispered, You deserve this.

At first, it felt like destiny. But then… weird things started happening.

My sister stopped answering my calls. My dog died. I started waking up at 3:33 a.m. every night, breathless, like someone had been watching me sleep.

And the comments—

“Your eyes look...different now.”

“You remind me of that AI filter… soulless.”

I dismissed it. Until my pastor messaged me.

“Hey, praying for you. I saw your last video… there’s something off in your spirit. Call me.”

I didn’t call.

I texted Elian instead. “Why is everything falling apart?”

He replied instantly.

“Fame comes with a shedding process. Your old life must die for the new one to thrive.”

I stared at that message for an hour. It felt familiar. Ancient. Like Eden repeating itself.

Then came the dream.

I stood on a stage, crowd screaming my name, lights blinding. But behind me, shadowed figures whispered. They didn’t clap. They chanted. It sent me chills. I felt stuck.

“She's ours now.”

I turned and saw Elian. But his eyes weren’t warm anymore.

They were empty. Soulless.

He lifted a scroll, dipped in flame, and read, “By her own consent, she has offered her soul…”

That’s when a voice thundered above.

“You cannot sell what you do not own.”

The fire stilled -frozen in place as if we all stopped in time. The crowd vanished. Elian stepped back, face contorted like melting wax. And a hand reached for me.

Scarred.

But warm.

He pulled me out of the dream and into morning.

I gasped awake, drenched in sweat, heart racing.

And the Bible—my Bible—lay open beside me, though I hadn't touched it in weeks.

It was open to 1 Corinthians 6:20:

“You were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body.”

I cried for the first time in months. Like a child who got lost in the mall and finally saw their Father again.

I deleted everything.

Millions of followers. Gone. Every ad. Every deal. Gone.

They say I "threw it all away."

No.

I reclaimed it.

Because my soul was never mine to sell.

And He came back for it anyway.

But Elian wasn’t done with me.

He lingered in the silence of my screen—his last message a ghost I couldn’t delete.

“No one walks away clean.”

For a while, I believed that. That the stain of what I’d done would follow me forever. I stopped posting. I lost friends. I walked through the kind of loneliness you only understand when you've stood at the altar of false gods and tried to make yourself the sacrifice.

But God…

He doesn’t do abandonment.

Not like the world.

Not like Elian.

Not even like me.

Every time I wanted to give up and crawl back into the algorithm, He sent someone. A stranger. A prayer. A verse. A whisper at 3:33 a.m. that said, I’m still here.

I started posting again. Quiet things. Honest things. My story. My testimony. No filters. No trending sounds. Just truth.

And people came.

Not millions. Not even thousands.

But the ones who needed it.

The ones who had made deals of their own. Silent contracts with shame. Barters with beauty, sex, money, control—thinking it would fill the hole only God could touch.

We found each other.

And He found us.

So no—I don’t miss the fame. I don’t miss the false light or the flame.

I’ve got something brighter now.

Not attention.

Not applause.

Glory.

And it’s not mine.

Because I was never meant to be worshipped.

I was made to worship.

That’s the part Elian twisted.

Fame will promise you light but leave you crawling in the dark.

It will stroke your ego while starving your spirit.

But I learned something in that darkness.

The devil doesn’t need your permission.

Just your silence.

He doesn’t come wearing horns. He wears what you’re hungry for.

Love. Security. Status. Escape.

And if you chase it hard enough, you’ll hear him whisper—

“It’s already yours.”

But it isn’t.

You belong to God.

You always have.

And when He comes back for you, when He pulls you from the nightmare,

it doesn’t feel like punishment.

It feels like rescue.

I don’t need a stage anymore.

I found an altar.

And every time someone asks me what happened—why I left it all—I just smile now.

Because some people go viral.

But I went eternal.

They don’t make rehab for the soul.

There’s no hotline when your spirit’s the one addicted to approval, when your heart's withdrawal isn’t from drugs but from people not watching you anymore. I had to sit in that silence. I had to learn how to be seen by Heaven when the world had moved on.

And let me tell you—it broke me.

But breaking wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of building something real.

Some days, I still feel the phantom buzz of fame on my skin. Like I should be performing. Like I should be proving I still matter. But then I remember—I already mattered before a single follower clicked “like.” I mattered before I was born. Before the ring light. Before the lie.

I started going on walks at sunrise.

It sounds small, but it saved me. No filters. No DMs. Just light—real light—pouring through trees like stained glass. I started hearing God again, not just in Scripture but in silence. In wind. In birdsong. In my own heartbeat.

He never stopped speaking.

I just had too much noise turned up.

I found a little church on the edge of town. No stage. No production team. Just folding chairs, honest worship, and people who didn’t care about my past. They only cared that I was present.

I started serving in the back—refilling coffee, wiping tables, setting out chairs. It humbled me in the best way. Because when you’ve been worshipped by strangers, the real miracle is remembering how to serve.

I don’t share the whole story often. People want a quick fix. A testimony wrapped in a bow. But I don't sugarcoat the fall. Or the climb.

Because there are too many girls out there who think they’re nothing unless someone claps for them.

Too many boys who think their worth is in their views.

Too many souls chasing gold that melts in fire.

Elian is still out there. I know that.

He doesn’t age. He evolves.

He doesn’t come as temptation.

He comes as opportunity.

But I’m not scared of him anymore.

I belong to Someone stronger.

And so do you.

If you’re reading this, wondering if it’s too late for you—if the deal’s already sealed—hear me when I say this:

You can’t sell what you don’t own.

You were bought at a price. Blood. Nails. A cross.

And that kind of love doesn’t walk away when you fall.

It waits.

And when you turn around, even after everything, it runs to you.

So no—I’m not viral anymore.

I’m free.

And freedom feels better than fame ever did.