Unfinished. Unapologetic. Unstolen.

The Unfinished Human isn’t yours to take.

This isn’t just a name—it’s a fucking soul frequency.

I didn’t plan to launch a podcast tonight. I didn’t even have a laptop. No mic. No quiet room. Just my phone—and then, a stranger came for my work. My name.

And the kind of storm that rattles the bones of a city rolled in.

This is the story of how The Unfinished Human Podcast was born—not from a well-crafted strategy, but from lightning. Literal and metaphoric.

I woke up with a slight pressure in my head. It was a sunny morning in Charlotte. But the vibe was off.

My niece was still sleeping, so I checked The Unfinished Human socials and emails. Something I try not to do on holiday. But boy, am I glad I did!

I noticed a new follower and checked out their profile. An announcement pinned to the top: “The Unfinished Human Podcast,” just days ago.

Oh, hell no.

I sent her a DM. Kind. Respectful. Asking her to not use my name.

To my surprise, I also had a new email from this woman I’d never met. She said she had created a podcast—and called it The Unfinished Human. Said she Googled to see if anyone had the name and found me. Then asked if I wanted to collaborate.

Um. WTF?

I felt it before I read it. That primal heat. The kind of energy that surges when something you love is being encroached upon.

I’ve poured my soul into The Unfinished Human—this name, this mission, this sacred thread I’ve been weaving quietly for years.

She knows enough to research if someone already has the name. She should know you can’t take the name someone has been using.

The adrenaline was flowing. Familiar feelings of people taking what’s not theirs—wrapped in politeness and opportunism. That’s what I call “smile fucking.”

The audacity. The entitlement. The “I’d love to connect, and perhaps maybe collab?!” ask that felt fake, naïve, or maybe willfully ignorant.

I wanted to scream.

But instead, I wrote back. Clearly. Kindly.

Please don’t use the name. I’ve been using it. It would cause confusion.

She saw the message and didn’t respond.

That silence told me everything.

I’ve heard that silence before. It’s the sound of someone hoping you’ll back down. Or maybe you’ll forget.

My hands were shaking. My body was pulsing. My brain was firing on every cylinder. And even though I was on aunt duty, getting my niece to the airport, and only had my phone, I knew what I had to do.

The pressure at the top of my head was building. Pounding with every racing heartbeat. The kind of ache that doesn’t just whisper; it screams.

I had to fiercely claim it. Publicly. Visibly. Now.

No, you can’t have my name. I am the creator of The Unfinished Human.

This isn’t just a name. It’s a fucking soul frequency.

You don’t stumble into this name. You feel it—or you don’t.

The sky over Charlotte was darkening, a storm rolling in with the drama of something ancient.

I used the barest tools I had—my phone and a clunky business center computer. I wrote and recorded while sitting at my hotel room desk.

I moved fast, not from fear, but from knowing. The kind of knowing that grabs you by the gut and thrusts you forward.

And just as I was headed to the business center to finish the upload, the pressure in my head spiked again. I winced, grabbing the crown of my skull.

BOOM.

The sky split open with a bolt of lightning.

Call it synchronicity. Call it symbolic. Call it coincidence. But I felt it. The Universe, God, Spirit—whatever you call it—cracked something open tonight.

Here’s the thing no one tells you: birthing your voice doesn’t always feel poetic. Sometimes it feels like a panic attack mixed with a migraine wrapped in holy fire. Sometimes it comes through adrenaline and rage. Sometimes you’re not sitting in ceremony—you’re fighting like hell just to not be erased. Not be stolen from.

And I was proud. I am proud. Not because it was perfect. But because it was true.

True to my voice. True to the pace I’ve been reclaiming. True to the line I am no longer willing to let be crossed.

That woman may have meant no harm. Or maybe she did. Doesn’t matter. The lesson here isn’t about her. It’s about me.

You can’t take parts of me.

The Unfinished Human isn’t just a project. It’s a pulse. A path. A vow.

Tonight was a rupture—and a rite of passage. And tomorrow? I’ll rest. I’ll regulate. I’ll write. But tonight? I claimed it.

Unfinished.
Unapologetic.
Unstolen.

This isn’t self-help. This is soul witness.

The Unfinished Human Podcast is now live on Spotify. The first real episode? That’s still coming. But the story has already begun.

Photo credit: Tasos Mansour on Unsplash

AUTHOR’S NOTE:This piece was written during a lightning storm—externally and internally. It’s not just about naming a podcast. It’s about naming yourself, claiming what’s yours, and refusing to be co-opted. This is soul work, not strategy.

DISCLAIMER:This work is part of a larger unfolding project, The Unfinished Human. It is not coaching, advice, or therapy—it is a raw account of personal experience. It’s ritual. Ceremony. Shadow walking. An expanding, evolving creative experiment.

Trademark Statement:The Unfinished Human isn’t just a title—it’s a living creation.

It has roots, history, and a pulse.

It is in active use by the author across digital platforms, creative works, and commerce.This name, its essence, and associated content are protected.Use without permission isn’t inspiration—it’s violation.

And violations are met with fire.

All rights reserved.