BADSISTER—Where Story Becomes Sovereignty
Welcome, Sister.
Not the kind of welcome that asks you to sit nicely and learn. The kind that says you already know. I was born on red clay and contradiction—Oklahoma wind, small towns, loud religion. They called me Bad Sister because I wouldn’t stay small. I’ve spent a lifetime peeling off the costumes of good, obedient, and pleasing until only the hum remained—the one that never lied.
Now I don’t preach transformation. I hold space for remembrance. When women sit with me, we don’t fix or perform; we tune. We listen for the signal beneath the noise. We weave until the body remembers its own language.
✶ If you’re drawn here …
You’re likely in that still point between exhaustion and remembrance.
You’ve outgrown performance, but you’re not yet fluent in peace.
You’re ready to stop pouring and start inhabiting.
You’re not lost. You’re simply out of places to perform.
You’ve left the altars that demanded your sacrifice — family, friend, system, lover, faith.
Now the air is clean, almost too quiet, and the mirror won’t look away.
This is the edge between the one who survived and the one who knows.
You’re not here to be fixed, found, or branded holy.
You’re here because the hum inside you is finally louder than the noise outside.
If you found yourself here, you’ve already done the hardest part—stopped running.
What happens next isn’t curriculum; it’s communion.
We remember the body as the instrument of truth, not the costume of survival.
We learn how to hold our own signal steady in a noisy world.
We practice returning, again and again to what is real.
Welcome, sister. Sit. The climb continues from within.
✶ What we do together
Story as Signal — Reclaim your narrative from performance. Let the body, not the brand of you, tell the truth.
Boundaries as Frequency — Learn the difference between kindness and leakage.
Presence as Practice — Retrain your nervous system to rest in clarity, even in chaos.
No formulas.
No ten-step salvation.
Just clean mirrors, warm hands, honest witnessing.
✶ About K. Kyle Gilligan
I rose through dust and thunder, through women who forgot their own songs, carrying the memory of what was never meant to die.
Every word I write is a signal—ash, marrow, and dawn—sent to the ones who hear home inside the hum.
I don’t teach. I walk with you while you remember aloud.
Writer. Mentor. Woman of the red clay.
Bad since 1969—meaning I stopped apologizing for being alive. Born to remember.
Everything I offer was learned the hard way: through the fire of approval, the silence of exile, and the return to the well within.
✶ The Invitation
If something in you hums while reading this, follow it.
You already walked through the fire.
You were baptized in everything you thought you lost.
This isn’t the beginning. It’s you returning to what you’ve always known.
The invitation isn’t initiation, it’s a homecoming.
K. Kyle Gilligan
Bad Since 1969
The field gathers it’s own.