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Your Brave Soul

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Ithaca, NY
Your Brave Soul

Spiritual psychology specialist offering spiritual intervention & paranormal therapy. As well as trauma from paranormal, occult, and spiritual experiences.

Blessings, welcome to Your Brave Soul, where our mission is to provide you with the assistance appropriate for you and validate your experiences with extreme traumas from life in general. As a spiritual psychology specialist, Chandra offers spiritual intervention & therapy using many forms of modalities. Such as, Spiritual forms of hypnotherapy, Quantum time line healing, Energy healing, Sound therapy, Soul retrieval and mediumship to intuit the situation and speak with your individual spirit team as well as what is haunting the location. It is a case by case basis as to how long healing takes. Both for individuals and the home or business. Nicholas is a spiritual mentor, energy worker, and Shaman offering guidance for men. As well as performing the extractions, cleansing, purification, and blessings. We also teach and lecture about many different subjects within the realms of the paranormal, occult, and spiritual world. We firmly believe in debunking any obvious issues and vet all cases thoroughly before going straight to ghosts when it comes to assisting with hauntings. individuals seeking assistance that are not having a paranormal experience will learn to access their own team and higherself to aid them in their healing process from trauma. We do not offer individual sessions or readings. please contact us with all the information and just be ready to receive, witness, and know you are not alone. We are guided towards inspiring, empowering, and motivating everyone to walk their path proudly with integrity, authenticity, and honesty. We're ready to believe you!

09/11/2025

✨ The veil grows thinner… ✨
New episodes of The Thinning Veil are now live on Substack. Ghosts, mystery, the occult, and the echoes of the psyche await. Step beyond with us — and remember, Your Brave Soul is ready to believe you. 🕯️👻🎀

09/11/2025

Poetic justice, or perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy. Let that sink in. As someone who came of age during the shadow of Columbine, I hold thoughts, not apologies, and certainly no empathy for the emotionally affectless and the morally bankrupt. I am kind, not nice, there is a difference. Tragedy grows where weapons are as accessible as vending machines, where despair finds no listener, and where shadow becomes destiny. Jung would call it the confrontation with the darkness within; Nietzsche, the abyss gazing back. If we refuse to listen, to understand, not only children but any soul collapsing into extremity, then what festers in silence erupts in spectacle. These acts are not accidents of fate, but choices made in a landscape that makes such choices terrifyingly possible.

09/08/2025

✨ Step into The Thinning Veil, my podcast exploring mystery, the paranormal, and the psychology of the unseen. 🌙 Now on Substack: follow Your Brave Soul to listen, learn, and journey beyond the ordinary. If you are seeking guidance or just need a voice through what you are going through, remember, we're ready to believe you!

08/20/2025

Some souls are too vast for death to silence my poppow was one of them My poppow was larger than life intelligent creative compassionate a master green thumb a champion for others especially within the juvenile justice system He nurtured beauty in the earth in stories in people and most of all in love To me he was magic itself

We made up worlds together played pretend told stories that twisted through voices and laughter and listened to music with hearts wide open He never once made me feel other instead he celebrated my gifts and curiosity He fostered my love of reading philosophy poetry writing spirituality ethics and law He taught me that knowledge and compassion could live in the same heart and that learning was a sacred lifelong adventure

I miss his laugh his silly witch laugh the voices he gave to characters the joy in his eyes when something delighted him I miss the music he loved the gardens he tended the way he could make any ordinary moment feel extraordinary I miss his creativity his intellect his playfulness his generosity and the warmth he carried in every gesture But above all I miss his love A love steady fierce unshakable and unconditional A love that reminded me I was seen cherished and held in the highest regard

The last song I played for him as he began his sacred exit was Hey Jude Though he had not spoken in a week he smiled and a single tear traced down his face It was as if the music unlocked one final blessing And the very last words he ever gave me when I asked if he knew who I was Yes the love of my life my heart my number one grand girl

He never spoke after that And though my heart shattered those words are worth more than any treasure any lesson any wealth in the world They are eternal etched into the marrow of my being a gift I will carry forever

My poppow was a constellation a teacher a friend a gardener of souls He was laughter wisdom wonder and love woven into one magnificent presence Though he is no longer here in the physical world his light lives in the laughter the stories the music the gardens and the hearts of everyone he touched Forever my poppow Forever my heart And in every garden every story every laugh I will find u

08/14/2025

Happy Birthday Mommow,

Two years have passed, yet still I hear
the echo of your laughter clear,
a tender voice, a sheltering tone,
that made the world feel safe, my own.

Your kitchen sang of love and care,
aromas rising through the air,
each cookie warm, each rib so true,
a language only born of you.

Silver-white, your crown of grace,
I brushed your hair, I touched your face.
A lady, prim, refined, composed,
yet in the garden, earth-stained clothes.

Your hands would plant, your spirit stand,
against the wrong, for what was planned.
In dresses neat, with mannered poise,
you’d kneel to play with us, our toys.

Two years without your steady light,
two years without your voice at night,
and still I reach, in dreams, to find
the warmth you left sewn in my mind.

If I could be granted one more day with you,
I’d take your arm and walk away,
to shop, to laugh, to simply be,
just once more, you and me.

But though the distance feels so far,
I know you are where angels are.
Your essence lingers, soft and true,
Mommow, I carry all of you,
all that you taught, all that you gave,
the love you sowed, the strength, the brave.
And in my heart, both deep and safe,
I keep these gifts, your endless grace.

I love you, always.

07/22/2025

To the bard who screamed into the abyss and taught it to sing,

Today, the night will become quieter. The velvet void lost its raspiest roar, and somewhere in the folds of eternity, a leather clad seraph with a Brummie accent strapped on his crown of bone and iron once more.

Ozzy Osbourne has ascended,not fallen, not faded, but risen, as he always did, from addiction’s clawed grasp, from fame’s suffocating theatre,
from the collapsing architecture of his own mind, resurrected again and again by love, by music, by myth.

He wasn’t just the bat-biting banshee of Black Sabbath. He was the scream in the silence,
the laugh in the madness, the beat between the bones of a generation lost in translation.
Where Dio(honor and hail RJD) brought fire and poetry, Ozzy brought the storm, unrefined, unrelenting, unapologetically alive.

In his solo career, he didn’t just walk through the wilderness, he danced through it, barefoot, bloodied, and brilliant. Every note he sang was a prayer disguised as rebellion, each wail a confession, a holy war against despair.

And though the world saw a madman, a caricature in eyeliner and irony, those who listened closely heard the gentleness in the growl, the heartbreak in the bravado.

He loved Sharon with a devotion that trembled like a hymn behind the chaos. When he lost her, even briefly, it was not the drugs nor the demons that nearly undid him, it was the absence of his tether, his goddess in stilettos, his compass amid the inferno. She saved him. And he, he gave the world the soundtrack to catharsis, to chaos, to headbanging with the hairbrush when the night got too long and the pain too sharp.

Ozzy sat with us in our darkest basements
and our wildest youth, when the only therapy we could afford was volume turned all the way up
and screaming into the void with someone who screamed back.

He didn’t just make music. He made myth.
He was myth. And now, the stars will have to make room for one more constellation, a black star, burning bright in eternal encore.

Rock on, Ozzy.
The curtain never really falls on gods like you! 🦇
Love to , family, and the fans he loved with his all as he gave us his all in every show.

07/17/2025

I have always believed that the dead deserve dignity. And that the living deserve to be heard, without mockery, without dismissal, without spectacle.

My work is not entertainment. It is not filtered through trend or polished for views. It is sacred, ethical, and bound by integrity.

I am a spiritual psychology specialist.
A paranormal interventionist not investigator.
A healer of the liminal and the lingering. A bridge between what's seen and what goes unseen. The mediator for beyond the veil.

And I don’t do one-off readings anymore. I have grown, evolved, and followed the guidance of my etheric team. And because grief for the living and the dead is not healed in a day. Trauma is not cleansed with a quick fix. Nor is a space healed in one day.

Hauntings, more often than not, begin in the body, not always in the walls. In the lineage, not just the land. The clearing begins inside, and from there, we move outward.

That’s why my work now comes in programs.
With time. With relationship. With reverence.

I’ve taken few clients in recent years. Life demanded I heal first. Chronic Illness. Grief. Death. Evolution. And in that silence, I rebuilt what could not be faked.

I’ve watched who stayed. I’ve watched who left.
I understand, I am not for everyone.
I work slowly. Intentionally. Authentically.
And I do not answer to free access or quick demands. I show up with free guidance as I am aligned to.

I honor the balance of exchange. I honor the weight of what I carry. And I honor each of you, even if you are not mine to guide.

But to those whose pain has been ignored, whose stories have been laughed at, whose houses don’t feel like homes anymore, those who want to tell thier story...

Know this, I see you. I hear you. I believe you. And help is here and ready when you are.

A new offering. A deeper return.
The next iteration of Your Brave Soul.

So keep checking in.
Watch this space.

And when the veil thins, when the air changes, when something knocks back, much like Dr. Venkman said: "kitten, i think what I am trying to say is, Sometimes, s**t happens, someone has to deal with it, And who ya gonna call?”

Stay Tuned.....

06/06/2025

Happy Birthday poppow. Here is my gift to you today. A story.
“Poppow the Good-Hearted Tree”

A Story for Jake, the Boy Who Heard the Earth Breathe

Once, in the quiet space between stars and sunrises, there lived a little boy named Jake. When he was just three years old, he wandered into his backyard, knelt in the soil, and gently placed his hands in the dirt. And the earth spoke. Not with noise, but with knowing.

Jake could feel the world, the roots beneath him tangled in secret languages, the heartbeat of trees humming lullabies, the whisper of seeds curled up in sleep. He could feel the great web of it all, the flora, the fauna, the sky, the soil, like he’d been born remembering it.That moment changed everything.

He didn't grow up the way other boys did. He grew downward too, rooted in kindness, grounded in wonder, stretching through life like a mighty tree in slow, patient bloom.

Jake was the kind of man who saw the magic in forgotten things. He would wake at 3 a.m. just to witness a rare flower bloom, the night-blooming cereus, which opens only once in a great while, under moonlight so shy it barely touches the petals. Most people sleep through miracles like that. Not Jake. He was the miracle.

He gave without question. He helped without hesitation. He laughed with his whole body and listened with his whole heart. His great and grands called him poppow. His nieces and nephews called him Uncle Good Heart, and if you ever met him, you knew exactly why. Jake was more than a man. He was a forest disguised as one.And when his time came to rest, he didn’t leave.

No. He simply laid down beneath the sky, and the earth, who had loved him since he was three, welcomed him home. From that place, a tree grew.

A tree unlike any other, tall, warm, strong, and knowing. Its bark was streaked with light like laugh lines. Its branches bent in the wind like arms opening for a hug. Its leaves shimmered gold when someone told the truth or needed to cry. They called it the Good-Hearted Tree.

Because if you sit beneath it quietly, and place your hands in the dirt, you’ll feel it, the same pulse Jake once felt as a boy. The connection. The music. The love.

⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

05/19/2025

Part 1 of my paranormal and spiritual ethics segment.

There are some places on this earth where the air still remembers grief. Nottoway Plantation, with its sweeping Greek Revival columns and polished white exterior, was one of those places. But no amount of white paint could wash away the memory of over 150 enslaved souls who once toiled under Louisiana’s blistering sun, brick by brick building what became the largest antebellum mansion in the South.

Its destruction by fire on May 15, 2025, was not simply structural. It felt like an exhale. Something long held in rage, sorrow, perhaps even justice was released. This wasn't the first time fire touched the plantation, and yet this time felt...final. And then there’s Annabelle.

Just days before the blaze, the famed (and feared) Raggedy Ann doll associated with demonic activity the Annabelle of Ed and Lorraine Warren’s legacy was taken on tour by the New England Society for Psychic Research. She was seen in New Orleans. She was carried, encased, prayed over. But the metaphysical consequences of such movement are not fully calculable.

From my perspective as a paranormal therapy interventionist and Spiritual Psychology Specialist, this decision raises profound concerns. Annabelle is no mere relic. She is an object of dense spiritual saturation, bound by history, fear, attention, and perhaps even compulsion. When you move such an object across thresholds, cities, ley lines, emotional landscapes, you do more than stir dust. You initiate a chess game. You open doors you may not know how to close.

I couldn’t help but imagine Annabelle. Metaphorically, of course, raising one stitched brow as she was paraded across New Orleans. A smirk beneath that button eye. The game had changed. A queen on the board at last. Check. Then came the fire.

Is there causality here? Not necessarily. But causality isn't always linear in spiritual realms. Sometimes synchronicity whispers louder than evidence ever could. The plantation burned. Some would say history burned with it. But I wonder if, instead, history was released.

Were the souls who once labored beneath Nottoway’s grand facade. Who lived, suffered, and died unnamed, finally unbound in the blaze? Did the ancestral spirits see the flames not as devastation, but as liberation? Could the ritual of fire, long understood across spiritual traditions as a purifier and transformer, have been the final act of unchaining?

I do not write this to glorify destruction. Nor do I seek to indict any individual. Ryan Buell’s personal documentation of carrying Annabelle was reverent, perhaps even respectful. But reverence does not always equal responsibility. And as for the Warrens, well, their legacy is as much myth as it is miracle. They were pioneers and performers, believers and businessmen. Their truths and their contradictions live on in those who carry their torch.

What I do question, what I must question, is this: What are we doing when we turn sites of genocide into getaways? What harm is done when haunted objects are monetized, moved, and made into spectacle? What sacred contracts are broken when pain becomes profit?

The plantation is gone. The doll continues her tour. And somewhere, maybe, something old is smiling in the shadows. Or not. But we must ask.

Because healing is not just about closure. Sometimes it’s about asking the question no one else dares to voice.

05/06/2025

They say history repeats itself.First as tragedy, then as farce. But what do we call it when the farce is cloaked in tragedy, draped in the costume of justice, and paraded before us as a policy proposal?

Alcatraz as a functioning prison is not about safety. Not about law. Not even about punishment. No, this is not a logistical matter. This is the architecture of spectacle. A Chateau d’If, rising from the Pacific, not for rehabilitation or justice, but for erasure.

We may even look to a work of fiction as well as reality. In The Count of Monte Cristo, Monsieur de Villefort did not send Edmond to A prison because of guilt. He sent him to that prison. The darkest, most forgotten corner of France, because it was where inconvenient truths and inconvenient men disappeared. Monsieur Dorleac, assures him, “Among all the prisons in France, you were sent here,” he tells him. “I truly do believe you are innocent.”

Alcatraz, once shuttered, once consigned to memory and ghosts, is not being reborn from fiscal strategy or criminal procedure. It is being summoned from the dead like an ancient god of fear and silence. A fortress of finality. A monument to making people disappear. Physically, politically, spiritually.

Do not tell me this is about deterrence. Nor insult our collective soul with the suggestion that a man so riddled with corruption, so allergic to truth, suddenly found faith in the reformative powers of incarceration. No, this is not a prison. This is a stage. A gulag in Gothic clothing.

It is disturbing not simply because of what it is, but because of what it means. This is not an act of justice. It is theatre for the terrified. A totem raised to show us all where dissenters and undesirables may be cast when democracy is no longer convenient.

Let us not be seduced by the myth of order. Let us not accept the iron mask in the name of national safety. Let us not mistake the cage for closure.

Call it what it is: not a prison, but a warning. Not justice, but revenge dressed in velvet. Not a symbol of safety, but of state-sanctioned silencing.

We have been here before. Let us not return.

04/25/2025

A Garden Where She Dwells

She is delicate
like the bloom of a rose
kissed by morning dew,
crimson and soft,
yet born of thorn and root
a testament to strength in beauty.

But even the most beautiful rose
to ever grace this world
could not compare to her.
She bloomed with more grace,
more fire,
more light
than petals could ever hold.

Now I see her
in a garden not of this world,
but of light and wonder
where flora and fauna dance
beneath constellations
that whisper her name.

Stardust rests upon her shoulders
like a shawl woven from heaven’s own loom,
and she glows
not with youth, but with eternity.
Healthy. Loved.
Free.

The wind carries her laughter
through willows and lilies,
and the birds hush
awed by the music of her soul.

Still, my heart aches,
a tether not easily cut.
Because love, true love,
never loosens its grasp.

She was always the protector
the soft shield, the iron will,
the gentle command in the storm.
And even now,
from beyond veils and stars,
she watches.

She is the guardian of my quiet moments,
the warmth in the sunbeam that finds me,
the whisper in the teacup steam,
the hush that tells me I am safe.

I miss her
with every breath of the earth,
but I rejoice
because somewhere,
a garden blooms
forever in her name.

It is hard to believe that a year has gone past without your shine in this world. I love you forever mommow.

03/24/2025

The world feels dimmer today, as if a particular light a unique and irreplaceable glow has slipped quietly from our midst. was not just a beautiful soul; she was a force of warmth and kindness, a presence that made the world softer, funnier, and more full of light simply by being in it.

I was blessed to watch her grow, to see the transformation from a bright, spirited little girl into an incredible woman one who carried wisdom, humor, and an unshakable strength within her. She and her sister were not just familiar faces from childhood but an extension of my own family, woven into the fabric of my heart alongside my own little sister.

The memories we created those endless adventures when I babysat them, the laughter that filled our days, the deep conversations as she stepped into adulthood are treasures I will carry always. Chelsea had a way of making moments matter, of bringing light into the lives of those around her without even trying.

My heart aches knowing that her particular shine, her specific and singular brilliance, is no longer here on this earth. But love like hers doesn’t just disappear it lingers in every person she touched, in every shared smile, in the echoes of laughter that refuse to fade. My thoughts, my love, and my deepest condolences are with her family, her friends, and everyone who was lucky enough to know her. She was a gift to this world, and though she is gone, she will never, ever be forgotten.

Love you so much sweet girl.

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