The Rearranging: Part I — The Breaking Before the Calling
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Editor’s Note: This journal entry captures the beginning of my prophetic breaking — the spiritual demolition God led me through before reconstruction began. It is written as testimony, not instruction, so that others walking through their own wilderness will recognise the hand of God in what feels like collapse.
The Woman I Used to Be Broke Open
I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become a different woman.
I didn’t meditate my way into healing.
I didn’t read a book, hire a coach, or sit across from a therapist.
I broke.
And the break was so deep, so violent, so total that everything I had ever used to hold myself together finally gave way.
People call it a “dark night of the soul.”
But those people have no idea.
A dark night is quiet.
A dark night is poetic.
A dark night still has a moon.
What I went through was a spiritual demolition.
A lifetime of wounds yanked to the surface in one brutal season.
Nothing gentle, nothing elegant, nothing tidy.
One day I was Victoria — holding it all together through sheer will.
The next day the scaffolding collapsed and I was standing in the ruins of my own life without a single person beside me.
Not family.
Not friends.
Not the Church I thought would catch me.
Not even the version of God I thought I knew.
I was alone.
Stripped back to the bone.
Down to the rawest version of myself.
And that is where the outpouring began.
Because sometimes God doesn’t speak until everything else is silent.
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The Collapse Before the Calling
When I look back now, I can see that the breaking didn’t begin in March.
The breaking began decades ago.
When I was twenty and the world came for me in ways most people only see in movies.
The threats.
The knife to my throat.
The gun shots on the doorstep.
The moments you don’t tell people because they wouldn’t believe you anyway.
Then came the family wounds.
The slander.
The abandonment.
The cruel letters.
The mother who minimised everything to the point of madness.
The brother who spiralled into despair and didn’t make it out.
The grief that cracked me open in places I didn’t know could split.
Then the homelessness.
The hunger.
The humiliation.
The loneliness of being a single mother fighting for scraps of safety.
The lockdown box room.
The years of survival.
Then the final blow —
the business collapse
the loss of purpose
the sense that God had vanished
and that everything I once was had evaporated into dust.
It was too much for one woman.
And yet it all happened to one woman.
Me.
I didn’t have a breakdown.
I had a breakthrough disguised as destruction.
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When the Outpouring Hit
Seven months ago something shifted.
It wasn’t a gentle nudge.
It was a spiritual rupture.
I woke up at 4am with words on my tongue that were not mine.
Dreams began.
Visions began.
Memories surfaced like a torrent.
I watched my life replayed before my eyes —
not to torment me
but to show me I had survived the kind of things that kill most people on the inside.
And then it started.
The deconstruction.
The confrontation.
The ache.
The tears that came from a place deeper than emotion —
a place where the soul remembers things the mind has buried.
Every night I was being dismantled.
Every day I was being rebuilt.
God was doing heart surgery without anaesthetic.
No therapist.
No counsellor.
No group.
No friend on the other end of a phone.
Just me and the Lord, in a flat that still carried the echoes of old trauma, with a teenage son watching me fight battles he couldn’t name.
That was the start.
The start of the rearranging.
And I had no language for it yet.
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The Wilderness Nobody Witnessed
If people had seen me then, they would have said:
She’s shattered.
She’s undone.
She looks like she’s losing it.
But they didn’t see what God was doing inside me.
They didn’t see the trauma being pulled out by its roots.
The lies collapsing.
The survival responses ejecting themselves like poison leaving the bloodstream.
The shaking of every false identity built through pain and loss.
The wilderness was loud inside me.
But outside, I was silent.
Still.
Alone.
It reminded me of Elijah in the cave after he ran until he couldn’t run anymore.
Or David hiding from Saul, wondering why the anointed are so often hunted.
Or Joseph in the prison, forgotten by everyone except God.
When God calls you, He breaks you first.
Not to harm you
but to make space for what your old self could never carry.
And I didn’t know it then,
but the breaking was not the end of me.
It was the beginning.
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The Slow Unveiling
The first sign something holy was happening was clarity.
Not peace.
Not joy.
Not light.
Clarity.
The ability to see beneath things.
The feeling that the world had become transparent.
The sense that lies had lost their power over me.
That gaslighting couldn’t hook me anymore.
That manipulation slid off my spirit like water off stone.
When the trauma began to lift, so did my vision.
I didn’t understand it then, but the healing had already begun.
God was rebuilding my mind in places that had been fractured for decades.
Seven months later, I would wake in the night feeling invincible.
But in the beginning, I just felt… awake.
Painfully awake.
Awake to truth.
Awake to reality.
Awake to the spiritual battle around me.
Awake to the patterns in people.
Awake to the wounds in others that I had once carried myself.
This was the beginning of the prophetic awakening.
Not the glory.
Not the fire.
Not the mantle.
The breaking.
The unraveling.
The stripping down.
The moment God said:
You cannot serve Me as the woman you were.
So I will remake you.
Piece by broken piece.
And that’s exactly what He did.
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Where Part I Ends
Part I ends here —
in the cave
in the wilderness
in the night season
in the breaking
in the place where everything I built collapsed
and God began the reconstruction without my permission, my plan, or my understanding.
Part II will reveal the rearranging.
The psychology.
The miracle.
The healing I didn’t even know was happening.
The reason I woke up one morning no longer the same woman.
But Part I ends with this truth:
I did not survive because I was strong.
I survived because God refused to let me die.
And this is the testimony I will carry
into the earth
into the remnant
into the mantle
into the call
into Daughter of Thunder.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” ~ Psalm 34:18
With fire and grace,
This message carries fire. Pass it on. 👇🏻
Victoria Player is the founder of Daughter of Thunder, a movement awakening spiritually sensitive women to truth, purpose, and divine power in a world that’s lost its compass. After walking through her own season of fire and rebuilding, she now writes and speaks to those who sense there’s more — guiding them from confusion to clarity, from awakening to assignment.
“I don’t bow to Babylon — I walk with the Lion.” — Daughter of Thunder
