Part 2 – Why I’m Publishing My Early Journal Entries
🎧 Prefer to listen? Hear the spoken-word version above.
This post isn’t written to expose darkness — it’s written to honour beginnings.
Every prophet has a pit, and every calling has a breaking. These pages testify to the God who meets us in the rubble.
At first, I didn’t think the early entries mattered.
They weren’t prophetic.
They weren’t visions.
They weren’t downloads from heaven.
They were raw.
They were messy.
They were the desperate cries of a woman who had lost everything and was trying to understand who she still was.
Confusion.
Heartbreak.
Rage.
Grief.
Loss.
But now I see it clearly: those pages were part of the scroll.
They were part of the assignment.
They mark the beginning of the unveiling.
Because before the fire came, before the prophetic downloads, before the sword was placed in my mouth… there was mourning.
There was weeping.
There was stripping away.
There was the collapse of an identity that could no longer hold what God was birthing.
Before the boldness, there was the unearthing of buried wounds.
Before the thunder, there was the silence of being spiritually starved and emotionally worn down by life’s blows.
Before the mantle, there was the pit.
Those early entries are my spiritual archaeology — the excavation of a buried life, the uncovering of who I was before God rebuilt me.
I didn’t write them for an audience.
I wrote them to survive.
But the Lord knew.
He knew those trembling lines would become the opening chapters of a living testimony.
He knew they would trace the rise of a woman from the ashes —
a woman who would remember who she is,
a woman whose words would one day carry thunder.
So no, I won’t hide them.
I won’t shame the beginning.
I won’t pretend I woke up one morning wrapped in a mantle and ready to prophesy.
The calling didn’t fall on me in a blaze of public glory.
It found me in the rubble.
It was forged in sorrow.
It was woven through grief-stained pages, one silent exhale at a time.
This is why I’m publishing the early entries:
Not because they’re polished,
but because they’re true.
Not because they’re glamorous,
but because they’re sacred.
Not because I had answers,
but because I was brave enough to ask the questions.
Someone reading this is still in her pit —
still unraveling,
still whispering, “Who am I now that everything has fallen apart?”
Let these pages be proof:
God begins His greatest works in the rubble.
Let them be a breadcrumb trail for the next Daughter of Thunder, waiting to hear the first tremor of her own roar.
I honour the woman who wrote those early entries.
I honour the voice that trembled before it thundered.
I honour the beginning.
Because every fire begins with a spark.
And this…
this is where mine caught flame.
“He gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…” — Isaiah 61:3
If you’re still in your pit… keep reading.
The fire finds us in the rubble.
Let’s rise, together.
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
