Still Becoming: The “Oh” That Started It All.
I was struggling. Not with the idea of O’Stella—but with how to begin. I knew it mattered, and I didn’t want to get it wrong.
I prayed.
I wrestled.
I waited.
Then one morning, the Holy Spirit spoke. Gently but clearly:
“Video yourself listening to the recordings.”
I didn’t know what I’d hear. I didn’t even know if my phone could handle it.
But I obeyed.
And just like that, the first file played—and everything shifted.
I thought I’d hear pain. Or grief. Or life dealing with my brokenness.
But what came through was hilarious, and unexpectedly perfect.
Because it was me—becoming.
I just didn’t expect that to be the first one.
I was finally ready to visit the 300+ voice recordings I’ve kept over these last couple years—little time capsules of my grief, growth, prayers, and process. I recorded them to share with you. I never listened back because I always knew… one day, you would.
So when I sat down to open one, I figured I’d start with something spiritual. Or maybe quiet. Reflective. But instead, the universe hit me with a raw, hilarious, explicit voice file from years ago.
Me. Drunk. But I wasn’t alone. Also full of whatever alcoholic choice we were on that day, were two of my oldest friends—one male, one female—laughing, cussing and talking about sex, celibacy, and how I was “40 months in” with no touch, no toys, no nothing. They were trying—very hard, and very unsuccessfully—to convince me to get some or at least be open to using a toy. It was wild. It was raunchy. It was real.
And it was the perfect place to begin.
Because even though I cringed and laughed, I couldn’t deny what I heard: a woman in transition. A woman doing her best to figure out who she was. That moment didn’t mark my downfall—it marked my truth.
But O’Stella didn’t begin there.
She was born months later, after my 53rd birthday—a night when, after over four years of celibacy, I let someone into my personal space again. A man I trusted. Someone who respected my boundaries and reminded me what it felt like to be seen, admired, and touched—without being consumed.
We danced. We laughed. He whispered, “You so damn sexy” in my ear and massaged my shoulders in the middle of a crowded bar like he was prepping me for the fight of my life—that’s another story.
I didn’t want to have sex. I just wanted to feel again. And I did.
For days afterward, I kept whispering to myself, “Oh, Stella…” like I imagine Angela Bassett did when she got her groove back in that unforgettable movie. But mine wasn’t just a groove. It was a rebirth.
That “Oh” stuck with me. It was sensual, yes—but also spiritual.
When I looked up the meaning of the letter O, I found it symbolizes unity, completeness, and divine femininity. A circle. A cycle. A reminder of infinite possibility—and the sacred connection between who we’ve been and who we’re becoming.
That’s what O’Stella is. That’s what I am.
O’Stella isn’t a celibacy movement. It’s a becoming movement.
She’s the “Oh” that caught me off guard. The “Oh” that called me back to myself.
She’s me. And maybe—she’s you, too.
So here we begin. Not with polish, but with presence. Not with perfection, but with the parts of ourselves we once buried. The laugh-out-loud, explicit, tender, sexy, sacred, unfiltered, glorious parts that make us whole.
In the next posts, I’ll share what happens as I keep pressing play.
I’m sure they’ll be messy. Some sad. Some funny.
All of them? 100% REAL
Still becoming,
Shirlena
Written May 24, 2025
God Sent Her to My Table
I could feel her looking.
Finally, she approached my table and was granted a seat.
She said God had been nudging her to speak to me—and she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
She delivered a message I didn’t fully understand—until five weeks later,
when my whole world fell apart.
This is the story of how God prepared me for heartbreak
before it ever came.
I returned to this exact table in 2022—still trying to understand what heaven was doing back in 2017.
It was early December 2017. I was on my lunch break from a brand-new job—working out of a model home just outside Waxahachie, Texas. Nothing major was going on that day. I just wanted a quick bite, some quiet, and maybe a moment to breathe and settle into this new chapter of my life.
I found a nearby Mexican restaurant. Nothing fancy. Just me, my thoughts, and a plate of food. But across the room, I noticed a woman. Every time I looked up, her eyes were already on me. It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t even awkward. It just felt… intentional.
Eventually, she walked over and asked if she could sit with me. I said yes.
Then, in the gentlest, most hesitant way, she told me that God had sent her to my table with a message. She had tried to ignore it, told herself maybe she was imagining things. But the feeling wouldn’t leave. She had to speak.
And this is what she told me:
“God has something great in store for you. But you cannot look to the left or the right. You have to keep your eyes on Him—no matter what life brings.”
She admitted it sounded strange—even to her—but the nudge was too strong. So she obeyed.
And I believed her.
This wasn’t the first time a stranger had approached me with “a word from God.” Nor was I new to God sending direct gifts through others. I thanked her kindly, just as I’d done before. Still, I remember feeling a sense of ease, like her presence gave me a momentary breath of peace.
At the time, I was already carrying the fresh grief of a friend who felt like family. I hadn’t even had the strength to face his loved ones yet. So in that moment, I believed her words were meant to help me support others through the grief I thought was coming.
I tucked her message into my heart like a prophecy I didn’t fully understand.
Then, five weeks later—my greatest storm hit.
My mother had suddenly been rushed to the E.R.
Soon she was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia, and I believed—truly—that God was going to restore her. I thanked Him in advance for it. I didn’t look left. I didn’t look right. I kept my eyes on Him, just like the woman at the table had said.
And within four days…
My mother passed.
Fifteen days after that, my stepfather—who, by all accounts, couldn’t “live without her”—passed too.
Two profound losses. No chronic conditions. No preparation. No time to process. Just… gone.
And what broke me wasn’t just the grief.
It was the hope.
And I was left holding a prophecy that didn’t match my pain.
I know now: unfulfilled expectations don’t just break your heart.
They can break your hope.
They make you question your discernment, your faith, your obedience.
Did I misunderstand God? Did I get it wrong?
I was drowning in unanswered questions. Wrapped in indescribable grief. Trapped in the isolation of being an only child. And weighed down by the messiness that family sometimes brings in death.
And the losses didn’t stop there. They kept coming.
But with time, prayer, affirmation, meditation—and the slow unraveling of grief—I realized something.
That woman didn’t come to tell me God would prevent the storm.
She came to tell me He would carry me through it.
And He has.
That moment in the restaurant wasn’t about rescue. It was about preparation. It was an anchor. A whispered warning from heaven:
Hold tight. Don’t drift. Stay with Me.
Now, when I look back on that table, I don’t just see a stranger.
I see a signal.
A reminder that even when life doesn’t go the way we prayed, God is still present. Still speaking. Still sending people to remind us that He knows exactly where we are.
And yes—He still has something great in store.
It just took me seven years to start unpackaging the gift.
Written May 31, 2025. Seven years after the Storm. Still Becoming.