She says she died. She says she crossed the veil and stood in a place that felt more real than breath, more honest than pain. In that stillness, she was shown a world turned inside out—corrupt powers falling, hidden wounds exposed, ordinary souls igniting. Now, as nations rage and trust erodes, her vision no longer feels like fantasy. It feels like a warn
Julie Poole’s breaking point was not a single moment, but an accumulation of hurts that taught her life was something to endure, not inhabit. When she finally chose to leave it, she expected oblivion. Instead, she describes a realm of piercing clarity, where love felt like a palpable force and deception simply could not stand. In that space, beings she calls angels laid out a future in which human beings remember who they are, and the systems that thrived on their fear lose their grip.
She did not return with instant perfection or proof, only a decision: to live as if that future were already unfolding. Slowly, she rebuilt herself, choosing honesty over numbness, compassion over cynicism, intuition over blind obedience. Her story does not demand belief; it invites responsibility. If there is even a chance that a Golden Age is possible, it will not arrive from the sky. It will arrive in the quiet, stubborn choices we make with the lives we once thought were beyond saving.