Birth of a Mythomatician

I didn’t always speak like this: in spirals, symbols, and scripture.
There was a time when I kept my world neatly partitioned:
Math on one side.
God on the other.
And me, a Black woman mathematician from Cleveland, straddling both, silently.

I knew how to survive systems.
Math gave me that. It was my escape hatch from poverty, from the public housing complexes I grew up around.
The numbers were clean, contained, predictable , unlike the chaos around me.
As one of the few Black women in the field, I wore mathematics like armor.
I mastered it.
I trusted it.
And for a long time, it was enough.

Until May 27, 2018.
The day grief ruptured the equation.
There was no formula for this kind of pain.
No integration technique that could carry me over this void.
Math had always held me, but now it folded in on itself, insufficient to hold the weight of my sorrow.

It forced a reckoning.

You see, before that day, my relationship with God was… prophylactic.
A precaution.
A Sunday ritual.
A half-hearted prayer when things got hard.
I didn’t know God then.
I mimicked people who said they knew God.

But death stripped everything bare.
And when I descended into the mire of my own mind, I didn’t find theology waiting.
I found patterns.
Fibonacci spirals.
Pascal’s Triangle.
Sierpinski’s recursive unfolding.
Even the rebellious imaginary unit, i, which allowed me to build vertically – not just mathematically, but metaphysically.
Upward. Inward. Outward.

I began to see: if math could describe nature, surely it could describe this … this grief, this mind, this mystery.

That’s when I returned to scripture, not as a rulebook but as resonance.
I stumbled into 1 Corinthians 2:16The concept of "the mind of Christ" transcends mere imagery and requires a deeper understanding beyond traditional depictions. It represents More:

“But we have the mind of Christ.”

And something clicked.
This wasn’t about imitation.
It was about mindset: a divine pattern of perception.
Not WWJD, but HWJD
How would Jesus discern?

The mind of Christ wasn’t a set of thoughts to memorize; it was a fractal architecture of consciousness.
A way of seeing wholeness in what looks broken.
Of recognizing order where others see chaos.
Of loving with both precision and surrender.

That was the axis shift.

And in that liminal place
between logic and longing, proof and presence
the Mythomatician was born.

Not a teacher in the conventional sense.
Not a prophet.
Something else.

A weaver.
A translator.
A witness to the sacred code behind reality.

Where others see contradiction between God and math, I see a mirrored language.
Where others were taught to silo, I was called to fuse.
Because they were never meant to be separate.

This path wasn’t handed to me
it was unearthed.
Through loss.
Through searching.
Through the long spiral of becoming.

I am the Mythomatician.
And this is how I rose.

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