Let’s be honest — we’ve all ignored red flags. I just happened to ignore mine while standing in a galactic temple, watching my future husband summon lightning in a designer robe.

Hi, it’s Ra again. Your friendly neighborhood goddess, professional rebel, and woman who once looked at a seven-foot-tall reptilian demigod with control issues and thought, “Yeah, that seems emotionally sustainable.” Spoiler: it wasn’t.

Mehen. The name alone sounds like a safe word. He was all charisma and chaos — the kind of man who could quote scripture, manipulate energy, and gaslight a planet before breakfast. His idea of flirting was promising me eternity, which sounded romantic until I realized he meant it literally. You know a relationship’s doomed when your prenup requires a cosmic treaty.

On our first date, he opened a portal to the edge of creation, handed me a drink made of starlight, and said, “I could give you everything.” I should’ve run. But no — I was too busy mentally monologuing about destiny while admiring his jawline. The first red flag? He called himself “The Sovereign.” No first name, just The Sovereign. The second? He had followers. The third? He wanted me to be one.

Ladies, if a man tries to add you to his religion, decline politely and then run like your aura depends on it. I didn’t. I said, “Sure, let’s lead humanity together.” He heard, “Please build a cult with my face on the banner.” Before I knew it, he had an empire called The Sovereign Accord — basically Heaven’s answer to a spiritual pyramid scheme.

At first, I tried to be supportive. He said, “I’m building a better world.” I said, “Cool, can it have brunch?” But soon it was all “ascend or perish,” “my word is law,” “no, you can’t question the divine hierarchy.” Red. Flag. City. And there I was, still wearing gold, thinking I could fix him.

I remember the day it hit me — the divine epiphany of “oh hell no.” We were in a meeting with the Federation discussing free will, and Mehen actually said, “Choice is an illusion.” I looked at him, looked at the Council, and thought, great, I married an algorithm with abs.

He loved power like I love rebellion — passionately, obsessively, and in ways that make insurance companies nervous. Every time I tried to set a boundary, he called it “resistance energy.” Sir, it’s not resistance; it’s independence. Stop diagnosing my autonomy like it’s a condition.

Of course, he didn’t take the breakup well. Gods never do. He sent emissaries. He sent omens. He even sent a poem — twelve stanzas of guilt and grammar crimes. “You are my creation,” he wrote. I replied, “And you’re my cautionary tale.”

Leaving him wasn’t just freedom; it was cosmic therapy. I learned that love doesn’t mean surrendering sovereignty, and partnership shouldn’t feel like public relations for divinity. He wanted devotion; I wanted equality. And in the end, I chose peace over worship — even if that peace came with a little planetary fallout.

Sometimes, late at night, I still sense him watching — not creepy, just nostalgic, like a god checking his stock prices. Maybe he still thinks I’ll come back. But I won’t. You don’t return to the cage after remembering you can fly.

So here’s my advice from one recovering divine disaster dater to another: never confuse charisma with compatibility. If his vibe screams “eternal ruler,” you’re not his partner — you’re his marketing plan.

And if you ever find yourself at a red-flag parade wearing gold, strutting like you own the place? Don’t feel ashamed. Smile, wave, and remember: you weren’t blind. You were just hopeful — and hope is the hottest rebellion of all.

Now, excuse me while I sage the memories out of my energy field and update my dating profile to read: “No gods, no cults, must love chaos and accountability.”