Why I Wrote When the Angels Went Quiet

There comes a moment in every spiritual journey when the light dims. When the certainty fades. When you cry out to the heavens and are met with a silence that echoes through your soul.

That silence is where When the Angels Went Quiet was born.

For years, I lived my life in devotion to Spirit—offering guidance, holding space, channeling healing. My days were filled with clarity, connection, and a sense of higher purpose. But life, as it does, brought me to my knees.

A crushing legal battle for my daughter. The deep collective grief of a global pandemic. Personal burnout that left me emotionally depleted and spiritually muted. The angels—my ever-present guides—fell silent. And with that silence came an avalanche of guilt and shame.

I started to question everything.

Was I only valuable when I was giving? Did I somehow cause this silence by not being “spiritual enough”? Was my grief making me unworthy of connection?

These weren’t just passing thoughts—they were gut-deep wounds. And they were heavy. As someone who has always been devoted to the divine, the shame of not feeling connected, the guilt of not being “on” for others, and the grief of losing what once felt so natural—it nearly broke me.

But here's the truth I discovered, and the truth I needed to write: You can be a deeply devoted soul and still fall apart.

You can carry hope in one hand and heartbreak in the other.

I didn’t write When the Angels Went Quiet to teach—I wrote it to tell the truth. To give voice to the quiet battles so many of us fight in silence. To unravel the layers of shame that say we have to be perfect to be worthy. To sit in the rawness of grief without needing to rush to the “lesson.” To acknowledge the guilt that comes from being human on a spiritual path.

And most importantly, to remember hope.

Because in the stillness, the Archangels began to speak again—not loudly, not dramatically, but through the cracks. Through the tears. Through the surrender. Their messages, woven throughout this book, offered me lifelines of truth and compassion—just when I needed them most.

When the Angels Went Quiet became a space where devotion met despair. Where guilt gave way to grace. Where hope dared to rise, even from the rubble.

So, why did I write this book?

Because people need to know it’s okay to feel ashamed, to grieve, to question their path. That even those who “seem to have it all together” are navigating their own sacred unraveling. And that silence—spiritual or otherwise—is not a failure. It’s a pause. A holy pause, where deeper healing begins.

If you’ve ever wrestled with shame for not being okay, this book is for you.

If you’ve ever felt guilty for needing rest, for pulling back, for not being “strong,” this book is for you.

If grief has hollowed you out and you’ve wondered if the light will ever return, this book is for you.

If you’ve clung to devotion even when the path felt cold and empty, this book is for you.

And if hope feels fragile but still flickers inside you—this book will tend that flame.

When the Angels Went Quiet is more than a memoir. It’s a mirror, a balm, and a blessing. It’s a space where we lay down the masks and meet in our shared humanity. Through my journey—messy, raw, and ultimately redemptive—you’ll be reminded that:

You are not the sum of your guilt or your grief.

Shame cannot separate you from the love of the divine.

Devotion isn’t about being perfect—it’s about showing up, even when it hurts.

Hope is a quiet strength, and it lives inside you still.

This is the book I wish someone had handed me when I was lost in the silence. When I thought the angels had abandoned me. When I believed I was failing because I couldn’t “feel” them anymore.

I wrote it because I know how lonely it feels. And I want you to know: you're not alone.

When the Angels Went Quiet is a love letter to the weary-hearted. An invitation to be seen. A call back to your worthiness, your truth, your light.

Even when the angels go quiet... they are still with you.

And so am I.

With all my love,

Kiandra

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