Founder

  Hi. my name is Brenda Jean Bullis—just call me Brenda.

I'm the founder of Blueprint HOPE, although founder has always felt like a somewhat formal word for what I've actually been doing.

Mostly, I've been following the dots.

Listening. Observing. Asking questions. Learning from people, animals, nature, systems—and life itself. And slowly beginning to see connections between things I once thought were completely unrelated.

Blueprint HOPE began on January 13, 2020, with an experience I still don't fully know how to explain.

At the time, I was still on long-term disability and dealing with chronic health issues. Starting an organization wasn't exactly on my to-do list.

And yet, I came away from that day with a vision—and with the unmistakable sense that there was something I was supposed to do.

I didn't have a strategic plan.

I didn't have an organization.

I certainly didn't have a roadmap.

I had the beginning of an idea called Blueprint HOPE.

What I didn't know was that January 13 would also mark the beginning of a much longer journey.

Over the years that followed, I had other experiences I still don't fully understand. Some were extraordinary. Some were deeply painful. Some challenged almost everything I thought I knew about myself, other people, and the world around me.

Along the way, my own life changed too.

I eventually returned to work after ten years on disability. I continued exploring, observing, questioning, writing, connecting dots—and trying to understand what Blueprint HOPE was asking to become.

Then, on June 19, 2025, another profound experience changed the course of my life again.

I still don't have neat explanations for all of it.

I've become increasingly comfortable saying that.

What I do have are years of lived experience, observation, questions, patterns, connections, and lessons—and a vision that has continued evolving alongside me.

Blueprint HOPE has evolved too.

It has become less about trying to arrive at the answer and more about creating a place where we can ask better questions.

How do we create a world where children are loved, cherished, and fiercely protected?

What kind of world do we want them to inherit?

How do we create a world where animals are treated with compassion and care, and nature is respected and protected?

What helps people and communities thrive?

What gets in the way?

What happens when the systems we've created stop serving the people—and the life—they were intended to serve?

What might restoration look like, not only individually, but collectively?

What becomes possible when people carrying different pieces of the puzzle begin bringing those pieces together?

And what would we need to change—within ourselves, within our relationships, and within the systems we've created—to make that world possible?

I don't know exactly what Blueprint HOPE will become.

I don't think I'm supposed to know yet.

What I know is that something has been emerging since January 13, 2020.  My role, as I understand it today, is to pay attention, keep following the dots, build what I can, and create space for other people to bring their own pieces and help discover what comes next.

I don't have the answer.

But I believe this is a question worth building around.

And perhaps you're here because some part of that work belongs to you too.

  If you're a survivor of Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA), trauma-based mind control, MK Ultra or related experiences, or other extreme forms of trauma, I want to speak directly to you for a moment.

I am an MK Ultra survivor.

First, we had to survive what happened to us.

And survival itself can take everything we have.

But surviving the trauma doesn't mean the experience is over.

The body keeps the score.

Our bodies and nervous systems can continue carrying what happened long after the immediate danger has passed—sometimes for years, sometimes a lifetime, sometimes in ways we don't yet understand.

And then, for many of us, comes another layer.

When survivors of extreme trauma try to speak about what we've experienced, we are often met with silence, disbelief, ridicule, dismissal, rejection, targeting—or worse.

First, we survived what happened.

Then we have to survive what came afterward.

I know something about both.

My experience is my own, just as yours is yours. I won't presume to tell you what happened to you, what your experience means, or what your path forward should look like.

But I do want you to know this:

You don't have to make your story smaller to make other people more comfortable.

You don't have to explain everything perfectly.

You don't have to have every answer.

You don't have to convince everyone.

And you don't have to become a spokesperson for what you've survived.

You are more than what happened to you.

And I believe there is another part of this journey that deserves our attention:

Restoration.

Not simply surviving what was done to us, but discovering what it means to restore ourselves—to reclaim our lives, our voices, our agency, our relationships with ourselves and one another.

And perhaps there is something we can do together.

Survivors carry knowledge born of lived experience. We have seen things from inside trauma, power, exploitation, survival, systems, and recovery that others may only ever be able to observe from the outside and never completely understand.

We hold many of the keys.

Not all of them.

And not the same ones.

But perhaps that's precisely why we need one another.

For so many survivors, speaking out isn't only about ourselves, or even primarily about ourselves.

It's about the children.

It's about the animals.

It's about protecting those who cannot protect themselves. It's about bringing what has been hidden into the light. And it's about doing everything we can to help prevent another child, let alone another generation, from having to survive what so many of us before them already have.

That matters especially now, as the Epstein files and the crimes and exploitation documented through that case remain part of a very public conversation. The U.S. Department of Justice now maintains an official Epstein Library containing materials released under the Epstein Files Transparency Act, including DOJ and congressional disclosures. 

But exposing what has happened for generations is only part of the work.

We also have to ask what we build in its place.

That's where I believe individual and collective restoration begin to meet.

Many of us have spent years trying to reclaim parts of ourselves that trauma disrupted—our bodies, our voices, our agency, our ability to trust ourselves and others, sometimes our very sense of who we are.

Through that process, we've learned things.

About survival.

About people.

About systems.

About what destroys trust—and what helps restore it.

About what human beings need in order to feel safe enough to become fully themselves again.

What if some of what we've learned through restoring ourselves could help us understand something about restoring the whole?

What if we brought those pieces together—not only with one another, but with people carrying entirely different pieces?

I don't believe survivors alone hold the answers.

But I believe we hold some of the keys.

And perhaps, together, we can use what we've learned not only to expose and help end what harms life, but to help create conditions in which children, animals, people, communities—and life itself—are better protected and able to thrive.

That's something I hope Blueprint HOPE can help make possible.

Not a place where survivors are defined by what happened to us.

A place where what we've learned can help shape what comes next.

You are welcome here.

If some part of my story resonates with yours, I've shared more of my own journey through A Survivor's Path at BHOPE.TODAY.

  I also want to acknowledge the survivors who found the courage to speak before I was able to. 

My MK Ultra memories didn't begin to surface until I was in my 50s.

When I began trying to understand my own experience, I listened.

I spent hundreds of hours listening to firsthand survivor accounts—people willing to speak publicly about experiences that were extraordinarily difficult to describe and often even more difficult for others to hear.

Cathy O'Brien and Fiona Barnett were among the early voices whose accounts deeply resonated with me. Then came countless others. I listened to survivor after survivor tell their story, often through long-form interviews that gave them the time and space to tell it in their own way.

There was another survivor whose story reached me differently.

In November 2020, Ally Carter unexpectedly appeared in my YouTube feed when her public story went viral. Unlike many of the survivor accounts I had been listening to, Ally's story was unfolding in real time—and that journey is still unfolding today.

For the next couple of years, I did what I could to help raise visibility for Ally and her mother, Shelly, and for the larger issue of human trafficking. I spotlighted their story on my website, created flyers for marches and other events they were organizing, shared information, and helped amplify their efforts however I could from where I was.

Eventually, my own journey took some unexpected twists and turns. My presence on social media changed, and much of what I had once done publicly was no longer possible in the same way.

But I never stopped paying attention.

I've continued following Ally and Shelly's journey more quietly, from behind the scenes, and I continue to hope for answers, healing, justice, and restoration for them—and for the countless others whose stories may never reach a public platform.

The survivor stories I listened to weren't identical.

Neither was mine. 

But there were—and continue to be—patterns, experiences, and details I recognized.

TO EVERY SURVIVOR WHO HAS SPOKEN PUBLICLY: 

THANK YOU.

Thank you for being willing to say what was difficult to say.

Thank you for telling stories many people didn't want to hear.

Thank you for leaving a trail for those of us who came later.

Thank you for helping other survivors recognize that they weren't the only ones carrying experiences they struggled to understand or explain.

And thank you to the people who have been willing to listen.

I especially want to acknowledge Emma Katherine and The Imagination Podcast. 

For years, Emma has created space for survivors to tell their stories through long-form conversations—giving people the time to speak rather than trying to compress extraordinarily complex experiences into a few minutes.

LISTENING MATTERS.

We don't have to assume that every survivor's experience is identical to recognize the importance of allowing people to tell us what they experienced in their own words.

Sometimes the first thing we can do is simply listen.

  Everything I've shared above is part of what shaped the way I see the world—and the way I approach Blueprint HOPE.

I tend to see connections.

Between people and systems. Trauma and healing. Individual experience and collective patterns. Problems that appear unrelated until we step back far enough to see the larger picture.

Over time, I've come to understand this as part of my role as a System Level Architect.

I don't mean architect in the traditional sense. I mean someone who pays attention to the relationships between the pieces, holds awareness of the larger whole, and asks how those pieces might work differently together.

For me, that means listening, observing, connecting dots, identifying patterns—and helping create conditions for something new to emerge.

I don't believe I have all the pieces.

That's the point.

Other people carry pieces I don't have, shaped by entirely different experiences, knowledge, skills, and ways of seeing the world.

My role isn't to design the whole thing myself.

It's to help create an architecture where the pieces can begin to find one another.

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