Honest storytelling as a form of healing.

Tag: healing

  • What Happens When You Sit Down to Want 100 Things

    What Happens When You Sit Down to Want 100 Things

    Words are your power

    I haven’t written here in almost a month.

    I could give you a list of reasons life, work, the weight of everything I’ve been carrying but honestly? Sometimes the people who write about healing need a minute to just be in it without documenting it. This past month has been that for me.

    But I’m back. And I’m coming back with something that’s been living in my Moleskine notebook for the past two weeks, taking up space in the best possible way.

    I’ve been writing down 100 things I want.

    Not need. Not should have. Want.

    You’d think that would be easy. It is not.

    The first ten come fast. A house. Peace. More money. Travel. Health. You write them down feeling good about yourself, like yes, I know exactly who I am and what I’m building toward. And then you hit item eleven and something shifts.

    Because now you have to go deeper.

    Now you’re not just listing the obvious things you’re being asked to get honest about the quieter ones. The ones you’ve talked yourself out of. The ones that feel too small to say out loud or too big to believe. The ones you stopped wanting because someone once made you feel like you shouldn’t.

    That’s where the real work is.

    I’m not going to share my list with you. That feels sacred to me it lives in my notebook, between me and God and every ancestor who’s ever rooted for me. But I will tell you what the process of building it has felt like, because I think that’s actually the part worth talking about.

    Around item 30, I had to get honest about things I’d been quietly grieving versions of my life I thought I’d let go of but apparently hadn’t. Around item 50, I started laughing because some of what I wrote felt ridiculous. Audacious. The kind of thing you whisper, not say. And I wrote it anyway.

    It’s uncomfortable. In the best way.

    By item 70, I was crying. Not from sadness from recognition. Like something in me had been waiting for permission to be seen.

    Here’s what I’d tell you if you want to try this:

    Start without rules. Don’t organize by category, don’t second-guess what belongs. Just write. Let it be a mess. Categories will find themselves.

    Don’t edit while you’re building. The moment you cross something out because it feels silly or selfish or unrealistic, you’ve started lying to yourself. This is not the place for that.

    Sit with the discomfort when it stalls. It will stall. That stall is usually pointing at something important. What you can’t name yet is often what you need the most.

    This isn’t a vision board exercise. This is an excavation. You’re not just dreaming you’re deciding. There’s a difference.

    Will you give this list for yourself a try?

  • A new Never ending Wave

    A new Never ending Wave

    Today marks 20 years since my oldest daughter’s passing to SIDS and I thought I’d share 20 things I wish people understood about grief:

    1. “They’re in a better place” doesn’t make the missing stop. Both things can be true and still hurt.
      1. “Don’t be sad” is not comfort. It’s a request for your silence.
      2. “They wouldn’t want you to cry” maybe. But grief isn’t about what they want anymore. It’s about what love does when it has nowhere to go.
      3. “You’re lucky you have other children” is one of the cruelest things you can say to a grieving parent. Children are not interchangeable. Every single one is irreplaceable.
      4. “Just smile” means make me more comfortable with your pain.
      5. Grief has no expiration date. None.
      6. Twenty years later, that is still your person. That is still your baby. Time does not shrink that.
      7. It comes in waves. I can be fine right now and crying in an hour for no reason other than love.
      8. Sometimes the wave hits in the middle of a grocery store. Or a gym. Or a Tuesday morning.
      9. You learn to carry it, not lose it. It becomes part of how you walk through the world.
      10. Anniversaries are not just dates on a calendar. They are full-body experiences.
      11. The ones who feel it most are the ones who say the least about it.
      12. Grief is lonely. Not because no one cares, but because no one else loved them exactly the way you did.
      13. Sometimes I just need someone to say I’m here. That’s all. No fixing. No advice. Just I’m here.
      14. Silence from the people you expected to remember hurts in its own quiet way.
      15. Putting up a face is exhausting. But sometimes it’s how you survive the day.
      16. You don’t grieve less over time. You just get stronger between the waves.
      17. A favorite book, a song, a smell any of it can bring them back in a rush. That is not a breakdown. That is love.
      18. Grief is not weakness. It is the proof of how deeply you loved.
      19. My child will always be my child. In this world and the next. No amount of time, distance, or “looking on the bright side” changes that.


    If you are grieving today, I see you. You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to keep going, and you are.

  • When Your Soul Has Been Speaking and You Haven’t Been Listening

    When Your Soul Has Been Speaking and You Haven’t Been Listening

    There is a version of you that already knows the way.
    Quiet, not because there is nothing to say, but because the noise of everything else has been louder. The to-do lists. The grief you’re carrying. The version of yourself you keep trying to be for everyone around you. That part of you has been waiting underneath all of it, patient as the moon, holding the truth of who you actually are.
    This is for that part of you.

    We talk a lot about finding ourselves, as if the self is something we misplaced, like keys or a good pen. But what if you were never lost? What if you just got… covered? Layer by layer. Year by year. Expectation by expectation.


    Alignment isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about returning.
    It’s the exhale after holding your breath too long. It’s recognizing your own voice again after months of only hearing everyone else’s. It’s soft, and it’s sacred, and it takes exactly as long as it takes.

    I created 7 Days of Alignment because I needed it myself.
    Not as a therapist. Not as an expert. As a woman who has stood at the crossroads of who I was and who I was being called to become, and needed somewhere to put it all down. To write it out. To sit in the discomfort of my own becoming without running from it.
    Seven days. Seven affirmations. Seven invitations to stop performing and start listening.
    Each day holds one truth to carry in your body before your mind wakes up and tries to take over.

    One prompt that asks you not to have the answers, but to have the conversation, with yourself, with the divine, with the parts of you you’ve been avoiding.
    This isn’t a challenge. It’s not a program. It’s a clearing.

    You don’t need to be in crisis to use it.
    You need to be in transition, and aren’t we all, always, in some kind of becoming?
    Maybe you’re standing at the edge of something new and can’t quite name what’s shifting. Maybe you’ve been feeling the pull to go inward but don’t know where to start. Maybe you’ve been running so long you forgot what it feels like to be still.
    This journal meets you where you are. It does not ask you to be healed before you begin. It asks you to show up, imperfect, unsure, tired if you need to be, and write.

    The page is where I have always found my way back to myself.
    Before I was a poet. Before I was a mother. Before I survived the things that tried to take me out. I have always trusted the blank page the way some people trust prayer, because for me, they are the same thing.
    7 Days of Alignment is that: a prayer you write to yourself.
    And when you close it on the seventh day, you won’t be a different person. But you will be a clearer one. A little more anchored. A little more you.

    Download it. Light a candle. Begin.
    The version of you that already knows the way has been waiting long enough.

    Get your copy of 7 Days of Alignment HERE

    Can’t wait to hear about your journey.

  • It started with a Page

    It started with a Page

    I didn’t set out to create a journal. I set out to survive.
    There have been seasons in my life where the only thing that kept me grounded was writing.

    Not pretty writing. Not polished writing. Just honest words on a page that helped me figure out what I was feeling when I couldn’t say it out loud.


    That’s what 7 Days of Alignment is born from.
    It’s a seven-day guided journal for anyone who is in the middle of something grief, change, becoming, all of the above.

    Each day gives you one affirmation to hold in your body and one prompt to take you deeper. No experience required. No perfection expected.

    Will you take the challenge?


    Just you and the page.

    I’ve been working toward this for a while, and I won’t pretend it didn’t feel vulnerable to put it out into the world.

    But if even one person picks this up on a hard day and feels a little less alone because of it, then it was worth every bit of courage it took to hit publish.

    So check it out HERE if you are ready to give yourself 7 Days of Alignment.

  • Permission

    Permission

    By Friday, most people are tired of trying.

    Not because they failed 

    but because effort has been constant, quiet, and unseen.

    This is usually where the inner voice gets sharp.

    Where we start measuring the week by what didn’t happen.

    Where we decide we’ll “start again” on Monday.

    I’m practicing something different.

    Permission.

    Permission to let the week be what it was.

    Permission to stop tightening my grip on meaning.

    Permission to rest without narrating it as avoidance.

    Journal therapy, for me, doesn’t always look like writing things down.

    Sometimes it looks like not interrogating myself for a few hours.

    Not asking:

    • Did I do enough?

    • Did it matter?

    • Did anyone notice?

    Just letting Friday be a soft landing

    instead of another performance review.

    Some weeks don’t need closure.

    They need kindness.

    And today, that’s enough.

  • Yule Simmerpot: Honoring the return of the Light

    Yule Simmerpot: Honoring the return of the Light

    Yule marks the Winter Solstice  the longest night of the year  when the dark pauses, and the light begins its slow return.

    This isn’t about doing more.

    It’s about remembering.

    The simmer pot is one of the oldest ways to honor this turning of the wheel. As the scent rises, so does intention not forced, not loud, just steady and warm.

    You’ll need:

    • 1 orange, sliced (sun + renewal)

    • Cranberries (life force, continuity)

    • Cinnamon sticks (protection, warmth)

    • Whole cloves (grounding, clarity)

    • Optional: star anise, rosemary, or vanilla for comfort and calm

    How to:

    Add everything to a pot, cover with water, bring to a gentle simmer, then lower the heat.

    Let it carry you through the day. Refill with water as needed.

    As it simmers, you don’t need to speak intentions out loud.

    Yule isn’t about asking it’s about trusting the return.

    Even in stillness.

    Even in cold.

    Light is on its way.

  • Season is not the only thing changing

    Season is not the only thing changing

    This shift in life hit different.

    Not because anything magical happened but because I did.

    I woke up and felt that click… that quiet, steady “enough is enough” rising in my chest.

    I’m entering this new birth year where I stop talking about becoming her

    and actually become her 

    the version of me who trains with intention,

    who feeds her body like she’s building something sacred,

    What are your go to apps?

    who listens to her spirit before she listens to the world.

    Oats and bananas to keep me moving.

    New Sneakers to help guide my new momentum

    Apps lined up like soldiers.

    My mat waiting like an altar.

    And my mind?

    Locked the heck in.

    This isn’t a “new year, new me.”

    This is a rebirth forged in discipline, devotion, and a little bit of divine rage.

    The soft kind that pushes you forward, not breaks you down.

    I’m done shrinking.

    I’m done settling.

    I’m done pretending I don’t know what I’m capable of.

    I’m stepping into the most trying, most revealing,

    and most transformative year of my life 

    on purpose, with purpose, and for myself.

    If you see me glowing differently,

    just know:

    I worked for that.

  • Life lessons recap so far

    Life lessons recap so far

    Entering Level 50 feels less like getting older and more like stepping into a quieter kind of celebration  one without the confetti, without the noise.

    For some reason, I thought it would be grand balloons, laughter, maybe a room full of people cheering me on.

    Instead, it’s will be just me. A celebration of self, alone, with myself, with no hurrah.

    I won’t lie I had a wave of FOMO, that ache that asks, “Was I forgotten?”

    But then I remembered the one truth that softens everything:

    I love myself.

    And I love who I am becoming.

    Although I’ve reached this age, I feel brand new like a soul reintroduced to her own rhythm. I’m learning to be truth to self, to pour what I love into what I create, and to let that be my offering to the world.

    So here I am still evolving, still laughing in places I once cried, still finding beauty in the in-between.

    And through it all, I’ve gathered lessons  some whispered, some screamed, all earned.

    What have you learned so far?

    Here are fifty of them.

    1. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

    2. You can love someone and still outgrow them.

    3. Grief never leaves; it just changes shoes.

    4. Silence says more than a thousand apologies.

    5. Joy is sacred protect it like it’s your only light.

    6. Laughter during chaos is a form of prayer.

    7. Boundaries are self-respect in action.

    8. You can’t pour from an empty soul.

    9. Coffee is a love language.

    10. Motherhood teaches both surrender and strength.

    11. Your body remembers what your mind denies.

    12. The universe always whispers before it screams.

    13. Sometimes “no” is the holiest word you can say.

    14. Music can time-travel your heart.

    15. Friendship should feel like exhaling.

    16. Not everyone deserves access to your softness.

    17. You’re allowed to rewrite your story mid-chapter.

    18. Forgiveness doesn’t require reconnection.

    19. Solitude is not loneliness it’s sacred space.

    20. God speaks in coincidences.

    21. Perfection is the enemy of peace.

    22. Dance in the kitchen it heals more than therapy sometimes.

    23. You can be broken and still radiant.

    24. Rest is productive.

    25. Some lessons repeat until you act differently.

    26. Love yourself in public.

    27. Spirituality doesn’t need an audience.

    28. Laugh at your own pain sometimes  it takes its power away.

    29. Closure is often a myth; acceptance is real.

    30. People only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves.

    31. You are not what you lost.

    32. Gratitude is medicine.

    33. You can be soft and still fierce.

    34. Energy doesn’t lie  trust the vibe.

    35. It’s okay to start over at any age.

    36. Children are mirrors; they show you your truth.

    37. The moon really does know your secrets.

    38. Don’t explain your boundaries  enforce them.

    39. Beauty fades; character glows.

    40. Sometimes closure looks like silence.

    41. Love that feels like confusion is not love.

    42. You are allowed to outgrow your coping mechanisms.

    43. Every heartbreak refined you somehow.

    44. Laugh at the plot twists.

    45. Write it down memory is sacred.

    46. The divine is always in the details.

    47. Time doesn’t heal everything, but perspective does.

    48. You are the poem.

    49. Not everything needs to be understood some things are meant to be felt.

    50. The best is not behind you; it’s becoming you.

    Level 50 isn’t a milestone it’s a mirror.

    It reflects the woman I’ve become after walking through shadow and sunrise, holding both grace and grit in the same hands.

    This celebration may be quiet, but it’s honest.

    And maybe that’s the gift not being seen by everyone, but finally seeing myself.

    I’m still learning. Still unlearning. Still becoming.

    And this time, I’m doing it with peace in my bones, poetry in my breath, and no need to prove anything to anyone.

    Here’s to the next level.

  • Coming Home to Yourself

    There is a point where your heart start whispering louder than the world. When you realize you’ve been holding so much stories,emotions, half-felt things that need a place to land.

    That’s where journal therapy steps in.

    This isn’t about being “writer.”

    It’s not about pretty pages or perfect words. It’s about truth the kind that lives in your body before it ever makes sense in your mind.

    When you write, you start to hear what’s been buried under survival. You start to see the patterns, the pauses,the prayers.

    And little by little, the pieces begin to speak.

    Journal therapy gives your feelings structure without caging them.

    It helps you move through what hurts instead of pretending it’s not there.

    It’s a practice of remembering who you are beneath the noise, the expectations,the roles you’ve had to play.

    Pem to paper that’s where the heading begins.

    In this space, we’ll explore prompts and practices that help you release,reflect, and realign.

    You’ll lean to meet yourself on the page with compassion, curiosity, and power.

    No masks. No performance. Just presence.

    Start here:

    Write this question at the top of page:

    “What emotion has been waiting the longest to be heard?”

    Let your hand move without censoring.

    Let it talk. Let it tremble. Let it tell the truth.

    You don’t have to fix anything right now.

    Just begin

  • When life demands more: Lessons from Veronika

    I recently finished reading Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho, and it left me sitting with myself in a way very few books ever have. On the surface, it’s a story about a young woman who attempts to end her life, but beneath the pages, it’s about something far deeper  the raw, terrifying, exhilarating art of truly living.

    What struck me wasn’t Veronika’s decision to die it was what happened after. When she believed she had only days left, she stopped holding back.

    She did the things she never dared. She spoke the words she’d once swallowed. She allowed herself to feel deeply, unapologetically, even recklessly because in her mind, there was nothing left to lose. And in that space of nothing-to-lose, she discovered everything she had been missing.

    It made me ask myself a hard question: What would I do differently if I believed my time was short? Would I still silence myself for the comfort of others?

    Would I still chase people who never meet me halfway? Would I still cling to jobs, roles, or identities that no longer reflect who I am becoming?

    The truth is, I’ve already started answering that question without even realizing it. I’ve been releasing people I once clung to, refusing to keep calling and texting and chasing after one-sided connections.

    I’ve been quietly untangling myself from versions of me that were built to keep others comfortable. And as I do, something unexpected is happening  I feel lighter. I feel closer to myself than I have in years.

    There’s a kind of sacred power in choosing to step back not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. And with each boundary I set, with each old tie I let go, I feel myself stepping into a new season of life where I’m no longer living to be liked. I’m living to be authentic.

    Of course, my story isn’t Veronika’s. I have responsibilities, roots, people I love deeply. I can’t drop everything and run away. But that doesn’t mean I can’t choose to live differently.

    I can stop giving my energy to what drains me. I can choose peace over people-pleasing. I can live like I have nothing to lose not because life is ending, but because it’s far too precious to waste.

    Maybe that’s what midlife is supposed to feel like  not a crisis, but an awakening. A point where you stop numbing and start noticing, where you stop surviving and start living. It’s messy and scary and beautifully uncertain, but it’s also deeply liberating.

    I don’t have all the answers yet but I do know this: I’m done existing on autopilot.

    I’m ready to live with intention, to take risks that scare me, to build a life that doesn’t require an escape plan. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the lesson of this book it was teaching us all along that the life we crave isn’t waiting somewhere far away.

    It’s waiting for us to choose it, right here, right now.