My body will seize up, weaving itself into fascial planes of protection, holding tight against invisible threats. One day I can't walk, the next month I can dance. I rarely share this because I don't want it to define me — a chronic condition without a neat label. But in working with so many facing similar challenges, I'm sharing my experience to help others recognize themselves in it.

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Growing Up Sensitive

This sensitivity was something I learned to armor myself against, being the smallest in a volatile household. I became a good soldier, mastering the fight response most women are trained to suppress.

 

For years, I wore that like armor — big in expression, yet helpless inside. It would take a complete unraveling for me to find a different way. And when it came, I wrote about it. Because that's always been how I make sense of the unsurvivable — I turn it into story.

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Loss, Collapse, and the Dark Night

It began with a profound calm I found through breathwork training, just before my daughter's surgery. Then came the avalanche: my father's death, COVID isolation, my mother's passing, and the end of my marriage — all within nine months.

 

The ground collapsed completely, and buried wounds emerged. I tried to hold it together for my daughter and for the sake of appearances, but I entered a dark night of the soul — a spiritual dismantling where everything I thought I knew was stripped away, and even my will to live dissolved.

 

It wasn't just disorienting. It was devastating. I went into a forced surrender — the climax of one version of my life, and the first chapter of another.

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Learning a New Way

In the stillness that followed, I learned how to tend to myself differently, step by step. A year-long feminine-form Ayurveda program taught me to follow my body's rhythms rather than fight them. Revelation Breathwork — which I'd already been practicing for years — showed me how to release emotions trapped in tissue. In this dismantling, these practices became my lifeline.

 

I began documenting everything. The grief, the rage, the strange grace. Writing was never separate from healing — it was the container that made sense of it.

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Integration & Embodiment

Having lost nearly everything, I stopped grasping at structures that were falling away and set out on an unconventional path — one where every part of me, even the parts others might judge or shame, could be discovered and welcomed.

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That path led me deeper: through Orgasmic Meditation, an intensive study of BDSM dynamics, and eventually into the subtle architecture of the nervous system through Craniosacral Therapy. Each practice revealed new layers — embodied awareness, the dance between power and surrender, the intelligence living in the subtle realm.

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What began as personal survival evolved into something larger. I've always been an activist in the outer world — but this path initiated me into the interior world through lived experience, through beauty and through pain.

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I began building a new life as I learned, integrated and wrote. I wrote an award-winning script during this period. Not despite the chaos — because of it. I've learned that the most honest stories come from the places we're most afraid to look.

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In 2025, the loosely formed foundation I was trying to build broke again — along with my neck, in a fracture that went undiagnosed for months. Then the loss of a best friend. Then fires that swept not just through my community but through my system.

I'm sharing this because what I know this is teaching me, is that we are never fully healed or immune. There's nothing to figure out. We're just learning how to be with — with the body, with the grief, with the uncertainty, with ourselves. A little more tenderly each time.

From Healing to Becoming a Spark

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I work with people ready to turn inward.

 

Some are in the thick of an unraveling — the space between one identity and the next, what the world calls a crisis and I've come to recognize as a portal.

 

Others aren't in crisis at all; they've just spent a lifetime going out and going big, and they're ready for the kind of courage it takes to go in. I help them find the thread, follow it, and — when they're ready — help them tell the story of where it led.

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My story continues. And so does yours. Now tell me about you.​

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