As the launch of Remembering MySelf, approaches, I find myself thinking about the physical form of this book, not as a product or something to sell, but as something that had to be made the way it is. There were choices I had to make, and I could have made different ones. It could have been smaller. It could have been simplified. It could have been printed in black and white. It could have been shaped into something more familiar, something that fits more easily into what peo

There are moments on a path that don’t feel like breakthroughs. They don’t arrive with clarity or certainty. They come quietly, often in the middle of the night, when something inside you won’t let you sleep.

There comes a point where living between worlds is no longer sustainable. What begins as embodiment reveals itself as something deeper—a shift in where we stand as we move through our lives. This reflection explores the quiet turning from surviving, to inhabiting the body, to living from Spirit.

I woke this morning with a question that felt less like something I was thinking and more like something that had been trying to reach me. What if my real work is not in being seen or explained, but in living a deeper way of remembering—one that asks to be carried into the ordinary hours of my life?

There’s something I’ve been noticing since I began sharing again. Not the act of returning, but what comes after. A quieter way of being is emerging—one shaped by loss, by the body, and by letting go of the need to strive.

I’ve been quiet for a while. Not the kind of quiet that feels spacious or chosen—
but the kind that comes when life pulls everything apart. There was flooding in my studio.
Damage. Disruption.
Things I had built, things I had relied on—suddenly not holding in the way I thought they would.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like rising—it looks like softening. This is the story of how I stopped trying to hold everything together and let life remake me.

Even when everything feels suspended, something beneath the surface keeps weaving. Restoration isn’t the absence of motion—it’s the quiet rhythm of life working in the unseen.

Sometimes the unraveling arrives in unexpected forms — water in the walls, mold in the quiet places, ceilings that give way to rain. As my home and studio come undone, I’m learning to listen for the rhythm beneath the noise. This, too, is the loom — reweaving my life through the breaking.

A reflection on growth and change—what happens when the life you’ve built no longer fits who you’re becoming, and how to create space for your true self. When you are in a life transition the old feels like it no longer fits who you are.