Writer | Mama | Mystic
I've been a good, soft, compassionate Southern girl. I've traveled around the world working with artists. I've done multiple yoga and holistic healing certifications. I've curated for Dan Ariely. I've been the director of multiple non-profits.
I've served and served until my brain melted out of my ears. Through it all, the only thing that kept me sane, that fueled me, was writing. I've journaled every day for over 12 years. I've written blog post missives for every business I've run. And at 30, I've already self-published 18 books.
And yet I held myself back from being seen as a "writer" because I was terrified that everyone else knew better than I did. How could I possibly share what I was intuiting about spiritual guides or healing the body? How could I be an expert in anything? Everyone would think I'm crazy!
Then I almost died twice while birthing my son. Sh*t got real clear then. As I navigate the intense hormones of raising my now 4 month old son and process what almost dying does to you, I have realized something:
F*ck hiding your light.
I am not a soft, sweet yogi. I am not a stoic, selfless arts administrator. I am not a novitiate, devoted to a guru's path. I am not.
I am. I am a writer. I am a mama. I am a mystic with some aggressive, fire-spitting spirit guides. And I've got some real sh*t to say.
I see you, lovely one, and I hope that you'll share your story.
'Cause we're all crazy. We're all powerful. We're all terrified.
And it's f*cking time we talked about it.