The utter pleasure of music.

As I listen to TBH by PARTYNEXTDOOR, I cannot help but feel a deep connection to my own body and to my own pleasure. Hearing the pitch of pleading and yearning in this genre of music never makes me feel anything but seen.

In a world where pleasure and yearning like to be hidden, I scream out — “ARE YOU WITH ME BABYYYYYY.”

This same thread runs through the Latin music I grew up listening to. Alejandro Fernández singing Loco:

Me dicen loco, porque hablo con las aves

Y a los amigos que me encuentro por la calle

No les platico de otra cosa que de ti

(They call me crazy, because I talk to the birds. And to the friends I meet on the street, I don’t talk to them about anything but you.)

And later —

Y por las tardes, cada vez que cae tu falda

Voy despojándote de todo lo demás

(In the evenings, every time your skirt falls, I strip you of everything else.)

I am obsessed with the deep feeling this music holds. The black and brown experiences carry a depth of emotion that is hard to quantify — and, I think, deeply complementary. Both traditions refuse the cool. Both plead. Both name the need out loud.

This genre of yearning and needing love and affection is a space where your needs are met — where the act of being human revolves around honoring and being honored. Meeting another with the type of love that is not embarrassed but so boldly unabashed and pleasure-forward. The type of connection that does not expect you to be anything but yourself — authentically bared for the other, asking and answering.

The depth that lives within Pepe Aguilar’s Por Mujeres Como Tú and Rihanna’s Love Song feat. Future. The pleading. The offering. The being-with.

The one who is in love always wins…

At the 98th Academy Awards, the reporter Amelia Dimoldenberg asked Ethan Hawke — there as a Best Actor nominee for Blue Moon, a film that itself is about longing and one-sided love — what advice he would give to someone dealing with unrequited love.

His response was simple, but profound:

“The one who’s in love always wins. It doesn’t matter if you get your heart broken. You’re living. When you’re feeling, you’re alive. The sun doesn’t care whether the grass appreciates its rays — it just keeps on shining.”

OutKast and Norah Jones described it as taking off your cool in their amazing song Take off your cool.

That is what this genre — trap, ranchera, R&B, bolero, jazz — is asking of us. The removal of the politeness. The moment you decide to let someone in on your secret. The joy in releasing your public mask and barring your private self.

Listening to the opening twenty seconds of What You Need by The Weeknd, I know god is alive and well in humanity. Screaming and crying to Si Tú Supieras by Alejandro Fernández will permanently be my happy place.

This whole genre of life and love and pleasure and sound and connection cuts through the coldness of perfection and embraces authenticity.

Finding the music that makes your soul spark is required reading and part of a healthy life.

More music please. And specifically more music that makes you want to bare your soul for someone.

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz

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Because part of a healthy life is finding the music that makes your soul sparkle…

TBH — PARTYNEXTDOOR

Loco — Alejandro Fernández

Si Tú Supieras — Alejandro Fernández

Por Mujeres Como Tú — Pepe Aguilar

Take Off Your Cool — OutKast feat. Norah Jones

What You Need — The Weeknd

Love Song — Rihanna feat. Future

Ámame — Juanes

Tú Con Él — Rauw Alejandro

Need It Bad — Brent Faiyaz & AMA

Dropped Your Dime — Joe

Love or Lust — Quendresa

Hills — Naomi Sharon

Naima — John Coltrane

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Merriam-Webster defines a voyeur as “someone who obtains sexual gratification from observing unsuspecting individuals…” And also — “a prying observer who is usually seeking the sordid or the scandalous.”

Who used to see the photos when you were taking them?

Before MySpace launched in 2003 — before Facebook, before Instagram, before we all started building a public archive of our own faces — who saw your photos? Close friends. Family. A relative flipping through the album at your birthday party.

In Nahuatl, the language of the Mexica, one translation for cell phone is “the black mirror I look into.”

Even if this is a modern poetic coinage rather than an ancestral term, it is still the most accurate name any culture has ever given the object we carry in our pockets. It is a mirror. It is black — opaque, endlessly reflective, a scrying tool.

And in that mirror, we have all become two things at once.

Voyeurs — prying observers, seeking the sordid, the scandalous, the intimate lives of people who did not invite us in.

Performers — aware of the eye, curating the frame, softening the light, choosing the caption.

Yes. I know — how can we not love the attention & stimulation?

At the core of Jungian analytical psychology is the concept of the unconscious mind. Carl Jung divided it into two: the personal unconscious — the things we individually repress or forget — and the collective unconscious — the shared inheritance of symbols, archetypes, and images that every human being carries.

I think social media may be the collective unconscious made real….

It is our shared psyche externalized — every hope, every insecurity, every archetype, every fear — laid out in a feed and scored by an algorithm.

So the way we make it work for us, instead of the other way around, is by the resistance we bring to it.

Resistance!

Resistance to a constant police state.

Resistance to biotech invading every part of our lives and bodies.

Resistance to looking the same as everyone else.

Jung wrote something in 1955:

“Just as lead, which theoretically could become gold, never did so in practice, so the sober-minded man of our own day looks round in vain for the possibility of final perfection… he sees himself obliged to lower his pretensions a little, and instead of striving after the ideal of perfection to content himself with the more accessible goal of approximate completeness.”

Approximate completeness.

That is the phrase. Not perfection. Never perfection. Completeness. Which means including the shadow. Including the ugly. Including the parts that do not photograph well.

Instagram wants us to be lead pretending to be gold. And because that quest is unwinnable, it becomes an addiction. In our patriarchal culture, the notion of perfection is a way of keeping control over people — keeping us chasing, hungry, and rabid.

Perfection blocks the natural, organic flow of the imperfection that lives within stretch marks. Saggy boobs. The wisdom of a wrinkled face.

We have moved from Adam and Eve naked in the garden of Eden — playing, enjoying the organic joy of being human — into the fear-wisdom of ego after eating the apple, which breeds a lack of safety in being ourselves in our own naturalism.

But when we relax. When we allow space around us — off our phones, away from the influx of ideas and perceptions. We fill ourselves up with new ideas — not with the regurgitation of what we think we should be. We get to live in a reality with awe and wonder. We become creative. We become fun. We free ourselves to be ourselves.

One of the most important human abilities is imagination. Every time I would come to my mom with a fantasy I had made up distraught that I may be dreaming too much and hurt by the fact it was better than reality sometimes, she would reply saying how smart I was because I was creative. Because being able to see yourself in situations different from the physical reality immediately in front of you is not childish. It is central to creativity. It is central to making a better world.

To imagine is to cast yourself into the future and create powerful, attractive visions of what might be. Perfectionism collapses that horizon. If the only acceptable outcome is the perfect one, imagination has no room to move.

We must shift from the voyeur into the dreamer. From the dreamer into the creator.

We must all dream together — to make the world better. We must believe it is possible for the earth to heal. That humanity can find solutions to the ways we have hurt her over the last several hundred years under capitalism.

We are in the perfect place and the perfect time for a renaissance of love. Of earth-forward thinking. Of neighborly love. Of joy and support.

Thank you, Mother Earth, for holding us here.

Thank you, fellow humans, for the ways you help me experience the wonders of being alive.

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz

Last night I had dinner with my girlfriends — a ritual that has been happening with my two Scorpio girls for the past four to five years.

We spoke about how we have been feeling. We spoke about the kiss of death (and then how that leads to rebirth). We spoke about what it feels like every month — the deep discomfort, the sadness. For me, mine comes around eleven days before my cycle. They expressed similar sentiments, all circulating around their cycle.

This concept of female death is something we are familiar with — but maybe have not named.

Pretty much every month, without fail, I have a deep crisis. One that feels like I have no clue where I am, what I am doing, who I am.

This existential dread seems alive in all human beings on earth. But it feels especially strong for women. Four of my closest friends yesterday told me they were feeling touches of deep sadness at the same time.

We are all dying and being reborn together. We just have not been told that is what is happening.

The temper tantrum…

I told them about the night before. About my own juvenile, full-body temper tantrum.

I punched the air. I shouted into my empty apartment. I jumped on my trampoline to move some of the energy out. Then I cried in the shower. And somewhere in the middle of that shower — after the release of all those emotions — I realized I missed my positivity. I missed my light.

My light is where I feel most attractive, most magnetic, most alive.

But that light does not live within me perfectly. I am an organic creature. A flower with her own cycle of shedding and pollination and blooming. I could not have gotten back to my sweet daily candlelit flame without first pouring gasoline on my bonfire — burning out the extra emotions, honoring my absolute confusion and anger.

Women on my mind…

I think of the Lisbon sisters in The Virgin Suicides — girls so unwitnessed in their feeling that the world could not hold them. I think of what happens to women when our emotions, our bodies, and our dreams are treated as illness instead of intelligence. When the only sanctioned response to overwhelm is to quiet down.

And then I think of Gertrudis de la Garza in Like Water for Chocolate.

Gertrudis, whose passion is sparked so strong that she runs to take a cold shower to cool the fire down — and instead burns the shower down with the heat living inside her. She runs out naked into the field to stay alive.

Gertrudis is not consumed by her fire. She is honored by it. She lives.

Closest to divinity…

Feminine emotions are strong. And they should be. The closest thing to divinity on earth is the female. The closest thing to the creator is a woman — able to create, grow, and birth life on this earth.

With that responsibility comes the cycles of the moon. A deep connection to the earth. A deep connection to our own soul.

To feel monthly is to remember that we are of the earth. That our bodies are tides. That the death and rebirth we go through with our cycle is not a malfunction — it is the price of being a living portal. It is the beauty of GROWTH.

As we stoke the fires within us…

We allow them to be our teachers.

We listen to the emotions inside us and meet our insecurities. We listen to the tears inside us and find our frustrations. We listen to the feelings that make us want to crawl out of our skin — and we find that we have not been honoring ourselves the way our bodies need.

This is what we are doing every time we feel. By breaking ourselves open and accepting our death and rebirth every month, we create space for change. This change is where defiance becomes actualized. Where connection with other women is allowed to blossom. When we accept ourselves in every form — even when we are ugly — we create that same space for other women and other people on this earth.

We have the ability to build a more just, loving, caring, informed society when we do this. When we express ourselves, we honor ourselves. We honor each other. I want to live in a world where authenticity — being able to admit our strengths and where we want to grow — is normal. Our uniqueness lives within our ugliness.

Recognizing and validating feminine emotion is an act of defiance against a world that demands compliance and perfection.

Be uncompliant.

In our uncompliance we demand justice for the earth and her children. We challenge what it means to be happy. We question everything. And in that questioning, new ideas spark. The space we need to GROW finally opens.

The monthly death is not a curse. It is a REBIRTH. It is the body asking, are you still listening?

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz

A small list of mediums I love, surrounding the energy of this letter:

• Like Water for Chocolate (1992), directed by Alfonso Arau

• Like Water for Chocolate (1989), by Laura Esquivel

• Never Be Another You — Lee Fields & The Expressions

• Cockiness (Love It) — Rihanna

• Talk Down — Dijon

• Genesis — Grimes

• Kerosene! — Yves Tumor

• Consideration — Rihanna

• Soundbath to ground and feel safe in the body — Allison Bagg

For the last six months to a year, I have felt myself slipping away. And honestly — before that, too.

Are we constantly dying and being reborn? I think so. I have grieved before. Moving cities. Moving apartments. The end of things. But somehow it hasn’t felt as scary as it does now. Or maybe it did and I forgot.

Right now, at 28, living on my own, no longer close to someone who was a big part of my life — I feel so much grief.

I chose this. I wanted change. I begged the heavens for change. But I cannot help noticing how sad I feel at times. For so long I made sure to always have someone next to me to help me regulate, to help me stay. I was scared to be completely alone in my humanity and imperfection.

For the first time, I felt confident enough in myself to make a big change — one that created a domino effect of solitude. Relationships that used to be relevant got disrupted by my leaving. College feels further than ever. Maybe what I am also grieving is my young adulthood. My early twenties were some of my favorite years. I felt so free, so sure of everything.

I listened to this episode of The goop Podcast — Abbie Schiller on identity grief. That phrase finally gave me a name for what this is.

Part of the grief is no longer feeling sure of anything. My career no longer fully fulfills me. I know I am meant to be doing more. The relationships I used to hold close were not meeting me where I needed them to — and that, too, is part of the grief. Because I chose to change. I want to step into my highest version of myself.

I am scared to mess up. I also know I will not get the return if I do not gamble. If I do not continue to seek.

I am proud of myself. I am also wondering — did I do the right thing?

I am in awe of so many people. I am so excited by what my friends are doing. I am so proud of the orbit I am in, the orbit I have chosen.

It is not easy to say goodbye to things that used to work so well. To a version of you that you think looks so pretty.

Nuestra sangre sabe (our blood knows).…

For me, identity grief does not just stay in my mind. It shows up in my body.

The bags under my eyes from sleepless nights. Waking up at 4 a.m. Brittle hair. A body holding onto weight like it is holding onto something that no longer exists. It doesn’t.

This is what I keep coming back to in this work: the body tells the truth before the mind catches up. My nervous system has not caught up to the version of me I am becoming. So it is holding on. To old water. To stagnant water. To a story it has not yet been given permission to release.

The wrung-out towel…

My friend Sophia described the image of being wrung out like a towel — of wanting to be squeezed out of all that old water.

For someone like me, I am trying to change my nature of overthinking, of holding on. Of wanting to run away somewhere. Of wanting to completely start over because where I am is challenging my ability to stay regulated.

I see glimpses of the perfection that is here and coming. Moments where it makes sense. It sometimes makes me feel guilty, because I already have everything I need and more. I am full. My relationships are aligned and inspiring me to the core.

Identity grief is real even in a full life. I keep reminding myself that I must be patient. I wanted to face this. I wanted to meet this version of me. I was ready to. I prayed for this. So I will continue to double down. To breathe. To learn how to witness my fear and befriend it. To meet my growth with my chin up. To accept what I see staring back at me.

The vortex…

For my birthday, my dear friend’s mama gave me a vortex water carafe. It uses motion and magnets to change the actual structure of the water you drink.

The idea: water exposed to a vortex and a magnetic field changes shape. Surface tension shifts. Oxygen returns. The water becomes more alive — easier for the body to absorb. Ordinary water is H₂O. Structured water is H₃O₂. It carries more energy. It hydrates cells more efficiently. It supports immune function.

The swirl is what changes it. The movement is what makes it alive.

In nature, a vortex is how energy is restored to something that has been disturbed. When water flows through a vortex, there is an implosion that brings life back to it.

So I will be like the water.

The swirl is what is energizing me. The change is what is restructuring me. The air and the movement are what is making me alive.

I am like the water. I flow around the rocks. I need movement to be alive.

I am met…

I will keep dreaming big. I will keep trying. I will keep reaching out my hand. I will stay soft in the love I want to bring to the world. I will succeed. I will honor my highest potential. I will open myself up to be hurt. I will be misunderstood. I will accept myself. I will be okay with change. I will embrace the ugliness. I will embrace the beauty of my organicness. I will embrace who God made me to be — who I chose to be in co-creation with the heavens. My dreams are coming true. I am living my dreams right now. I am loving awareness.

I am met. I am met. I am met.

I am in the right place, at the right time, with the right people. New things are happening. New growth is happening. I am becoming who I always was going to be.

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz

A small list of mediums I love, surrounding the energy of this letter:

• A guided meditation to release self-doubt & trust divine timing — Saka Essentials

• Abbie Schiller on Identity Grief: What It Is and How To Move Through It — The Goop Podcast

• Oceanic Cleanse — Stone Soup Grimoire

• Dream — Al Green

• Soon I’ll Be Loving You Again — Marvin Gaye

• I Know You — Faye Webster

• Bittersweet — Naomi Sharon

• Valió La Pena — Marc Anthony

Have you ever been told... tone it down, eat less, talk less?

For most of my life, I understood I took up too much space.

My voice — too loud. My emotions — too strong. My appetite — too insatiable.

The chorus of comments many of us have heard, in greatest hits:

“You’ll need a strong man.”

“A woman shouldn’t eat like that, or talk that loud.”

At my Catholic all-girls high school, I wasn’t allowed to run for class president a second time — even though I had won the year before. “You are too ‘wild’ to be class president again. We are not going to let you run.”

An acupuncturist once told me, mid-session: “If you want to get married and have kids, you should lose five pounds.”

For context: I am 5’7” and 150-160 pounds. A normal-sized, full-bodied woman of color. At the same time, my tíos and tías would tell me: “Ay mija, you are so skinny — you can be a model.”

There are different standards in every room, in every social setting. The truth is, we are all grappling with the whiplash that has been inherited from our foremothers.

What the science actually says…

Most of what we have been told about wanting to be smaller is wrong.

Dr. Gabor Maté, in The Myth of Normal, writes about the cost of chronic emotional repression on the body — particularly in women, who are conditioned from girlhood to disown anger and sadness. Women make up roughly 80% of autoimmune disease cases. The body keeps a careful record of everything we have not been allowed to feel.

“‘Be more disappointing’…My clients are mostly women, and nearly all of them struggle with a fear of disappointing others. Our culture rewards women for being perpetually pleasant, self-sacrificing, and emotionally in control...my work is about helping them realize that their health might literally depend on it.” — Gabor Mate in “Self-Silencing Is Making Women Sick” by Maytal Eyal in TIME

In college, I went from my heaviest at the start of freshman year — the freshman 15 — to my thinnest by junior year. Worked out twice a day. Ate less. Went vegan. And I still always felt another 5 pounds would do the trick. Then I would accept myself.

Holistic nutritionist Paola Atlason said something on the Everything is the Best podcast that named what so many of us live with:

“A lot of people, they feel bloated and they’re not bloated. That’s what food feels like in your body. We’re conditioned to feel empty.” — Paola Atlason, Everything is the Best podcast, May 2024.

Conditioned to feel empty is normal.

Since college, I have settled into my steady, curvy, womanly body. I eat meals I make myself from the farmers market — regenerative animal protein I feel comfortable eating as a recovering autoimmune person. Eggs. Grass-fed. No corn or soy, which sneak into nearly everything. (Big Food and the corn-and-soy industry deserve their own letter — coming soon.)

I spend time in nature. I work out. My body composition is, simply, an hourglass. And I simply love food — my sign is Taurus, after all. Pleasure is my birthright.

Around 24, I taught myself caution. After some life changes — after my own wildness had brought a few reckonings — I put down what I called “adult boundaries.” Some of that caution was real medicine. I learned to listen to a room. I learned to make decisions for the sake of safety and peace, instead of the rush of indulgence and taking up all the space. I learned to honor my body.

But the lesson — at 28 — has tipped. In policing myself toward sense, I had also quietly buried something: my muchness. My wildness. The youth that took me across the world multiple times. The fearlessness that brought love into my life.

(Don’t get me wrong — if you ask any of my friends, I am still PLENTY. But I miss the brave part of me.)

Clarissa Pinkola Estés, in Women Who Run with the Wolves, named what I had let go quiet:

“Within every woman there lives a powerful force, filled with good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. She is the Wild Woman.”

She has been in me the whole time. She is in you the whole time. She is waiting.

We are living in an era of Ozempic. Of thinness being back in. Of “depleted chic.” Of a generation being marketed a smaller version of themselves as the answer.

The reclamation of the wild woman — the wild man, the wild person — is the ultimate pushback.

To take up space is to vote.

To be imperfect — that is to vote.

So, I write this letter with love

I am still figuring out who I want to be — and how I want to be. I still feel confused, often, about whether I am pretty enough, talkative enough, listening enough, well-dressed enough, well-rested enough, putting myself out there enough, working enough.

I think that is the joy of being here, on earth — nothing makes sense. The sooner we can be like water flowing through the river, around the rocks, over the twists and turns, the sooner we can enjoy the uncomfortable beauty of the utter wildness of being human.

Gloria Anzaldúa wrote it more plainly than anyone, in Borderlands/La Frontera:

“I will no longer be made to feel ashamed of existing. I will have my voice.”

Small practices to honor the space we are so lucky to take up:

Pay one stranger a sincere compliment a day. Or even just a hello. Research on prosocial behavior (Dr. Sonja Lyubomirsky’s lab at UC Riverside is foundational here) shows this measurably elevates mood for both giver and receiver. José Argüelles, in Manifesto for the Noosphere, frames it more spiritually: we are all part of one connected fabric — earth, human, animal. When we ignore someone’s aliveness, we ignore a piece of our own.

Show up unfiltered. Go to a friend’s house where you feel safe in your muchness — where you are free to be silly, to dance, to sing. Go to the event, the date, the engagement even when you feel subpar. If you have a pimple, bags under your eyes, or you are tired — show up anyway. Accept yourself anyway.

Ask your soul what it wants. What it wants to do. How it wants to dress. What it wants to eat. Stoke the relationship with yourself. Blow onto the ember of your inner fire, your inner compass. Ask yourself: Is this a good time to talk, or would I prefer to listen? Do I want this group of people to know my fullest self?

Lean into curiosity instead of judgement. About everything. Especially yourself.

A small list of mediums I love, surrounding the energy of this letter:

• Jewelry — Blood Orange

• Cranes in the Sky — Solange

• Corazón Sin Cara — Prince Royce

• No More Hiding — SZA

• La Gloria Eres Tú — Luis Miguel

• Allowing to Be Seen — 15-min somatic meditation by Malu (22 Routines)

• Everything is the Best podcast — Paola Atlason episode, May 2024

• Women Who Run with the Wolves — Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• Manifesto for the Noosphere — José Argüelles

So I leave you with the same questions I ask my friends:

Where do you get your confidence?

When do you feel good?

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz

I want to begin where everything changed.

I was thirteen years old when my father had a near-death experience. Something in my body broke open that year, and never quite closed again.

Through high school I went to all of them. Naturopaths. Holistic doctors. Western doctors. The Mayo Clinic. Every kind of expert, all of them looking for the same answer to the same question: what is wrong with me? Why does my body feel like this? Why am I having symptoms a young person is not “supposed” to have?

I wasn’t taking the best care of myself, either. I used escapism — small ones, weekend-shaped ones — to forget how uncomfortable I felt in my body.

Eventually they gave me a name for it: Hashimoto’s. An autoimmune disease where the body, in its confusion, attacks itself. I tried the protocols. I tried the IV drips. And I failed to stick to them. I was in high school, and then college, and I cared more about my wild heart that wanted to run free.

I moved to San Francisco for college. I was vegan for three or four years. I lost weight. My Hashimoto’s dropped to subclinical when I was eighteen. I did yoga. I lived in Spain. I went gluten-free. COVID happened. Love happened. I lived in Mexico. I started reading every label on every box. I started listening — really listening — to my body. I moved cities. I worked in wellness spaces. I started eating meat again. I was sober for two years. I started doing nonprofit work with my Latino community. I loosened the tight reins I had put on myself, at a pace that reflected the sensitivity of my body. I changed again.

Through it all, what was loudest were the emotions. I have always felt things deeply, and I learned early that my feelings and my body are not separate — that what hurt me on the inside, my body found a way to wear on the outside. Even louder than the emotions, though, was a stubborn determination: to be normal. To live the way my friends got to live.

It took most of my twenties to begin moving the needle toward a me that made more sense. A me that was less extreme. A me more in balance.

Why do women make up 80% of autoimmune disease cases? Dr. Gabor Maté names the hidden link between emotional repression, chronic stress, and the cultural expectations placed on women. In The Myth of Normal, he writes that autoimmune disease does not emerge from physical factors alone — that the emotional, psychological, and ancestral cannot be untangled from the body.

I am in my late twenties now, living in Los Angeles, with a better handle on my health than I have ever had — and yet, still not feeling perfect. Here is the thing I have learned, after more than half my life of trying: there is no such thing as normal. (A concept that still eludes me from time to time.)

There is only a scale. How we feel today. How we felt yesterday. What we are tending. What we are remembering. What we are letting go of. There is no destination called “well.” There is only the daily practice of returning to ourselves.

I had a family who really cared for me through this — and I know not everyone does. Not everyone’s mother can take her to a naturopath. Not everyone can afford hundreds of dollars in testing.

So this is why I’m here. To bring a little more love, a little more empathy, a little more light into the world. That is my purpose. To reclaim. My name. My body. My culture. My earth. To be sovereign.

I am the earth, and the earth is me. Nuestra sangre sabe — our blood knows. Our body knows. Our body is informing us, constantly, and the work of wellness is not silencing it. It is learning to listen.

This is Sangre Sabe.

This is my promise to the earth: to do my part. To gather other people into this work. To help the earth, and her children, remember who they are. To remind the collective that we are meant to be well.

If you are here — welcome. You are exactly the angel these letters are for.

Nuestra sangre sabe.

— Belén Beatriz