No television.

An outhouse.

The forest behind us and the lake in front of us.

For two weeks, that was our whole world.

We disappeared into it.

There was nothing particularly luxurious about the way we spent those weeks. By today’s standards, it was probably the opposite. We went to the bathroom outside. We entertained ourselves. We got dirty. We swam until our fingers wrinkled and stayed outside until somebody called us in.

There was no screen waiting for us inside.

So we made a world.

The lake was the main event.

We jumped off the dock and climbed out dripping. We wandered through the forest, turned over rocks, collected things and inspected tiny creatures until inevitably deciding they were our friends.

Insects were my pals.

I wasn’t afraid of getting dirty or being bored or not knowing what we were going to do next.

There was always something to do because there was always something to notice.

At night, there were campfires.

The smell of smoke in our hair. Marshmallows. Damp towels hanging somewhere. That particular exhaustion that only comes from spending an entire day outside.

Then the sky would get dark.

Really dark.

Dark in the way you forget the world can get when you live in a city.

We would look up and there were stars everywhere.

Not a few.

Thousands.

The whole sky completely showing off.

When I wasn’t swimming or wandering around outside, I was reading.

R.L. Stine, mostly.

Every book I could get my hands on.

I would rip through them one after another, completely thrilled to be spooked in our tiny place surrounded by forest.

But of everything I remember about those two weeks, there is one thing that seems to run through all of it.

The music.

My dad always had country music playing.

It was just there.

Coming through the little kitchen radio while everyone moved around doing whatever they were doing.

Garth Brooks.

The Eagles.

Shania Twain.

Songs I had no idea would matter to me so much one day.

Hotel California always made me feel a little trapped there, like the cottage had swallowed us whole and we might never make it back to the real world.

Strangely, I loved that feeling.

I never wanted to leave anyway.

Shania made me want to sing.

Loudly.

There was something about her that felt wild and free and completely alive, which was exactly how those summers felt to me.

Sometimes the music even seemed to belong to the landscape.

I can still remember The Thunder Rolls crackling through that little kitchen radio as a real summer storm rolled across the lake, the song and the sky somehow keeping perfect time.

While I was busy being a kid, those voices were attaching themselves to things.

The lake.

The forest.

My dad.

Summer.

Safety.

Belonging.

None of us knew we were making memories.

Dad was just turning on the radio.

I was just being a kid.

Barefoot.

Freckled from the sun.

Probably holding a book.

The forest behind me.

The lake in front of me.

Country music somewhere in the background.

There is something beautiful about getting older and realizing how much of a childhood lives in these small things.

Not the grand gestures.

The ordinary ones.

The things nobody knew would become important while they were happening.

A song playing through the screened windows.

A storm coming across the water.

Dad reaching over to turn up the radio.

Love doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it’s giving your a child a soundtrack without knowing that’s what you’re doing.

Sometimes it’s two weeks beside a lake with very little and somehow having everything.

Growing older has made me soften toward all of it.

There is less need to decide what everything meant.

I can simply remember what was beautiful.

The lake.

The campfires.

The ridiculous little outhouse.

The stack of R.L. Stine books.

The bugs I made friends with.

The stars.

Those two weeks every summer.

Sometimes a country song will come on and all of a sudden,

I’m just back at the lake.

And dad’s got the radio on.

The lake before everyone else woke up.

Nut butter and blue berry sandwiches.

Bare feet absolutely everywhere.

Farm stands. Roadside flowers. Butter. Corn. Peaches over the sink.

Getting dressed for dinner with a tan and slightly wet hair and deciding that was more than enough.

Doggy with us in the boat.

Long walks in the rain.

Friends arriving with overnight bags.

Family everywhere.

Family eventually leaving.

The strange combination of missing everyone and being thrilled to have your house back.

Dolly playing in the kitchen.

Always Dolly.

There is something about country music that understands summer better than the rest of us.

It knows you can be wildly happy and a little heartbroken at exactly the same time.

You can love something while it is leaving.

You can know better and still miss it.

You can have a beautiful life and occasionally sit on the dock staring into the sky and miss what’s never coming back.

Range.

That’s what summer gave us.

We swam. We ate. We stayed up late. We went to bed early. We kissed people. We got annoyed with people. We forgave people. We changed our minds.

We let ourselves want things.

More pleasure.

More quiet.

More time outside.

More dinners around tables.

More kissing.

More laughing until somebody snorts.

More people we don’t have to recover from after spending time with them.

More of the life that feels like ours.

Less of everything else.

Conveniently, the sky seemed to agree.

August arrived with eclipses, which feels almost unnecessarily theatrical, but I respect the commitment.

An eclipse has always carried the symbolism of endings and beginnings. Of shadows passing. Of things being revealed and things being released.

And whether or not the moon is personally managing our emotional lives, there is something satisfying about looking up and deciding:

Okay.

You can take this.

Take the thing I keep replaying.

Take the version of me who needed everybody to understand her.

Take the old embarrassment.

The old resentment.

The old almost.

Take every relationship I have been keeping alive entirely through imaginary conversations in the shower.

Take the need to prove that I was right.

Actually, leave me a tiny bit of that one.

I’m still human.

But take the rest.

Because release doesn’t always need to be devastating.

Sometimes it’s light.

Sometimes you simply notice you don’t want something anymore.

Sometimes you wake up and the old story has lost its grip.

Sometimes you stop checking.

Stop explaining.

Stop trying to make the ending different.

You just get hungry and make breakfast.

That counts too.

There is a very particular kind of freedom in realizing we are allowed to outgrow things without turning them into villains.

A place can have been beautiful and no longer be where we belong.

A person can have been important and no longer have access to us.

A version of ourselves can have gotten us all the way here and still not be invited into the next chapter.

Thank her.

Kiss her cheek.

Send her home with leftovers.

We have plans.

Because all this releasing is really just another way of making room.

And I am increasingly interested in room.

Room for mornings that aren’t rushed.

Room for people who make our bodies soften when they walk through the door.

Room for creativity.

Room for ridiculous ideas.

Room for God.

Room for desire.

Room to change our minds.

Room to become women we haven’t met yet.

Room for something wonderful to happen without immediately asking how long it’s going to last.

That one feels important.

Maybe summer isn’t asking us to hold on to it.

Maybe that’s why it’s so good.

It comes in hot and gorgeous, throws its clothes on the floor, feeds everyone, stays out past sunset, kisses us with its whole mouth and then leaves before we can make it promise anything.

Honestly, iconic.

So we won’t ask it to stay.

We’ll keep what belongs to us.

The freckles.

The photographs.

The friendships that got deeper.

The recipes scribbled down somewhere.

The softness.

The confidence.

The reminder that pleasure is not frivolous.

The knowledge that our actual lives are happening while we are busy waiting for our lives to happen.

We’ll keep the people who feel like home.

We’ll keep buying the flowers.

We’ll keep swimming whenever there is water.

We’ll keep Dolly in the kitchen.

The rest can go.

The summer can go too.

Not because we didn’t love it.

Because we did.

Enough to let it be exactly what it was.

Beautiful.

Brief.

A little messy.

Very sexy.

Ours.

And now there’s all this room.

Turn Dolly up.

Let’s see what comes next.

They can introduce you to parts of yourself you didn’t know existed. They can make you feel brave enough to try, safe enough to soften, curious enough to go deeper. Sometimes a teacher opens a door that changes the direction of your life.

When you find a really good one, it is such a gift.

There is something incredibly beautiful about being taught by someone who understands the responsibility of being trusted.

That’s exactly why I believe we should be selective about who we call a teacher.

Not because some people are inherently good and others are bad.

Not because teachers need to be perfect, enlightened or have everything figured out.

But because teaching carries weight.

When someone steps into the role of teacher, facilitator, guide or mentor, people are placing some degree of trust in their hands. Good intentions alone aren’t always enough to know what to do with that trust.

Someone can be incredibly positive, charismatic, loving and inspiring and still not be ready for the responsibility that comes with having influence over another person.

Being a good teacher isn’t only about what you know.

It’s about how you hold what you know.

It’s knowing when to speak and when to listen.
When to lead and when to get out of the way.
How to receive someone’s vulnerability without making it about yourself.
How to hold boundaries without withholding care.
How to recognize the power that naturally exists between teacher and student and treat it with enormous care.

I think this is part of why it has taken me so long, post YTT, to feel comfortable even calling myself a teacher.

I finished my training technically qualified to teach yoga, but I didn’t immediately feel ready to carry what that title meant to me.

When breathwork came into my life, I felt that responsibility even more deeply.

Because I know what it feels like to be the student.

I know what it feels like to trust someone enough to soften in their presence. To believe what they tell you. To let them witness vulnerable pieces of you. I know how powerful a teacher can become in someone’s life, for better or for worse.

So I needed time.

Time to learn.
Time to practice.
Time to be a student.
Time to understand my own boundaries.
Time to trust myself enough that I wouldn’t need someone else’s trust in me to validate my ability to teach.

Most importantly, I needed time to understand that my job isn’t to have the answers.

It isn’t to fix anyone.

It isn’t to create followers.

It is to create enough safety, curiosity and space for someone to hear themselves.

The teachers I love most have taught me this simply by being who they are.

They have shown me that great teaching doesn’t make the teacher bigger.

It makes the student feel more like themselves.

Now, slowly, I’m beginning to understand that I can step into that role too.

Not because I suddenly know everything.

But because I respect how much I don’t know.

Because I’m willing to keep learning. To keep being a student. To listen. To take responsibility. To honour the trust someone places in me when they choose to practice or breathe beside me.

Finding a beautiful teacher is one of life’s great gifts.

Becoming one isn’t about finally feeling qualified enough to stand at the front of the room.

It’s about becoming someone who understands the privilege of being invited there.

Treating that invitation with the reverence it deserves.

The beautiful space.
The guest list.
The carefully chosen playlist.
The candles, flowers and soft lighting.
The guest teacher.
The matching outfits.
The photographs.
The swag bag.
Who’s there.
Where it’s happening.
How it looks from the outside.

There’s nothing wrong with creating something beautiful.

Beauty can help us slow down. A thoughtful space can make us feel held. Gathering with other people can remind us that we are not alone. Ritual, when it is sincere, can give shape and meaning to an experience.

Sometimes, in all the planning and packaging, we can forget what we came for.

We can become so focused on creating the perfect conditions for transformation that we miss the quiet invitation already waiting for us.

The breath is the point.

Not the atmosphere around it.
Not the performance of wellness.
Not the story we tell afterward.
Not whether the experience looked profound from the outside.

The breath itself.

The simple, ordinary, miraculous rhythm of receiving and releasing. The body doing what it has always known how to do. A quiet place to return to when the mind is busy, the heart is tender or the day has become too much.

The practice doesn’t need to be made bigger, shinier or more impressive than it already is.

There is something deeply sacred about simply showing up, closing your eyes and meeting yourself exactly where you are.

Not where you think you should be.
Not where you were yesterday.
Not where someone else appears to be.
Not in the version of yourself you hope to become.

Here.

In this body.
In this moment.
With this breath.

Without expecting a breakthrough.

Without comparing your experience to anyone else’s.

Without needing something extraordinary to happen.

You don’t have to feel peaceful for the practice to be meaningful. You don’t have to leave with a revelation. You don’t have to experience a dramatic release, a vision or a perfectly clear answer.

Sometimes the practice is simply noticing how distracted you are.

Sometimes it is realizing how tired you have been.

Sometimes it is feeling the ache you have been avoiding, or discovering that beneath the noise there is a small, steady place that has been with you all along.

Sometimes it is just breathing.

And that is enough.

There is a particular kind of humility in allowing a practice to be simple. To stop asking it to prove its value through intensity. To stop measuring its worth by how beautiful, emotional or transformative it appears.

The breath does not need to perform for us.

It does not need to be dramatic to be powerful. It does not need to take us somewhere else to bring us home.

Respecting the practice means letting it be what it is.

Trusting your breath.
Trusting your body.
Trusting the wisdom of slowing down.
Meeting whatever comes and being grateful for it.

Maybe it’s tears.

Maybe it’s laughter.

Maybe it’s resistance, restlessness, stillness or absolutely nothing you can put into words.

Maybe you feel connected. Maybe you feel disconnected. Maybe you spend the entire time thinking about your to-do list and wondering whether you are doing it right.

It all belongs.

The wandering mind belongs. The tight chest belongs. The impatience belongs. The longing belongs. The relief belongs.

Nothing has to be edited out before you are allowed to be present.

This is one of the quiet gifts of returning to the breath: it gives us a way to meet our experience without immediately trying to improve it.

We can notice what is here without turning it into a problem.

We can let the moment be unfinished.

We can allow the practice to be ordinary and still let it matter.

Not everything sacred needs to become a spectacle.

Some things lose their intimacy when they are constantly displayed, explained or turned into something to consume. Some experiences are meant to remain close to the heart, known only by the person who lived them.

The most meaningful part may not be the photograph, the setting or the story we tell afterward.

It may be the moment no one else sees.

The moment you choose to stay.

The moment you soften your shoulders.

The moment you notice that you are holding your breath and gently begin again.

The moment you stop searching for a different experience and meet the one already unfolding.

Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can do is stop adding to it.

Stop adding pressure.
Stop adding expectation.
Stop adding performance.
Stop adding the belief that this moment needs to become something else before it can be valuable.

Show up.

Listen.

Breathe.

Let the practice be small enough to return to and spacious enough to hold whatever you bring.

Let it remind you that sacredness is not always found in the extraordinary. Sometimes it is found in repetition. In attention. In the quiet decision to come back to yourself, one breath at a time.

The breath is the point.

And it has been here all along.

There isn’t one practice, one routine or one module that keeps me feeling like myself. It’s a combination of ingredients that I return to again and again.

Movement.
Rest.
Nature.
Nourishing food.
Prayer.
Community.
Meditation.
Yoga.
Sleep.
And breathwork.

Breathwork has become one of the most important ingredients in my recipe because breath is the one thing I always have access to.

I don’t need to drive anywhere.
I don’t need a class, an appointment or the right equipment.
I don’t even need to be having a good day.

My breath meets me exactly where I am.

Sometimes I use it intentionally to slow down, get quiet and spend time with myself. Sometimes it happens in a longer breathwork practice where I give myself the space to really listen to what’s happening underneath all the noise.

Sometimes it’s simply one deep, conscious breath in the middle of an ordinary day.

For me, breath isn’t about escaping how I feel or trying to breathe my way into becoming a better version of myself.

It’s almost the opposite.

It helps me stay.

Stay with discomfort instead of immediately distracting myself.
Stay curious about what I’m feeling instead of rushing to explain it.
Stay connected to my body instead of living entirely inside my thoughts.

Most importantly, it reminds me to trust myself.

There is something incredibly grounding about remembering that this thing my body has been doing since the moment I arrived here is already mine.

I don’t have to earn it.
I don’t have to be good at it.
I just have to notice it.

Breath isn’t my entire wellness recipe.

It’s an ingredient I wouldn’t want to leave out.

Because again and again, it brings me back to the same place:

Here. In my body. With myself.

There’s a particular kind of need to be heard that has become almost impossible to miss.

People announcing what they’re doing, what they believe, what they stand for, what they would never stand for and yelling it from the proverbial mountaintops as though conviction only counts when everyone else knows about it.

It’s giving immaturity.

Because when something is truly baked into your core values, you don’t need to constantly speak it out loud.

You live it.

Your values show up in how you treat people. How you move through the world. What you tolerate. What you protect. What you give your attention to. How you behave when nobody is watching.

They don’t require an announcement.

And they certainly don’t require applause.

When you actually know what you believe, other people’s validation becomes of very little value.

Which leaves so much more room for something we seem to be losing:

Curiosity.

Conversation and community are reciprocal.

They require speaking, yes. But they also require listening.

Real listening.

Not waiting for someone to finish so you can respond.

Not searching their sentence for the part you disagree with.

Not preparing your rebuttal while they’re still talking.

Not challenging every opinion that doesn’t mirror your own.

Listening to understand where someone came from. What shaped them. Why they believe what they believe. What they might know that you don’t.

You don’t have to agree with someone to learn from them.

If every conversation becomes an opportunity to prove what you know, defend what you believe or make sure everyone understands where you stand, it’s worth asking:

Are you actually listening?

Better yet, what have you learned?

That you’re the loudest person at the table?

Cool.

Volume has never been proof of wisdom.

There is maturity in being able to hold a belief without needing to convince everyone else of it.

There is confidence in curiosity.

There is intelligence in allowing another person to finish their thought.

There is generosity in making room for voices other than your own.

The best conversations aren’t won.

They’re exchanged.

You speak.
You listen.
You ask.
You consider.
You learn.

Sometimes you leave the table understanding something you didn’t understand when you sat down.

That’s the point.

Talk less. Listen longer. Stay curious.

There’s an entire world outside of what you already know.

“When life calls, make sure you answer.”

Those words stayed with me because the reality is life is always calling.

Through an invitation.
A trip.
A date.
A new friendship.
A change of plans.
A little pull toward somewhere, someone or something new.

Answer.

The people in your life are just as lucky to have you as you are to have them.

We forget that part.

We look around at the people we love and think, How lucky am I to have you?

But they get to have you, too.

Your beautiful heart
Your humour and the things that make you laugh so hard your face hurts.
Your energy and the feeling you bring into a room just by being there.
The way you love people and make someone feel seen.
The way you see the world through a lens that belongs only to you.
Your quirks. Your softness. Your strength. Your curiosity.
The stories you tell. The things you get excited about. The way your face lights up when you talk about something you love.
The way you comfort someone. The way you celebrate them. The way you make ordinary moments feel special.
The parts of you that are still growing and the parts that have been there since you were little.

All of it is you. No one else has the same combination in this world.

There is only one you.

So be the most you you can possibly be.

Don’t water yourself down. Don’t make yourself smaller. Don’t become more like everyone else.

God made you exactly as you are, and God brings the right people into our lives with divine timing.

Some of the greatest loves, friendships and adventures begin with one tiny decision to show up.

Go on the trip.
Say yes to the date.
Accept the invitation.
Book the ticket.
Take the class.
Walk into the room.

You have no idea who God has waiting for you there.

There are people you haven’t met yet who are going to love you.

There are places that will become part of your story.

There are versions of your life that can only find you when you participate in them.

So show up as yourself.

Bring all of you.

And when life calls

make sure you answer. 🤍

To feel deeply. Speak honestly. Love openly. Laugh loudly. Cry when something hurts. Say what needs to be said. Take up space. Let joy be enormous. Let grief be real. Let anger have movement. Let tenderness be seen.

Full expression doesn’t mean being completely unfiltered.

It doesn’t mean every feeling needs to become an action, every thought needs to become a sentence, or everything moving inside of us needs to become someone else’s to hold.

There is another kind of expression. One that feels less like spilling and more like embodiment.

Full expression held in balance, control and grace.

Some things want to be spoken.
Some things want to be written.
Some things want to be moved through the body.
Some things want to be prayed about.
Some things want to be screamed into a pillow, breathed through, danced out, cried out, laughed out.

Some things simply want to be held.

There is so much power in knowing the difference.

Balance allows us to be all of ourselves without giving all of ourselves away.

Control isn’t suppression. It’s discernment. It’s the capacity to feel the entire wave without needing to act from the highest point of it.

Grace is the softness around all of it.

The space between what we feel and what we choose to do with what we feel.

That is the beauty of full expression.

We don’t have to make ourselves smaller.
We don’t have to make ourselves quieter.
We don’t have to abandon the wild, emotional, tender, passionate parts of who we are.

We can learn to hold all of that life inside of us with enough strength that we get to choose where it goes.

We can be big and grounded.
Soft and powerful.
Emotional and steady.
Wild and discerning.
Open and protected.

We can let life move all the way through us without letting every feeling steer the ship.

Full expression isn’t losing control.

It is the freedom to feel everything while having the wisdom to choose what becomes a word, what becomes movement, what becomes creation, what gets released and what gets lovingly held.

The most beautiful expression doesn’t have to be the loudest.

It can be completely free and completely held.

My relationship with God has changed so much over the years. It’s become less about having all the answers and more about feeling held, guided, loved and reminded that I’m never walking through this life alone.

A few things I’ve come to know along the way

1. God meets me exactly where I am. 🤍
   Messy, joyful, angry, confused, grateful, afraid. I don’t have to arrive as anything other than myself.

2. I talk to God all day long. 💭
   In the car. On walks. In the shower. Before I fall asleep. Sometimes it’s prayer and sometimes it’s literally just, okay God what are we doing here?

3. I feel closest to God in my body. 🌿
   Through breath, movement, nature, stillness and those little moments when my mind gets quiet enough for me to actually listen.

4. I believe God has been with me through every version of me. 🫶🏼
   Even the versions who felt lost. Even when I wasn’t looking for God. Even when I couldn’t understand what was happening.

5. I don’t think faith means never questioning. ✨
   I ask questions. I get frustrated. I wonder why. I wrestle with things. Somehow, that has made my relationship with God feel even more real.

6. I’m learning to trust God’s timing. ⏳
   This one is HARD for me lol. I like answers. I like plans. I like knowing what comes next. God continues to teach me surrender.

7. I see God in other people. 🥹
   In kindness. In forgiveness. In the right person appearing at the right time. In conversations that somehow say exactly what my heart needed to hear.

8. God has helped me come home to myself. 🕊️
   The more connected I feel to God, the less I feel like I need to perform, shrink, prove or become someone else. I get to be me.

9. Gratitude is one of the ways I pray. 🙏🏼
   Thank you for my body. Thank you for my breath. Thank you for another morning. Thank you for the morning sun. Thank you for this life. Thank you for my husband. Even the ordinary things feel sacred when I remember to notice them.

10. I believe I am here on purpose. ✞
    That my life has meaning. That my presence matters. That there is still so much for me to learn, give, receive and become.

My relationship with God is deeply personal. It keeps growing and changing as I do, and I’m learning to let it be exactly what it is something that belongs to my heart. 🤍

For anyone who is curious about God, I believe God is in you, too. You don’t have to look any further than inside yourself. When you feel love, when you feel safe, when the sunshine hits your face and you feel that little warmth inside God is there. God is always with you. You are held, you are loved, and you can come home to that whenever you need to. ☀️🤍

What I’ve come to understand most is that God isn’t somewhere far away waiting to be found. God is always here.

There is immense comfort for me in that knowing. Even in the moments when we don’t see God, speak to God or even believe, I know God is still divinely here watching over us, protecting us, guiding us and loving us through it all.

What a beautiful gift. 🤍

God is here.
God has always been here.
I am never walking alone. 🤍

Thank you for reading. God bless you all. 💕

A few nights ago, I was sitting around a dinner table with a group of women.

We were talking about life. About relationships. About the things we’re learning and the things we’re still trying to figure out. And, as often happens when women gather around a table long enough, the topic of men naturally found its way into the conversation.

There was laughter. There were stories. A few frustrations. Different experiences. Different perspectives.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I found myself thinking about the men in my own life.

My brothers.

Not only the ones connected to me by blood, but our brothers in the bigger sense.

The fathers who raised us. The husbands and partners who walk beside us. The sons we are raising. The friends who have known us forever. The men we work with, laugh with, love, lean on and share this life with.

And I started thinking about the way we speak about each other.

There are so many important conversations happening about what it means to be a woman in this world. About our experiences, our voices, our bodies, our safety, our opportunities, and the world we hope to leave for the girls and women coming after us.

Those conversations matter deeply.

I want my sisters to feel safe. I want them to feel heard. I want them to take up space. I want them to know their worth and use their voices.

But sitting at that table, another question kept tugging gently at me:

How can we ask our brothers to stand beside us if we don’t also give them a seat at the table?

Sometimes, in our desire to name what women have experienced and challenge the things that still need changing, something subtle can happen.

This is something we need to look at together can slowly become men are the problem.

I wonder what gets lost when that happens.

Because our brothers are listening, too.

And so many of them love us.

They are figuring things out alongside us. They have their own pressures and expectations. Their own fears and insecurities. Their own tenderness. Their own stories. Their own places that need love and understanding, too.

There are parts of being a woman that a man may never fully understand.

There are parts of being a man that we, as women, may never fully understand either.

We don’t have to understand everything about each other to love each other well.

We just have to stay curious enough to keep pulling our chairs closer.

When I think about the men I actually know, I don’t need statistics to tell me their stories.

I know these men.

They’re everywhere in my life.

The dads making lunches before anyone else is awake.

The husbands doing school pickup.

The brothers who would answer the phone at 2 a.m. without asking why.

The sons being raised to understand tenderness, consent and equality in ways generations before them may not have been.

The male friends who listen when something hurts, even when they don’t know how to fix it.

The men quietly caring for aging parents.

The colleagues who speak a woman’s name in a room she isn’t in.

The fathers raising daughters to know their worth.

The husbands cheering for their wives.

The men learning.

The men softening.

The men trying.

The men loving us really, really well.

There are so many good men among us.

And I want them to be part of the story, too.

Celebrating men doesn’t take anything away from women.

Love doesn’t work like that.

There is room to fiercely love our sisters and deeply appreciate our brothers.

There is room to name harm when it happens and goodness when we see it.

There is room for accountability without collective blame.

There is room to listen to our sisters when they say, This is what it feels like to be me.

There is room to listen to our brothers when they say the same.

We don’t find each other through shame or blame.

We find each other through relationship.

Through curiosity.

Through listening.

Through staying at the table, even when the conversation is uncomfortable.

Through remembering that making more room for one of us doesn’t require making less room for another.

This was never supposed to be brothers versus sisters.

We belong to one another.

The way forward isn’t choosing a side.

It’s pulling up another chair.

Making the table a little bigger.

Listening a little longer.

Offering each other a little more grace.

Remembering that beneath all the conversations about what makes us different, we are still human beings trying to love and be loved. Trying to understand and be understood. Trying to leave this world a little softer for the people who come after us.

I want to believe we can do that together.

Sisters need brothers.
Brothers need sisters.
And there will always be room for both at my table.

A little softer. A little more open. Already missing women I barely knew a few days before. 🤍

There is something magical about what happens when women step away from their everyday lives and gather together.

We arrive carrying everything with us our families, relationships, responsibilities, worries, routines and all the different versions of ourselves we’re asked to be every day.

And then, for a little while, we put it all down.

We eat together. We move together. We share stories. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. We cry. We stay up talking. We skip over the small talk and somehow find ourselves sharing pieces of our hearts with women who were strangers only days before.

And somewhere in the middle of this weekend, I realized:

Retreats have become one of the places where I find sisterhood.

As I’ve gotten older, friendships have changed.

Some have faded. Some have ended. Some simply belonged to a version of me, or a season of my life, that no longer exists.

For a long time, I thought meaningful friendship had to be the everyday kind.

Constant texts. Regular plans. Someone who knows all the tiny details of your life.

I’m learning there are so many other ways to love and be loved by women.

These little pockets of sisterhood fill something in me.

Morning coffee. Shared meals. Long conversations. Belly laughs. Tears without explanation. A knowing look across the room. Sitting quietly beside someone and somehow feeling completely understood.

For a few days, we get to put down so many of our labels.

Wife. Mother. Daughter. Partner. Professional. Caregiver. The strong one. The one who keeps everything moving.

And underneath all of that

we’re just women.

Together.

There’s something about it that feels almost ancient to me. Like our bodies remember something our busy lives sometimes forget.

Women have always gathered.

To share food.
To tell stories.
To laugh.
To cry.
To hold one another through becoming.

To look across the circle and quietly say:

Me too.

I see you.

You’re not alone.

And then, somehow, the weekend ends.

We pack our bags and return to our separate lives.

Some of these women may become lifelong friends. Some I may see again at another retreat. Some may simply become a beautiful memory from one very special weekend.

And I’m finally learning that none of those possibilities makes what we shared any less real.

Not every beautiful connection needs to last forever to change us.

Some people walk beside us for years.

Others arrive for a few days and somehow leave fingerprints on our hearts.

Both matter.

Both are love.

Both are sisterhood.

So to the beautiful women I shared this weekend with: thank you.

For your stories. Your softness. Your laughter. Your honesty. Your hugs. Your hearts.

Thank you for letting me witness you and for witnessing me right back.

And thank you to Isla Retreats for creating the kind of space where women can arrive as strangers and leave feeling like they’ve known each other somewhere before. 🤍

Maybe that’s what I love most about retreat.

We think we’re going away to escape our lives for a few days.

But somewhere between the shared meals, the tears, the laughter and the late-night conversations, we find something we didn’t even realize we were missing.

Each other.

And then we go home carrying a little piece of every woman who sat beside us.

A little braver.
A little softer.
A little less alone.

What a beautiful thing it is to find sisterhood again and again.

What an even more beautiful thing to realize it was waiting for us all along. 🤍✨

Someone who could tell me what I needed.

Someone who could fix what hurt.

Someone who could carry what felt too heavy for me to hold.

The more time I spend in my body, the more I realize something beautifully simple:

The only person who truly knows how to take care of you is you.

Your body has been speaking to you your entire life.

It whispers through ease.

It whispers through tension.

Through exhaustion.

Through joy.

Through the way your breath changes when something feels safe or when it doesn’t.

No one else lives inside your body.

No one else feels what you feel in the way you feel it.

Others can offer wisdom. They can witness you, support you, and walk beside you. Only you hear your body in the way only you can.

Because of that, no one else can care for you in quite the same way.

That doesn’t mean we are meant to do life alone.

It means we are invited to become deeply intimate with ourselves.

To learn our own language.

To notice what nourishes us.

To notice what drains us.

To trust that our body is not working against us but that it is always communicating with us.

I also think this is why it’s so important to learn how to carry our own inner world.

Our feelings.

Our beliefs.

Our fears.

Our insecurities.

Not because we should hide them.

Not because we shouldn’t ask for help.

But because they belong to us first.

For so many of us, we were taught to keep our feelings inside or to hand them to someone else to carry.

To seek reassurance before trusting ourselves.

To believe that the uncomfortable parts of us needed to be hidden before we could be loved.

But what if nothing inside of you was a mistake?

What if everything you feel belongs to you?

Not as something to fix, but as something to understand.

To listen to.

To hold with tenderness.

To love.

I wonder what would happen if we welcomed every part of ourselves.

The bright parts.

The shadowy parts.

The confident parts.

The frightened parts.

The pieces that still ache.

The pieces that feel wildly alive.

Not choosing one over the other, but weaving them together into a whole human being.

A person who belongs to themselves.

Someone who can hold it all.

Carry it all.

Love it all.

When we stop abandoning ourselves, something remarkable happens.

We stop asking the world to tell us who we are.

We become free to simply be who we already are.

Authentic.

Whole.

A gift.

Loving ourselves isn’t about becoming someone new.

It’s about finally learning how to care for ourselves in the way only we can.

No one else has ever lived your life.

No one else has your body.

No one else has your heart.

No one else can become home for you in the way you can become home for yourself.

The first time I experienced Conscious Connected Breathwork, I didn’t want to open my eyes.

Not because I saw something extraordinary.

Not because I had a mystical vision.

For the first time in my life, I felt completely at home in my body.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was quiet.

The kind of quiet I didn’t know existed.

My mind wasn’t racing through tomorrow’s to-do list or replaying yesterday’s conversations. I wasn’t wondering what someone thought of me. I wasn’t trying to become someone else.

There was no overthinking.

No pull toward the outside world.

There was just me.

Present.

Breathing.

Belonging.

I remember thinking, If I open my eyes, this feeling will disappear.

I stayed there for as long as I could, trying to memorize it.

Eventually, I opened my eyes.

The world was exactly as I’d left it.

Something inside of me had shifted.

Looking back now, I smile at the woman who was so afraid of losing that feeling.

She didn’t know yet that home isn’t somewhere we stumble upon once.

It’s something we learn to return to.

That moment wasn’t something to hold onto.

It was something to be curious about.

Curiosity became practice.

Practice became trust.

Over time, I realized that the feeling I was searching for had never actually left me.

It had simply been buried beneath years of overthinking, protecting, surviving, and forgetting to listen to my body.

Breath didn’t give me something new.

It reminded me of something that had always been there.

That realization quietly changed my life.

This summer, I spent six beautiful weeks training with Journey Into Breath to become a Conscious Connected Breathwork Facilitator.

Those weeks weren’t just about learning how to guide others.

They were about continuing to meet myself.

Breath after breath.

Layer after layer.

I left with a certification, yes.

More importantly, I left with a deeper trust in myself, a profound respect for this practice, and a feeling that I had found a new sense of purpose.

Today, I have the privilege of beginning my own offering: Come Home to Your Breath.

The name came naturally because that’s exactly what breathwork has been for me.

A way home.

Home to my body.

Home to my heart.

Home to God.

Home to the quiet wisdom that had been there all along.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected from yourself, carrying more than your nervous system was ever meant to hold, or simply feeling curious about what might be waiting beneath all the noise, I would be so honoured to sit beside you or help you find a local resource.

Not to fix you.

Not to change you.

To lovingly hold space while you guide yourself back to the wisdom that already lives within you.

If there’s one thing breathwork has taught me, it’s this:

Sometimes home isn’t a place we find.

It’s a place we remember.

🤍🌬️

From Grade 7 until I was 26, I was misdiagnosed.

At 26, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, prescribed daily medication, and told I would likely be on it forever. I was also told I probably wouldn’t have children.

For 16 years, I believed that story.

Then one day, I looked around at my life and realized something important.

I wasn’t the same woman I had been at 26.

My life had changed.

I had changed.

The things that shaped me had changed.

With the support of my healthcare team, I slowly began to taper off my medication. I was sure of my choice but it wasn’t easy. It was one of the most intentional things I’ve ever done.

At the same time, I started choosing myself.

I chose sobriety.

I chose movement.

I chose nature.

I chose to walk away from relationships that no longer aligned with the life I was creating or the peace I was protecting.

Slowly, I met myself again.

Not the version defined by fear.

Not the version defined by a diagnosis.

Just, me.

I fell in love with my life.

I discovered that I was capable of feeling the full spectrum of being human without running from it. I learned that I could meet myself exactly as I was with compassion instead of judgment.

Along the way, I found something I never expected.

I found God in a way that felt deeply personal.

Not through certainty or perfection, but through surrender, gratitude, and learning to trust that my life could hold more than I had once believed. My faith has become an anchor, gently guiding me home to myself again and again.

Today, I’m deeply grateful for the life I get to live.

My story isn’t about proving anyone wrong.

It’s about remembering that healing can take many forms, that people can change, and that hope sometimes begins the moment we become curious enough to ask whether the story we’ve been given is still the one we’re meant to live.

I’ve now been medication-free and sober for over two years. I’m finally ready to share this part of my story because if it offers anything, I hope it’s this:

You are more than the hardest chapter of your life.

And sometimes, coming home to yourself begins with believing that another way might be possible.

For me, that journey led me home to my breath, to my body, to a life I never imagined possible and ultimately, closer to God than I have ever been.

Quit raw-dogging your emotions.

I laughed out loud.

It’s not exactly the kind of wisdom I expected to receive while wiping down the countertops, but the more I sat with it, the more it stayed with me.

Because I think there’s actually something really important in it.

Lately I’ve been realizing that not every feeling needs to leave my body the moment it arrives.

Sometimes my first responsibility is simply to notice it.

To breathe.

To get curious.

To let it belong to me before I hand it to someone else.

For a long time, I thought processing meant talking. Calling someone. Venting. Looking for reassurance. Trying to make sense of everything as quickly as possible.

And sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed. We aren’t meant to do life alone.

But I’m learning there’s a difference between sharing from a regulated place and asking someone else to regulate me.

Breathwork has changed so much of that for me.

It’s shown me that emotions are energy.

And energy grows where we place our attention.

When I replay a story over and over, it grows.

When I feed resentment, it grows.

When I react from the first wave of frustration, that grows too.

But presence grows too.

Compassion grows too.

Peace grows too.

Every moment I’m adding something to the field around me.

That realization has made me think differently about my responsibility.

If I truly believe that our energy matters and that our nervous systems are constantly communicating with one another, then I also have to believe that the energy I bring into a room matters.

Not because I need to be positive all the time.

Not because difficult emotions are wrong.

But because I want to become more conscious of what I’m multiplying.

I’ve realized that when I immediately pour every raw emotion onto someone else, I may be asking their nervous system to carry something mine hasn’t had a chance to hold yet.

Sometimes they begin fixing.

Sometimes they absorb my anxiety.

Sometimes they leave the conversation feeling heavier than when they entered it.

Not because I’ve done anything wrong.

But because emotions ripple.

Energy ripples.

Presence ripples.

And if I believe my presence has power, then I also have to accept the responsibility that comes with it.

That’s where containment has become such a beautiful practice for me.

Not suppression.

Not pretending everything is okay.

Containment.

Creating a safe place for my emotions to land before they spill into the world.

Sometimes that looks like sitting quietly with God.

Sometimes it’s ten minutes of conscious breathing.

Sometimes it’s crying in the shower.

Sometimes it’s journaling pages no one else will ever read.

Sometimes it’s simply placing my hand on my heart and saying, “I’m here.”

I’ve learned that not every emotion needs an audience the moment it arrives.

Sometimes it simply needs my presence.

Because something incredible happens when I stay with it.

The emotion begins to move.

The story softens.

My nervous system settles.

And by the time I choose to share it, I’m no longer inviting someone into my storm.

I’m inviting them into my healing.

That feels like such a different conversation.

I’m definitely still learning this.

There are days I react.

Days I overshare.

Days I want someone else to tell me everything will be okay.

But more and more, my breath reminds me that I can stay.

That I can hold myself with tenderness.

That God meets me there before anyone else ever has to.

Maybe that’s what emotional maturity looks like.

Not feeling less.

Not becoming detached.

But increasing my capacity to be with what is true without immediately passing it on.

Because the ripple effect of our energy is real.

I want the people who leave a conversation with me to feel more grounded than when they arrived.

More seen than burdened.

More connected than activated.

Not because I never have hard feelings…

But because I’m learning to metabolize them with love before I transmit them.

So here’s my gentle reminder to myself as much as to you.

Don’t raw-dog your emotions.

Sit with them.

Pray with them.

Breathe with them.

Let them teach you.

And when you do share, let it be an offering, not a release, something that reflects the care you’ve already given yourself. 🤍🤘🏻

Obsess over:

Wild flowers in open fields.
The morning moon that still hangs high in the blue sky.
Birds calling out in song.
The way the sun warms your skin after a swim.
The first sip of cold water after a long summer walk.
A new bloom in the garden.
The feeling of your breath expanding your body.
Catching a glimpse of a family of deer dashing through the woods.
The smell of sweetgrass pouring in through open windows.
Picking up stones on the shoreline.
Falling asleep to frogs and loons in synchronized chorus.

🤍 Things that have been here long before us and will remain after we’re gone. 💛

🌿 This Summer I’m Choosing

☕ Slow mornings with coffee in the sunshine.

🌊 Swimming in the lake as often as possible.
(I’m part mermaid.)

🥕 Eating fresh, local, seasonal food.

🧘‍♀️ Moving my body in the ways it asks to be moved.

🌞 Lying in the sun until my soul feels full.
(Without sunscreen.)

📚 Reading books that help me better understand my body, my mind, and the natural world.

🌙 Gushing over the moon.

🙏 Trusting God’s plan more than my own overthinking.

💛 Allowing life to be simple.

🚫 What I’m Leaving Behind

📰 Absorbing endless news.

🫂 Pouring into people or places that don’t align with God’s path for me.

🌃 Staying awake when my body is asking for rest. (Unless there are fireworks!)

🍷 Disconnecting from myself.

🎭 Trying to be anyone other than who I am.

📱 Comparing my life to someone else’s.

🙈 Ignoring parts of myself that deserve love.

🧠 Believing every anxious thought my nervous system creates.

🌞 A Few Things I Know

I don’t have regrets anymore.

Every version of me belonged.

Every detour led somewhere.

This season isn’t about becoming more.

It’s about carrying less.

Happy summer. 🌊✨

You only need devotion to practice yoga. 🧘‍♀️✨

You only need your mat to take up space. 🌿

And you only need to belong to yourself. 🤍

When it comes to self-care, all you need is a commitment to keep showing up for yourself—in the ways and places that hold you the way you always deserved to be held. 🌸

You were only ever meant to be yourself. That is the only person you truly know how to be.

When we quiet the noise of the world and turn inward, it becomes so much easier to hear what we desire, what we need, and what we want. 🌙✨

Care comes from within, and only you know how to create the kind of care that feels most nourishing for you.

Remember: self-care isn’t about belonging to something, someone, or somewhere. It’s about returning home to yourself. 🏡💕

Love you! 💛✨

We spend so much time in our thoughts that we sometimes forget we’re inhabiting a full body and a living spirit 💕🌿

When life feels overwhelming, it’s easy to believe we’re forgotten, unseen, or not enough. But the truth is that we have always been accounted for. 🤍✝️

In a world that can make us feel worthless, God gently reminds us that we are valued, loved, chosen, and cared for. 🌷👑✨

A prayer that has been helping me lately:

🙏💛

“God, it means so much to me to know that I am worth Your time and effort. It grows my confidence and helps me root my self-worth in the right places. The fact that You fight for me fills my heart with deep gratitude. In a world where I have felt worthless, thank You for showing me I am not.”

— The 30-Day Prayer Challenge for a Less Stressed Life 📖✨

🌸 Breath Prayer 🌸

🫧 Inhale slowly for 4 counts:
“God, I am loved.”

🫧 Hold for 4 counts:
“I am held by You.”

🫧 Exhale slowly for 6 counts:
“I release what I was never meant to carry.”

Repeat 3–5 times, placing one hand on your heart and one on your belly. 🤍🕊️

May you remember today that your worth was never something you had to earn. You are already loved by the One who created you. 🌷✝️✨

At its core, anger is a protective force. It arises when something matters deeply. Your dignity, your boundaries, your values, your safety, or the safety of others. Knowing this I questioned the why around how anger often gets taught as something to suppress, fear, or explode with. I also got curious around breaking the misconceptions and refining anger as a whole. Understanding and channeling anger isn’t about making it smaller, it’s about making it clearer.

Instead of asking:

“How do I get rid of this anger?”

What if you asked:

“What is this anger protecting?”

“What boundary is asking to be honoured?”

“What truth wants to be spoken?”

“What action is this energy inviting me toward?”

When anger is unrefined, it can feel hot, reactive, and overwhelming. When it is refined, it can transform:

🔎discernment instead of judgment

📚boundaries instead of walls

🧜🏼‍♀️courage instead of aggression

🌀conviction instead of control

✨protection instead of punishment

A somatic practice for anger:

Sit quietly and place a hand where you feel the anger in your body.

Instead of calming it down, become curious.

Ask: “What do you need me to know?”

Ask: “What are you trying to protect?”

Listen without correcting or fixing.

Thank the anger for its effort, even if its methods haven’t always served you.

Many people discover that beneath anger lives grief, hurt, love, or a fierce desire for justice. Anger is often the part that arrives first because it has enough energy to get your attention.

You might even speak to it directly:

“Thank you for showing up. I know you’re trying to protect something precious. I don’t need you to disappear. I need to learn how to work with you.”

The goal isn’t to transform anger into softness. The goal is to transform it into wise protection. An energy that can stand firmly, speak truthfully, and act intentionally without abandoning either yourself or others.

There is something beautiful about anger that knows it is safe. It no longer needs to shout to be heard. It becomes a steady flame rather than a wildfire.