…and while all of these are beautiful skills to have as a writer, the meaty truth (and the joy) of the writing process lives somewhere deeper.

It lives in our marrow, in our bones, in our spit and our sweat.

It lives in our bellies, our wombs, at the base of our spine.

It lives in our bodies.

We’ve all heard, many times over, about the importance of being embodied. We’ve heard the buzzwords — somatic, breathwork, nervous system regulation…

But what do these actually mean for the creative process? For the writing process? How do we not only stay in our bodies but delight in them? How do we allow ourselves to write not only with our bodies, but from them?

As a conscious poet, I believe that our bodies and our nervous systems are our best creative partners. Of course we can still produce incredible work when we’re not feeling regulated, and this isn’t about achieving a state of perfection in our bodies or nervous systems.

But, something magical happens when we write with our bodies instead of against them. When we truly meet our bodies, when we’re willing to stay with discomfort and challenge, when we sink deeper in to the medicine that can only be found in the marrow of our bones.

Under the layers of perfection and performance.

Under the layers of fear and doubt.

Under the layers of not good enough.

Under all these layers, there is a bridge.

A bridge to truth.

A bridge to pure-hearted expression.

A bridge to each other.

I’ll meet you there.

If the soft animal of your body (iykyk) is calling to be seen, celebrated, and most importantly, honored for the creative force that it is…

Join us for Writing with the Body, a free 90-minute generative writing circle on Sept. 15th at 3pm PT where we’ll explore body, breath, and poetry together in conscious community. (A recording will be available if you can’t make it live)!

RSVP for free here

This workshop is a blend of my 10+ years of training in somatic, body-based modalities and my 30+ years of poetry writing experience. We’ll write, breathe, and maybe even dance a little (cameras optional 😉) as we explore the bridge between our bodies and our deepest, truest expression as writers.

How to join us ~

By becoming a paid subscriber, you become a member of the POET’S CIRCLE, a poetry community where consciousness meets craft. You receive:

✧ A monthly online 90-minute writing circle (recorded); times alternate between Tuesdays at 3pm PT and Thursdays at 9:30am PT

✧ Free access to my POETRY 101 course and replays of all past workshops

✧ Private POET’S CIRCLE chat to share poetry, ask for feedback and lift each other up in conscious community

✧ PLUS: a Notion template for tracking lit mag submissions, a poetry revision checklist (with both practical and mystical elements), and annual subscribers also receive 50% off a 1:1 Writing Support Session with me

Upgrade your subscription here

What POET’S CIRCLE members are saying:

"This group has helped me in so many ways. Finding a community of poets. Having deep conversations with folks on a bi-weekly basis. Being introduced to the craft of poetry and learning how to revise my own poetry with an open heart. And being inspired to submit my poetry to lit magazines. I'm so happy a community like this actually does exist, where we're able to tap into those deeper places with like-minded people." — Brooke Boser

I hope to see you in the workshop! Feel free to share it with anyone who might want to join.

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In the POET’S CIRLE, my community for conscious poets, many of the questions we explore center around how to get started as an emerging poet: How do I write better poems? What does revision actually mean and how do I do it? How do I submit to literary magazines (and why should I want to)? What are the best practices for sharing my poetry on Substack or IG?

We all want to write better poems. We all want our poems to be seen (and loved, and possibly, published)! And, we all need to start somewhere.

But the world of poetry can feel overwhelming, confusing and can conjure up images of elitist old men sneering at us from ivory towers, telling us our poetry isn’t good enough. (Just me? 😅)

Poetry shouldn’t feel this way. I firmly believe, and always will, that poetry is for everyone. Poetry should feel fun and accessible. And, at the same time, can also be informed by craft and technique. We don’t have to choose.

I believe that a poet can be both conscious and craft-focused, deep and disciplined, spiritual and strategic. That’s why I created the POET’S CIRCLE community, as a space to explore and celebrate the bridge between both. (Our community is always open! Upgrade your subscription here to join).

This 7+ hour video course will walk you through everything you need to get started or deepen your craft as a poet, including: the basics of poetry craft, revising your poetry, IG + Canva tips for poets, Substack tips + monetization, how to submit to literary magazines, self-publishing or traditionally publishing a manuscript, and my poetry craft book recommendations.

Access the course by becoming a paid subscriber (and, explore other perks and bonuses here).

Just click the links below to access 7 video lessons (most also include a meditation and tangible exercises/homework to get you started).

Read more

I don’t remember what it was about, or anything in it, but I know it exists. I called it The Red Bird, and I remember feeling so proud when I held it in my hands for the first time. After I printed it out, pages spilling like secrets across the floor, my mom and I went together to Kinko’s (remember those?!) to get it bound. (Bless her for all she did for me, always).

I remember so clearly the sanctity of those Kinko’s trips — the excitement of bringing my thick stacks of paper and leaving the store with something that resembled a book, permanently melded together by those black plastic teeth.

And then slowly, quietly, as life turned to SATs and AP assignments, I stopped writing those books.

Eventually, I stopped writing altogether.

So it feels something like a miracle, something otherworldly almost, that I now hold a similar thick stack of freshly printed words in my hands — the first draft of my poetry manuscript.

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As I printed each poem one by one and began to see the pages piling before me, tears bloomed in the corners of my eyes. I was suddenly eight years old again, bruised knees kissing the berber carpet as I kneeled next to the printer, watching in awe as my words became weight. As they became real, right before my eyes.

I have a long way to go before this book is published, but this feels like too important of a moment not to mark. This book has been in the making for almost three years, and to see it all on paper, to be able to hold the heft of it in my hands, feels beautiful and tender and almost overwhelming.

I am so proud of it. So proud that I’ve found myself right back where I started at eight years old, holding a book I wrote in my hands.

This time, I won’t be taking that trip with my mom to Kinko’s.

This time, it won’t languish in the bottom of a box for thirty years.

This time, in time, it will find its way into people’s hands — hopefully, your hands. It will move across space and across years, connecting those who find it with a small part of my mother’s story, with a small part of my story, with a small part of me.

I hope that when it makes its way into the world, it makes its way into hands and homes and hearts who need it.

For now, I hold onto the seedling it is, tenderly in my arms like a newborn child. Still needing lots of care and attention, still blissfully unaware of the world around it, still cocooned in the sanctuary of my palms.

And yet, for the tiny seedling it is, it holds so much.

A dream, realized.

A love story between mother and child, honored and told.

A new beginning, ready to bloom.

NEW | Free Mini-Course on Poetry + Social Media

Our first round of the POET'S CIRCLE is almost coming to an end.

Leading this cohort of conscious poets the past few months as we deepened our craft and lifted each other up in our writing has been one of the best things I've done in a long time, and I'm grateful to every single one of the 15 poets who came on this maiden voyage with me.

(Psst 🤫…We are opening our doors again on September 1st and have a growing waitlist – get on the list here for first access to join + early bird pricing).

During the program, quite a few poets had questions about how, when, and where to share their poetry on social media. Though I am by no means an expert in these topics, I have learned a few things over the years, and I want to share some of what I've learned with you all.

Based on members’ questions about social media and publishing, I created a 3-lesson video mini-course for them, and I wanted to share it here with you all, too (completely free)!

I’d love to hear how it lands. In deep devotion to you, always.

Receive Here

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This poem was recently published in Issue 11 of . I greatly admire the space and community is curating at Opol — a space dedicated to beauty, spaciousness, and poetry curated with intention, which is to say: a space we need dearly in our chaotic and complicated world.

It will also be published in print (!) in the upcoming Museum of Human Hearts Anthology by of Third Moon Press.

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I also want to share the incredibly exciting news that another poem of mine recently won ’s Summer 2026 Poetry Contest. I am honestly still in shock! The poem, along with an interview with me about the piece, will be published in the PHIL LIT PARAGON, their annual anthology. Somebody pinch me!

I’ve been writing poetry since I could put pen to paper, have studied poetry and the craft of writing on and off since I could sit in a tiny blue plastic chair, and only recently—at 34 years old—have I finally found the inner resolve to submit my writing to literary magazines and publishers.

I had the chance decades ago in college, when the rest of the students in my poetry classes were discussing their submission strategies over espressos and cigarettes (oh, to be a young poet again).

But, in those tender years of my early twenties, I wasn’t ready for the literary world…not yet. I shivered and cowered my way through workshop classes, flinching at any word of criticism from professor or peer. I saw feedback then as only a litany of ways my writing was wrong, bad, not enough.

Fifteen years, a major loss, and a baby later…let’s just say that feedback on poems no longer scares me as it once did. I’ve come not only to welcome feedback, but to see it as the gift it is. I’ve come to know that it is one person’s opinion, and the truth, the meat, the pulse of the piece will always be mine to excavate.

And…feedback has made my writing so much sharper, clearer, and richer. When we’re open to it, when we’ve done the inner work to allow ourselves to be open to it—there can be immense riches to be found.

More than just acceptances (though those are wonderful), I’ve found connection. I’ve begun developing relationships with editors, have been welcomed so generously into communities, have been invited to events, have had my work championed and have felt seen in new ways.

It’s been far beyond what I could have imagined, all from finally daring to “get on the field,” as one of my teachers says.

The sweet, innocent and petrified 20-year-old me would be so proud of my courage. My mom would be (and is) so proud.

And, there’s a bittersweet tinge to these moments, fingers poised to text my mom the exciting news before I stop myself, imagining how we’d squeal on the phone, seeing so clearly her gross overuse of capital letters and exclamation points in her congratulations texts.

The irony of writing all of this for her, and that she’s not here to see the way it’s being lifted up in the world.

It would be easy to wrap this up with what so many well-intentioned people often say to me — that she sees it all, that she’s here, that she knows. I know she knows, and also, I miss seeing the tears of pride on her face when I shared a poem with her. I miss her emails that would come in like clockwork, a mere five minutes after I pressed send on a Substack post or poem, telling me how much she loved it (she never missed even one).

I’ll never get to invite her to poetry readings, will never get to find her face in the audience as my hands shake with nerves, and she’ll never hold my books in her hands.

Both can be true. Life is devastating. Life is gorgeous. My poems will always live in the breath of that dance, in the marrow of those questions. And when the threads unravel, and there is nothing left to hold, what then?

Then, we’re back to the beginning, newborn and gasping for air, grateful and terrified in the bright, open face of this life that will, if we’re lucky, completely obliterate us.

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Last night, on the eve of the two-year anniversary of my mom’s death, I was obviously thinking about breath — thinking of her last, and the minutes, days, and now years I’ve still somehow been breathing without her.

I found myself googling how many breaths we take in a day (about 20,000). I multiplied that by 720 (2 years) and my mouth dropped open in complete astonishment when the final number bloomed like a bruise on my screen. I have taken somewhere around 15 million breaths in the last two years. 15 million breaths since her last.

It seems impossible. Every breath bringing me further from her, and every breath bringing me closer to her in some ways, too. Every breath a prayer, a benediction. Every breath a meditation on grief, memory, hope, and heartbreak.

Yesterday in our POET’S CIRCLE call all about devotion to the details and strong poetic imagery, two of our poets both synchronistically had included dust in their poems. Dust contains so much — time, decay, maybe even God itself.

Then, last night, this poem came through, dust included once more. I’m simmering so sweetly in the act of writing with a group of mystical poets, and all that’s brewing in our group both above and below our conscious awareness.

Poetry is an act of spirituality. Poetry is the way my mother still reaches me (one of the ways, at least). I feel so strongly that she is sending me these poems. I’m still here, she says. Time is nothing but a speck of dust.

(By the way, if you’re newer to submitting your poetry or looking for a good first place to submit, I highly recommend submitting to Faoileánach! They love publishing emerging writers and the editors and are kind, dedicated, and were a joy to work with during the publishing process.)

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Your Phone Has Been Updated to the Latest Software
Melina Charis

as I read a long-winded article on Substack telling me
how to break up with my smartphone that I’m reading
on my smartphone. I briefly wonder if I could ever break
up with my phone and quickly list all the reasons I can’t.

And then I wonder how I'm going to raise a son who will
never know life without AI and algorithms. Who already,
at two years old, begs to hold this bright jewel of glass,
of buried pleasure. Who will unknowingly fling himself

at the sun and will be too far from his body to feel himself
burn. I wonder at all we have lost in our manic, relentless
pursuit of faster, easier, better, machine. The marvel of needles
in hands. The chop of wood being split like a lustful peach.

The wet grit of mud in our palms like a prayer. I think about
saying goodbye to my smartphone (in ten easy steps) and I hear
the receptionist at my doctor’s office asking me with bright
plastic urgency, Do you have the app to fill out your forms?

I don’t have the app, I say, and then I spend ten minutes
of my hourglass life trying to recover my password, check
my email for the login code, which I have ten seconds to input
before it expires. Before we expire. Do I really need it? I ask.

Yes, he says. This is where healthcare is headed. Everything
will be on the app. I wonder what would happen if I said no.
Give me a piece of paper that will prick my finger and draw
blood. Give me a knife to sharpen my tongue. Give me a sky

so blue I could crack it open with my bare hands. Watch me
lay down my complacency and take off in the other direction.
Watch as I burn every part of me that isn’t made of real.
Watch me quietly smirk as I find nothing in the ashes but joy.

my body is hungry

to be held
by my mother
again.

to trace the river-veins
of her hands, feel the pulse
of her wrist, hear the waterfall
of her laughter –
the beats I know
by heart.

my body is hungry
to be held, rocked
by her presence, safe 
in the harbor of her love.

it’s hungry to know the peace
that can only be felt
in your mother’s arms.

the hands she pressed
to her belly when you
were smaller
than a fingernail,
still a bundle
of cells no bigger
than a dream.

where do we go
when our bodies
leave us?

when we are warm
and then gone?

our flesh, first of hers.
holding on now
to all that’s left.

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I wrote this poem through tears this past Mother’s Day weekend, on a writing retreat in the Scottish highlands surrounded by a group of poets who all also happened to be mothers.

They were mothers from all walks of life — mothers of children who had long left the nest, mothers of rambunctious toddlers (like me), mothers of stepchildren — and our conversations were filled with discussions of our changing bodies, our pain and exhaustion, and the joy (and grief) we all felt watching our children grow and enter the world.

It was a deeply healing experience to be with these women from all walks of life, all writers and poets on our own journeys of mothering, grief, and creativity, as we walked and communed with the land of our ancestors.

Mother’s Day is understandably complex for me, as a daughter who has lost her mother and as a mother being celebrated now myself.

On this trip, I felt so held — held by the land, held by the mothers, and held by my words. These words came pouring out of me during one of our writing workshops from the prompt, my body is hungry for…

What immediately came on that poignant day was — I just want to be held by my mother again. This will, of course, be a longing and a hunger I carry with me for the rest of my days.

As my poetry slowly shifts away from being centered solely on grief, I was grateful to this poem for reminding me that my grief is not something I need to escape from or will ever “be done with.” And for reminding me that Mother’s Day, when held and witnessed with an open heart, still holds immense gifts.

When I read this poem aloud, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Other women shared their grief that they didn’t receive this kind of care from their mothers, or their mothers had hurt them, or had also died. They told me they could viscerally feel the love my mother and I shared. It was extremely special for me to get to see how my words moved the other women in the group, as their words moved me many times throughout the trip.

And to Scotland, and the people there — thank you. This land is profound and feels like home. I can’t wait to return. Much more to come after I continue to digest and integrate this experience.

Thank you for dreaming this up and bringing us all together, and for the beautiful poet and mother you are. Thank you to for being the reason I came, and thank you to each and every person (and granny tree, plant, and animal) we met along the way. We came as strangers and we leave as friends.

A few spots left in our conscious poetry group ~

I’ve been working on my first poetry manuscript for the past five months, and I’ve also been submitting my poetry to contests and literary magazines for the first time (in fact, I just received my first acceptance)!

I’m having a blast, but one thing has been missing..a small group of other poets to write with and lift up each other’s poems in community.

A lot of writer’s groups I found were expensive, only open their doors once a year, or didn’t focus enough on the spiritual and mystical aspects of writing poetry as well as the more technical aspects. I wanted something intimate, accessible, and that bridged both consciousness and craft. But no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find a community like this — so I decided to start it myself.

learn more + join here

The Poet’s Circle is an intimate 3-month cohort for poets looking to deepen their craft in conscious community. We’ll have live generative writing workshops; a private group on Circle to share poems for feedback, reflections, and questions; meditations to ground and deepen our connection with what’s coming through us; and more to be determined!

I’m keeping the price accessible at $50 total for the three months, to cover the cost of hosting this group on the Circle platform. This will be an intimate group of no more than 15 poets — there are 5 spots left! Live calls will begin the last week of May.

I need this!

I was in the bathtub when I realized that almost everything in my life suddenly felt like it no longer fit.

I had just bought a quaint house in a quaint tree-lined neighborhood, I had recently navigated the rocky terrain of turning 30, and a few weeks before, my mother had been unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer.

I was living my greatest fear, which of course was quickly eroding all the false certainties of my life like a sandcastle caught in a rising tide.

This is something we don’t often talk about when we talk about grief — the way it turns your skin inside out, the way it rips off your carefully curated shell and leaves you with nothing in its place.

For the first time in a decade, I felt like my partner and I were oceans apart and couldn’t find each other in the dark. I felt like my close friends had abandoned me, not knowing how to handle my grief. And most of all, I yearned for nature.

All of a sudden, I was desperate for it. Which, as a lifelong city-dweller, surprised me most of all.

Suddenly I needed wide open plains, forests I could scream into, lakes and rivers and mountains large enough to hold my thunderous sorrow.

My perfectly manicured lawn, my backyard close enough to hear my neighbors to hear them sneeze, my decades-long relationships with certain friends — none of it felt like it worked anymore.

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I’ve spent the four years since that moment receiving and building the life I was longing for in the bathtub that day — closeness and connection with my partner, a community that truly sees me and can hold me in the depths, and a home in the mountains with space to breathe (which will be coming soon).

Not all of those changes have come easily, though some of them fell into my lap as effortlessly as breathing (which was a delightful surprise).

I’m still in progress (as I always will be). It’s messy, it’s full of uncertainties, and I often feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark.

It’s also been painstaking work — choosing the relationships I wanted to repair, which ones to release, and which new ones to welcome in. I hurt long-time friends and ruptured well-established friend groups, but with that has come a type of peace I didn’t even know was possible.

Here’s how I’ve been finding my way: through choosing spaces and places and people who feel like home. Through deepening my relationship with the sacredness of the land I walk on and grieving all I was never taught about the natural world.

Through coming back to poetry, again and again and again. (I’m finally starting to own that…I am a poet?!)

I couldn’t have known then that the exhausted, grief-clouded, nature-starved woman in the bath I was then has become the unlikely compass for the woman I am becoming.

But that’s the thing with grief — it’s the unwelcome guest who comes into our house without knocking, muddy shoes ruining our favorite rug. Though maybe, just maybe —we might realize years later, we didn’t really like that rug anyway.

Calling all poets who want to deepen their craft in conscious community —

I’ve been working on my first poetry manuscript for the past four months, and since then I’ve been delightfully immersed in not only the creative process of bringing a book through, but have also been deep in study of poetic craft, and have been submitting my poetry to contests and literary magazines for the first time (and in doing so, overcoming two decades of imposter syndrome).

I’m having a blast, but one thing has been missing..a small group of other poets to write with and lift up each other’s poems in community.

A lot of writer’s groups I found were expensive, only open their doors once a year, or didn’t focus enough on the spiritual and mystical aspects of writing poetry as well as the more technical aspects. I wanted something intimate, accessible, and something that bridged both consciousness and craft. But no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find a community like this — so I decided to start it myself.

learn more + join here

The Poet’s Circle will be a 3-month cohort for poets looking to deepen their craft in conscious community. We’ll have live generative writing workshops; a private group on Circle to share poems for feedback, reflections, and questions; meditations to ground and deepen our connection with what's coming through us; coworking calls with time to write or revise together, and more to be determined!

I’m keeping the price accessible at $50 total for the three months, to cover the cost of hosting this group on the Circle platform. This will be an intimate group of no more than 15 poets (though the group may be smaller). We’re already almost halfway full! Live calls will begin at the end of May.

I need this!

It’s a new sensation for me, because for the past 8 years, I’ve been in a well-practiced work flow of writing a poem and then sharing it almost immediately online. In the early days I shared my poetry on Instagram and then for the past few years, I’ve shared here on Substack.

And after almost a decade of sharing my poetry online, it has become a vital part of my poetry practice.

In fact, my entire creative rebirth (and what eventually led me to quit my full-time job in education and start my current business — new website coming soon 🙃) began when, in 2018, I started a new Instagram account and shared the first poem I had written in seven years.

Nothing major happened — maybe a few of my friends saw it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that, after almost a decade away, I was writing again.

Writing has always, always, always been my “thing.” If I’m not writing, it feels as if one of my vital organs has shut down, and I’m living a half-life — I just don’t feel like “me.”

When I am writing (and sharing), I feel alive. I feel in touch with the creative process, I feel inspired, and new poems come to me (on their own schedule, largely) more frequently.

And, for many years, an important step of this finely-tuned process has been sharing my poetry online — now to the thousands of you who are here reading. (Still pinching myself, thank you for being here 🥲).

The results of the sharing aren’t generally important to me (although of course it’s thrilling when my poetry is well-received), but something about the act of sharing feels embedded now as part of my creative process.

And then, for the past 3 months or so, things have shifted. I’ve been writing so many poems that I haven’t shared — both because I’m working on my first poetry book and I want to keep some of the poems a surprise, and because I’m submitting poems to literary journals for the first time and many journals won’t accept poetry that’s been previously published (even here on Substack).

So, it’s been an interesting experiment to be writing so much poetry (and I mean so much that I’ve already started working on a second poetry book 😆) and not sharing it online.

It’s been a beautiful confirmation that my inspiration truly comes from within, and doesn’t require outside feedback to keep me going. The poems keep finding me — on walks, in the bath, in the soft light of the early morning, as I notice a small bead of sweat in the crook of someone’s arm.

And the content of my poetry — what I’m feeling inspired to write about — is shifting, too. (I share more of an update on that in the audio below).

I recorded this audio update on one of my daily walks — think of it like a personal, heartfelt voice message from me. I give a full update on my poetry book, how it’s going, where I’m at in the process, and I also give an update on my grief.

My mom’s birthday was last month, and my birthday is coming up in a few weeks — two events that stir a lot of grief for me (naturally). I also share how it’s felt to be working on a poetry book about my mom, and about my grief.

Listen to the 18-minute personal update here ↓

At this point in my writing/creative journey, I would say I’m someone who feels very in flow with and attuned to my creative channel—not that writing and creating always comes perfectly or easily, but I generally know when I’m in flow and when I’m forcing, I know when to pause and when to take action, I know how to work with what’s getting lit up quickly rather than getting stuck.

And then…cut to me, a few months ago, committing to actually start working on my poetry book, a book I’ve known I wanted to write for years. I knew deep in my bones that this was the year, and it was time to stop making excuses.

And as I began to work on it, I felt like a complete beginner again. Do I even know how to write a poem?! Are my poems even any good?! How do I block out time to work on this—it’s not like I can just put “write poems” on my to do list…these thoughts would arise, I would feel overwhelmed, and I would put it off for another day.

Something was up.

When I really reflected on what was happening, on why I wasn’t working on this book, I realized that at this point I’m comfortable sharing my writing and poetry online, but writing a book feels completely new to me. I feel like I’m back at the beginning. Which is an uncomfortable place to be, but when I began to embrace it—that I’m trying something completely new, that I’m being brave enough and devoted enough to really commit to this book—everything shifted.

What’s helped me most with bringing this book through:

• Connecting with my mom’s spirit to help me write this (I really feel like we’re writing it together)

• Sitting in quiet stillness as often as I can to really listen for the poetry that’s already within me (which can feel challenging as a toddler mom)!

• Blocking off time on my calendar twice a week for an hour to work on the book (even when I don’t feel like it)

• Letting myself write “bad” poetry if I need to

• Working with mentors who are loving mirrors as I work on this project and process all that’s coming up

Carving out space to devote to your projects, and really committing to working with what’s coming up when you go to commune with them, has not only been up for me lately but also for my clients. A lot of what I’ve been working on lately with clients has been helping them separate from their creations, bringing back the FUN in creating, and doing deep somatic + energetic work with the parts of them that are afraid and don’t feel worthy of spending time on their creative projects.

If you’re wanting to bring more fun and pleasure back to your creative process, or just spend some time in sacred space really listening for what wants to come through you, join me for CLEAR CHANNEL, a free writing + creativity workshop, next Thursday, March 26th at 12pm PT / 3pm ET.

join for free

This free 90-minute workshop includes teaching, guided visualization + group energy work, channeled writing prompts and guided reflection time, and will close with optional sharing and Q + A. A recording will be available if you can't make it live.

If you’re feeling the call, come meet me at the river of your creations.

And while I know there are many antidotes to this (grounding, engaging in activities that light you up and that have no “purpose,” meditation, connecting with loved ones, sinking your feet into soil and offering gifts to the trees, etc…) one of the truest, deepest, and vastest is the act of creation.

For some it takes the form of painting, gardening, strumming their guitar…and for me it has always, always taken the form of poetry.

I have been a poetry writer since I could hold a pencil. There have been years where I’ve written hundreds of poems and years where I’ve written zero. I’m grateful to say that, in this phase of my life, poetry is a lover of mine who’s here to stay. We’re in a deep, committed, long-term relationship and all that entails.

This poem came to me, unbidden, the other night as I was in that sacred void space between sleeping and waking, once again contemplating how AI is changing the writing landscape. I quietly shook off the covers, hoping not to wake my son and husband sleeping beside me, and scribbled this poem down.

I love when poetry comes to me that way, as easily as a river flows. Beckoning me out of slumber with its clarion call.

Until recently I thought that was just how I wrote poems. I waited for them to touch me, pick me out of a human lineup in the sky and say, you.

I of course knew that, yes, there were things I needed to do on my end for them to reach me—listen, get still as often as I can, read others’ poetry, work on my craft…but I also knew that “write poetry” wasn’t something I could just put on my daily task list.

I couldn’t choose to write poems—they had to choose me. Right?

Yes…and no.

I’ve recently been working on my first book of poetry, and this conundrum was completely stumping me. I knew I wanted to include 68 poems in the book, one for each year of my mother’s life, as the book is to and for and about her and our life together.

As I started collecting poems I knew I wanted to include, I gleefully realized I already had 34 poems! Only 34 to go, I thought…

And yet.

The idea of having to write 34 more poems completely overwhelmed me. Though I write poetry all the time, this felt completely different than writing a poem when inspiration struck. This would require more of me, I realized. This would require new ways of working with my creative channel, ways that would stretch me and make me uncomfortable and challenge my assumption about how my channel, and how creativity, “works.”

Because I didn’t feel I could just put “write poems for my book” on my to do list. That’s not how it works for me, I thought. But if I had to wait for them to come, I wouldn’t finish this book for years.

So, I experimented with a new way of writing poems. I connected with my mom in ceremony and asked her to write this book with me, to allow me to be a channel of the other side.

I cleared space in my schedule—one hour twice a week—where I would fully commit to working on this book, whatever that looked like. Sometimes that looked like reading poetry that inspired me, sometimes that looked like allowing myself to write “bad” poetry, sometimes it looked like outlining sections of my book, sometimes it looked like editing previously-written poems.

But that blend of spirit and structure, of surrender and commitment, helped this book begin to grow wings.

I recently completed all 68 first drafts of the poems in my book (!!!) which is a huge milestone, and the process of writing so many new poems in recent weeks has humbled me to my core, upending so much of what I thought I had “figured out” about creativity and writing.

And, I also feel strongly that I was able to really dedicate myself to this book and to write all those poems with (relative) ease because of the years of dedication, commitment, and attunement to my creative flow.

And…I want to share some of those tools and teachings with you. Join me for CLEAR CHANNEL, a free writing & creativity workshop where we’ll lovingly devote 90 minutes to our writing, to learning, to connecting and to clearing our creative channels so that more of what’s ours can come through with ease and flow.

I haven’t led a workshop in a while, and I am so excited to be teaching this one! I hope you’ll join us ✨

“So, when are you gonna start learning photography?” he lovingly teases me every so often, reminding me that the camera is still sitting in our garage in a plastic bin, gathering dust. I laugh and roll my eyes.

And, as much as I hate to admit it, he has a point. Or, at least, he used to.

When I was younger, I had such a strong need for perfection and validation that I would quit anything at the first sign of criticism or challenge. I quit soccer as soon as I had a coach that pointed out my flaws. I quit dance just before I was about to advance to the next level, because I didn’t feel I could handle competing.

I even quit my true lifelong passion—writing, of course—for seven long years after a college writing seminar in which I received some negative feedback on a short story.

Are you seeing the pattern here?

I had major creative commitment issues.

Commitment issues generally mean there’s something else going on under the surface—for me, it was an intense fear of receiving feedback, and also that I was tying that feedback to my worthiness and lovability.

Because anything other than glowing, perfect feedback was so hard for me to handle, I’d quit while I was ahead. Or I’d quit at the first sign of challenge—especially when projects or creations or activities felt like an extension of me, my soul, and my heart. It just felt too…personal.

Over the years I’ve done so much work with this terrified part of me, giving it love and listening to it, letting it be with me (because I know it’s just trying to protect me) but not letting it sit in the driver’s seat and steer the car.

This past weekend I was in Ojai at a 2-day tea ceremony workshop with one of my favorite and long-time tea teachers. As part of the workshop, that each had to serve tea to the rest of the group and receive feedback on what we could do better. The entire time I was serving, my hands were shaking uncontrollably (even though I’ve served tea hundreds of times at this point). And, though I was nervous, I actually looked forward to receiving the feedback.

Because over the years, I’ve learned two important things: the first is that what I do or create is not a reflection of my worthiness or power or ability to be loved. And the second is that feedback and critique isn’t a bad thing—it’s actually a good thing. It helps me get better. It humbles me. It reminds me that there’s nowhere to arrive.

And, because I give that scared part of me the love it needs, and I’ve learned how to create healthy separation between me and what I’m doing or creating, I’m able to not only accept feedback, but to relish in it. I experiment. I create. I play. I fail. I try and try again. Because I know that none of it means anything about my worth.

This has been such a huge learning for me over the last decade or so, and one that I’m continually working on. These learnings have healed my commitment issues to my passions and creations completely.

I now can commit for the long haul, because my love for the thing is so much greater than my fear that I won’t be perfect at it.

Healing my creative commitment issues has affected every area of my life — parenting, my business (I’ve “quit” my business several times over the years when I was discouraged, and I know with certainty I won’t ever be doing that again), my writing and sharing here on Substack, my spiritual practices…the list goes on. It has completely transformed my life.

And I’m grateful to say that now, finally, my creations aren’t going to be gathering dust in the corner of my garage. They have staying power.

I hope you can feel that I’m not talking about forcing yourself to do something that no longer feels aligned. I still quit things when they don’t feel right, because sometimes that’s necessary. And what I’m talking about—really committing to something you love—is a very different energy than forcing yourself to stay committed to something that’s no longer right for you.

We all have different edges and comfort zones—if you’re someone who tends to quit, maybe your medicine is staying. If you’re someone who overstays, maybe your medicine is leaving when it’s time to leave.

I can’t tell you what’s right for you—only you know that. But for me, I would use quitting as an excuse to avoid dealing with the challenge of not being perfect at something. My creative commitment issues were showing me what was ready to be transformed and healed.

And now that I have spent time healing it and working with it, it feels incredible to be able to really commit. As I deepen into my practices and passions (tea ceremony, business, writing, parenting)…the more I learn, the more I am humbled at all I will never know. At how much more there is to learn, and always will be.

There will never be a day that I know it all, and for that I am grateful. I am committed, but I am never certain. I hope to always keep a beginner’s mind. And, to keep my creations out of dark dusty boxes, to over and over practice staying with them and bringing them back into the light of day.

Which medicine do you need more of right now: the medicine of staying, or the medicine of leaving? I’m curious to know how you’re navigating your own creative edges.

If you’re looking for deeper support, explore my email course and Substack strategy sessions.

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I’ve heard recently from clients and friends (many of whom are writers), that it can feel hard to keep creating when it feels like there’s so much happening in the world. What’s the point? Is it wrong to keep writing and sharing my creations amidst all of this chaos?

To which I say — we still need your poetry, especially in the midst of deep pain. That’s actually when we need it most. We still need beauty. We still need joy. Not in spite of these times, but especially in these times.

I wrote this poem the other day as I was reflecting on the importance of art, expression and poetry when the world feels like its falling apart around us.

We are allowed to create, and we are also allowed to rest. Resting doesn’t mean we don’t care—it means we’re taking the time to be still, to care for ourselves so we can better care for the collective.

Grounding is a simple yet incredible effective practice that I come back to over and over again. It’s a prayer for peace, for our own bodies and for all bodies. It’s a devotional deep dive back to your center. It’s a practice that will hold you amidst whatever life is handing you, when it all feels too heavy to carry alone.

Below you’ll find a 9-minute guided grounding practice, to connect yourself back to your body, your breath, and the present moment. Coming back to your grounding and regulating your nervous system is the best way to show up for others in these times. It’s a gift you give not only yourself, but to everyone you interact with.

Listen to the 9-minute grounding practice here ↓

I’d love to hear how this practice landed for you—and please let me know what practices or meditations you’d like to see from me in the future!

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I’ll never forget the thrill of posting that first poem on the new Instagram account I’d created just for my writing. It was the height of Instagram poetry and viral spiritual quotes, and a small, innocent part of me hoped that would happen to me too and I’d become the next Rupi Kaur 😉

Spoiler alert — it didn’t.

My poems never blew up, my followers didn’t grow, I didn’t become famous. But as I practiced sharing my writing again (especially daring to share it publicly 🤭) after I had put my creative dreams on the shelf for seven years, I found something even better.

I found myself again. My joy. My creativity. My spark.

And that was worth so much more than followers or fame — it was worth everything.

I hear from so many of my clients that they don’t feel like “creative” people.

I too felt this way for many years, and it saddens me deeply. One of my missions in this life is helping others reclaim that they are creative beings (which of course started with being able to reclaim it myself).

Because if I’ve learned anything in my 7+ years of sharing online, it’s this: it’s in the starting, and the doing (especially when it feels messy) that you begin to reclaim it.

Not because you’re only creative if you’re producing something (which I absolutely don’t believe), but because sometimes it’s allowing yourself to get on the field as one of my teachers says, that finally moves the energy that was keeping you stuck.

Because I felt so alive when I was writing and sharing, I kept sharing, even when it felt like no one was reading.

I never knew if my writing would find an audience, but the joy of it kept me going.

Then, last year, after over a year of sharing on Substack with 60 subscribers (almost all friends and family), a poem of mine went viral. New subscribers started coming in by the hundreds.

I was elated! It was finally happening! The thing I’d watched longingly from the sidelines happen to friends and colleagues but thought would never happen to me. The big moment that most of us who are creating and sharing online secretly hope will happen to us, too.

I was thrilled, and…

I was so glad I had had so many years of practice in sharing my writing to a small audience, and that I’ve devoted the last 10+ years to my spiritual tools and grounding practices. Because being seen on that scale was incredible, but it was also a lot. It was a lot to create space for and still be able to stay centered within myself.

But when it happened, I realized that I could stay grounded amidst the growth, because the foundation of my creative practice was solid from so many years of writing for the joy of it. Writing without any promises of accolades or popularity. Writing for me.

And, as one of my friends recently put it, more people coming to your metaphorical house means you’d better make sure the plumbing is pristine 😅

And while to many who are new here it may look like I’ve experienced overnight success, I share this to remind you all of not only the journey it took to get here, but the journey it continues to be.

I’ve seen friends completely shut down their accounts, their businesses and stop posting online because of overwhelm, rude comments and generally not being prepared for that kind of attention.

People’s envy, judgments and projections get cast at you in droves (both people who want what they see you having, and people who judge it and think your art is somehow now not “true art” because it’s popular online).

And…when interacted with in a clean and grounded way, having so many eyes on your work can be an absolutely awe-inspiring thing. It has been for me.

It brings tears to my eyes how my writing has resonated with people this year, has helped them feel less alone wherever they were. The connections I’ve made here feel real and true and deep.

And I’m able to receive all of this, while not being swept away in “now I’m more important than X person” or swept up in fear of people’s judgment now that there are so many more eyes on my work, because of the work I’ve done for years and years to shore up my foundation. Because the praise is wonderful, but I in no way need it to keep going and sharing.

Praise and virality (is that a word? 🙃) are waves that come and go. They’re fun to ride when they’re here, but I also enjoy floating in the calm waters when they’re not. Big waves aren’t in any way better than calm waters.

One of the greatest practices I’ve engaged with to receive the joy and bounty of all of this without getting blown out by it has been expanding my capacity to be with discomfort, which has then allowed me to expand my capacity to be with joy.

I’ve practiced this in many ways over the years — in the moment as I was birthing my son without medication, when I’ve felt overwhelming grief and pain after my mother’s death, as I was sitting in painful friendship rupture and having difficult conversations with my partner, when my son has explosive tantrums and I’ve held his body against mine while he cries…the list goes on.

And I’ve also practiced it through countless hours of stillness, energy work and meditation.

So, I now share that practice with you.

I know many of you are moving through times of immense grief and pain. And, since you found your way here to my work, I already know you’re someone who sees beauty and softness in life, too, no matter how challenging.

You’re someone who knows their sensitivity is a strength. It may not always feel that way, but when we let more of our pain in, we live a much richer life.

I’m sharing this practice here for free.

download for free here

I went to one of his workshops with my mom, as I had introduced her to his work and it had changed her life as much as it had changed mine.

We drove the two hours to see him together, talking of nothing and everything as we meandered through the windy mountain roads. Just 10 months earlier she had had surgery to remove a tumor that had been quietly growing in her colon. As we drove to the workshop that day, we thought the tumor was gone.

What I also remember most about this time was how desperately I wanted to be pregnant, and yet was still so glaringly not pregnant.

My husband and I had been trying to conceive for 8 months, and as each month ticked by I was filled with fear that we wouldn’t be able to have a baby. The weight of that fear was putting stress on us and our marriage, and it manifested in fights and both of us trying to control every part of the conception process in various ways.

This wasn’t how I wanted it to be.

During the workshop that day with my teacher, I had an epiphany. My teacher has spent a lifetime studying Zen Buddhism, and something he said that day will stick with me forever. He said, “You can’t make the plants grow by pulling on them. You’ll kill them.”

That sentence literally stopped in my tracks. He was right.

That’s exactly what I was trying to do with the conception process. I was doing everything I could, falling back on my tried and true coping mechanisms of force and control, to try to will this baby down.

And anyone who’s been through the conception process knows — this is absolutely not how it works.

People get pregnant accidentally all the time, and people whose greatest dream in life is to have a baby, sometimes never do.

It doesn’t make any logical sense. We don’t know why it happens easily for some and for others not at all. It requires complete surrender.

Which is what I realized that day.

I couldn’t rely on force or control to bring this child down — and not only that, but my attempts to do so were actually potentially hindering the process.

I had to surrender.

I told my mom all this on the car ride home and she smiled and nodded knowingly.

My mother — who was the reason I was even interested in listening to a spiritual teacher in the first place.

My mother — who was doing energy work with me since I was a child and who taught me to meditate when I was filled with uncontrollable anxiety in my early twenties.

My mother — my very first teacher in life, and my greatest.

I came home from the workshop that day and told my husband we needed to throw out the ovulation sticks. We needed to stop counting, tracking, temping. We needed to let go and let God.

This knowing came from so deep within me that there was no ignoring it. It was time to surrender.

And, as it sometimes goes…we were pregnant the next month.

My spiritual teacher is here again visiting this week and teaching workshops, two and a half years later.

Last night I looked in awe at my almost two-year-old son sleeping peacefully next to me in bed.

I am so grateful.

Today I’ll be driving to the workshop to see him.

This time, though, I’m not just a guest at these workshops — I’m helping with them. I’m now part of this spiritual community that has changed my life in so many ways — a community I had been longing to find for so many years.

I’m so grateful to be an active member of this community now, not just a participant. To now get to play a small part in helping to offer these workshops.

And…I’ve been filled with grief that my mother isn’t here to see it. To see how far I’ve come. To see my beautiful son growing. To see this community that has surrounded me with love. To take the long meandering drive with me, to talk of everything and nothing.

There won’t be a moment that I don’t miss her presence, that I don’t miss taking those drives with her, that I don’t miss sharing books with her, sharing epiphanies with her.

And that’s how life is, I’ve come to realize.

Filled with both beauty and immense sadness.

Filled with gratitude at how far we’ve come, and longing for what we’ve lost and can never get back.

Nothing perfect.

Nothing exactly the way we wanted or hoped.

Sometimes worse, and sometimes better than we could have imagined.

Because it’s a universal truth that, at some point, absolutely everything we love…we will lose.

So let’s hold both the joy and the pain lightly, letting go as it all fall away faster than grains of sand through our fingertips.

Thank you so much for being here. If you’re new to Writing from the Ashes, you can learn more about me and why I started this Substack here. Every comment and share means so much to me — if you’re new here (or you’ve been around a while), please comment and say hi! I’d love to connect with you.

And, if you’re looking for deeper support, explore my email course and Substack strategy sessions.

It was birthed from a place of immense grief — at the same time that I was also, strangely, discovering a vast well of creativity within me and a deep need to be witnessed in my words.

When I learned my mother was dying, as I was months away from giving birth to my son, poetry was pouring through me.

I was waking up before the sun because words were spilling out of me faster than I could type them.

At the time I was confused.

I thought grief was supposed to be dark. I thought I was supposed to collapse, to be unable to function — not be starting a Substack.

Now, much more familiar with the nonsensical terrain of grief, I know that as soon as you try to say what grief is, to label it and categorize and explain it, it slips through your fingers faster than grains of sand in the wind. It falls away faster than the wave returning to the ocean from where it came.

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In the two years since receiving my mom’s terminal diagnosis, and in the year and a half since losing her, this Substack has been a respite for me.

It’s been a place of healing, a place to express my grief and my joy, a place to share my innermost thoughts with all of you.

I’m still and always will be so honored that there are so many of you here, choosing to read my stories and poems — I hope they feel like a balm to your soul and help you feel a little less alone in the darkness.

I wrote this poem the other day, in a moment of deep longing for my mom’s arms around me once more. In a moment of deep despair that her arms would never hold me again. In a moment of deep longing for something physical I could hold onto.

In many ways, grieving her now looks like continuing to learn how to hold myself.

But the yearning will always be there — of that I am sure.

And, as my grief shifts and changes, a new era of Writing from the Ashes is coming, and I can’t wait to share it with you! More to come on that later this month.

For now, I want to celebrate.

Celebrate two years of writing and sharing my heart with you all here.

Celebrate two years of telling my story.

Celebrate two years of remembering who I Am after devastating and unthinkable loss.

To celebrate, I’m offering 50% off Tell Your Story, my 10-day email course, today through this Friday December 5th at 12pm PST. Join for just $11.

learn more here

Anxiety has been my lifelong companion, though she’s definitely come around less in recent years as I’ve learned to dance with her rather than fight her. (Maybe it’s the fight she enjoys most.)

And though my anxiety is a well-known friend, I’m lucky enough that I’ve only experienced a handful of full-blown panic attacks over the years. Because anyone who’s had a panic attack knows how deeply uncomfortable and downright terrifying they are.

Feeling completely out of control.

Physically unsafe.

Crushed by the weight of your own beating heart that feels like it will swallow you whole, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

And, as I’ve learned through these moments of discomfort, terror, and despair…if you’re open to it (as I am now, but wasn’t always) they can become deeply transformative experiences.

And this one — through all the pain and the fear — was one of those experiences.

What’s also important to note was that during this panic attack I was alone. At the time that was especially terrifying to me, but in the midst of it I knew I was alone for a reason.

I have a habit of reaching quickly for others when I’m in any kind of distress, not believing I can handle whatever’s happening on my own.

So I know my growth edge is taking a beat before I blindly ask for help. My learning curve is trying to soothe myself first.

And I knew that’s what this experience was asking of me.

During the panic attack I used every tool in my toolbelt that I’ve learned from my therapists, mentors, and spiritual teachers over the years.

And somewhere in the middle of the storm, I heard Spirit say, “Just because you’re uncomfortable, doesn’t mean you’re not safe.”

I felt my whole body relax into that knowing.

At one point I touched into deep sadness and grief, the aching and never-ending longing for my mother’s arms around me once more.

Before, I wouldn’t have been able to be with these feelings, to let them in — I would have feared they would overwhelm me.

This time, I let them in.

I wailed for hours, I screamed into pillows, I made guttural noises and eventually sang myself to sleep.

And then, later that week, I wrote this poem.

I’m proud to say that instead of waiting for someone to save me…

I’m finally learning how to save myself.

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🕊️ Have a story you’d like to tell — but you’re feeling blocked, overwhelmed, or afraid to tell it?

Tell Your Story is my 10-day email course ($22) that will help you clear what’s in the way so you can bring your story through with ease and flow…and finally set it (and yourself) free.

learn more here

I didn’t want the sign to feel generic — I wanted to be special, meaningful, and unique. We didn’t have an animal we both loved or anything like that, so I asked Spirit to send us a clear message when the sign had arrived. I knew it would.

And then, on one of our walks along the ocean just a few weeks after her diagnosis, I stopped in awe. “Mom!” I shouted. “Look! There must be twelve dolphins in the water!”

We stopped and gaped at the dolphins — so many of them was not a common sight — for about twenty minutes as they jumped and twirled in the air.

“That’s our sign,” I said to her with tears in my eyes.

Dolphins have appeared to me since in many miraculous ways since, including the time 5,000 of them made the news when they appeared on Christmas — my first Christmas without her — right where me and my husband and son were taking an ocean walk.

But the wildest story is this.

It was the day after my mother’s death.

I was numb, shocked, frozen with anguish. I couldn’t cry, and that concerned me. I felt almost nothing (and as someone who Feels a Lot All the Time, that concerned me). I kept thinking, how could I have woken up on this day, the first day she would never see? How could I still be living when the woman who gave me life was not?

It seemed unfathomable.

I remember sitting on the couch with my husband, sharing all this with him late at night, after we’d put my son to sleep in the other room.

“Mom, can you send me a sign that you’re still here?” I whispered to the heavens. “Please? I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

Some moments later my husband walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He stopped in his tracks, in complete shock.

“What is it?” I asked.

His mouth hung open as he looked at something on our kitchen island.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “Come look.”

“What?” I replied, completely confused.

He then proceeded to pick up a rainbow-colored pen that our nanny had brought with her when she had started working for us just the week before to write down her daily tasks. I got up and came over to look at it, curious as to what he was talking about.

And there it was — on the end of the pen, a plastic dolphin charm.

I burst into tears, right then and there.

There was our sign.

Since that day my mom has appeared to me in many ways, has sent many signs, and I know is also busy sending me writing inspiration and creative ideas.

I firmly believe that writing and creating is a collaboration between us and our well and wise ancestors, guides, and loved ones on the other side.

I created my free Samhain writing circle to create a space for those who are wanting to connect in deeper with the other side of the veil, and spend some time in sacred writing practice when the veil is at its thinnest.

I’m really excited about this one, and there are already over 20 of you signed up!

rsvp for free

𖤓 details 𖤓

This writing circle is FREE, 75 minutes on Zoom and will include guided visualization + energy work, channeled writing prompts and guided writing time, and will close with optional sharing, witnessing, and guidance from me.

This workshop is for you if you’re looking to connect with writing as a sacred act and you’re wanting to make intentional space this Samhain to commune with your well and wise ancestors, guides and loved ones on the other side.

RSVP for free

I look forward to touching the veil with those of you feeling the call 🕯️

In deep devotion, Melina

When I can feel my mom’s presence reaching out to me in the seemingly endless abyss of her absence.

These moments often stop me in my tracks, bring me to my knees, and I can do nothing but surrender to them in awe.

I had one of these moments the other day when I received a text from one of my best friends, Ellie.

Ellie had been looking through her financial files and stumbled upon a card my mom had written her almost two years ago — my mom had sent her a bouquet of flowers along with a note, thanking Ellie for her presence at my blessingway ceremony.

“You are an angel,” the card read. Ellie snapped a picture of my mom’s sweet message and sent it to me.

Upon opening the text and reading the words my mom had sent her, I felt time collapse and I felt my mom reaching out from across the veil, wrapping me in her love once more.

I fell to the floor and sobbed, both in gratitude for my mom’s continued love and deep grief that I would never again receive a message like this from her in the physical.

And in that moment, as the veil thinned and I was close enough to touch the other side…I had a choice.

I could let that moment in, let it fill me with awe and joy and sadness and longing, let it live in my bones as the holy communication it was across space and time — or I could shove it away, ignore it, and continued on with my to do list.

When I checked the text I had been washing the dishes and cleaning up the house from the nightly hurricane that is my one and a half year old son. I had a lot that I wanted to get done while my husband was putting my son to sleep in our bedroom. This was was precious, precious time to get tasks cleared from my never-ending to do list.

And then, I saw the picture from Ellie, and I was overcome with emotion — the tenderness of my mom’s writing, the grief that I would never again receive a card like that from her, the joy of seeing something she had written for the first time, like a love letter from the afterlife.

In that moment I knew I could push the sadness away, wipe the tears and continue on with what I needed to get done. There was a part of me that wanted to run.

But the part of me that lives in reverence for the connection between us here and those who have passed knew that this moment was meant to be fully felt.

I was being invited to touch the veil — and making space to receive her love from the other side is imperative to my grief, my healing, and my human experience.

If you’re ready to make space this Samhain — when the veil is at its thinnest — to write and commune with your ancestors, loved ones, and guides on the other side…you’re invited to TOUCHING THE VEIL, a free Samhain Writing Circle on Thursday, Oct. 30th at 5pm PT / 8pm ET.

In this 75-minute circle, we’ll open our channels and drop into sacred writing practice together during this potent time.

RSVP for free

𖤓 workshop details 𖤓

This writing circle is FREE, 75 minutes on Zoom and will include guided visualization + energy work, channeled writing prompts and guided writing time, and will close with optional sharing, witnessing, and guidance from me.

This workshop is for you if you’re looking to connect with writing as a sacred act and you’re wanting to make intentional space this Samhain to commune with your well and wise ancestors, guides and loved ones on the other side.

RSVP for free

I look forward to touching the veil with those of you feeling the call 🕯️

In deep devotion, Melina

My mom had been admitted to the ICU 4 days earlier, and we’d learned that night that there was both a high chance she wouldn’t live until the next morning, and that they’d found tumors all over her abdomen.

We knew what it meant.

Miraculously, she lived through the night, and after making good improvements following the surgery, she had another brush with death as fluid filled began to fill her lungs from post-surgical complications.

In what felt like the quickest, cruelest turn, my stepdad and I were being asked in hushed tones about end-of-life preferences and intubation. I remember feeling like I was in a movie — this could not possibly be my actual life. And then I’d feel my son kick and somersault in my swollen belly, and I’d be brought back to reality.

She was dying, and he was about to be born.

I remember sobbing on the phone to my best friend Ellie in the hospital courtyard, not caring who heard my cries, as she channeled the most beautiful prayers — “more life, please,” she said, over and over through tears of her own. “We pray for more life.”

Again, she lived through the procedure to drain the fluid from her lungs that they gave her 50/50 odds of surviving.

So she was still dying, but not yet.

When we knew she was going to live at least a while longer, I finally slept through the night, and then awoke the next morning before dawn with a feverish need to write.

Words were pouring through me like never before — I was honestly surprised I had the energy to do anything at that point.

But grief is funny that way — sometimes it deprives us of energy and sometimes, it fuels us. That would be my first lesson in the strangeness of loss.

This is the poem I wrote that day, the poem I would eventually read at her funeral just six short months later.

I’ve been keeping this poem close to my heart, but am sharing it here now for the first time.

My Son's Bones
by Melina Charis

Grief
is baked
into my son’s bones

The red rivers
of tears
the blood in his veins

Time seems to slow
these moments slip
through my fingertips
my breath
the ebb and flow
of beginnings and endings

as one life ends
one life begins
yet to be born
Spirit to form
still in the flesh
of his Mother’s womb

Both are angels
Living between worlds
Liminal creatures
Cosmic teachers
of the highest order

Both reminding us
of the fragility
of our beating
aching
bleeding
fleeting
hearts

all flowing
like rivers
in, out
in, out

like tides returning
time and time again
flowing back
to the ocean
from where we came

If you’ve also walked with death, birth, or grief of any kind…

I invite you to join me in HOMECOMING, a free 90-minute writing workshop on Sunday, August 24th at 10am PT / 1pm ET. Feel free to invite your friends or share with anyone who would be interested. At the end of the workshop, I’ll be opening the doors to the second round of RESONATE, a 3-month group writing journey to reclaim your voice, vision, and vitality.

rsvp for free 🤍

𖤓 workshop details 𖤓

This workshop is FREE, 90 minutes on Zoom and will include teaching, guided visualization + meditation, somatic writing prompts and guided writing time, and will close with optional sharing, witnessing, and 1:1 guidance from me around any challenges or questions you have on writing, grief, or sharing your work publicly.

This workshop is for you if you’ve moved through birth, loss, or grief of any kind. It’s for you if you’re looking to go deep with your writing and you believe that writing is a sacred, spiritual act.

Last time I offered a free workshop, almost 120 of you signed up!

I can’t wait to meet those of you feeling the call to come home 🤍

I'm ready to come home

In deep devotion, Melina