The last year has forced me to reckon with my fear, and what I still allow to hijack my orientation towards action.

My protector parts are highly specialized, and my Head of Visibility is really good at operating in stealth mode.

I’ve had this block the last 2 months:

I knew what I wanted to do, I knew how to do it, but when it came time to execute — my whole system shut down. I knew what I wanted to write, I just … couldn’t? I’d sit staring at my computer and everything would go foggy. The words had disappeared; the clarity was gone.

Day after day, I’d get nowhere.

Sometimes I’d just research things all day. Other times I wouldn’t even open my computer, easily finding the days swallowed up by home tasks and life admin. It was like I was trapped in this liminal purgatory. I couldn’t just interrupt it, and then return with fresh eyes.

But then, I also couldn’t do it.

I tried change of scenery, I tried taking walks, I tried hanging with a friend. I tried podcasts to get the juices flowing — I couldn’t listen to anything. I tried paper and pen. An everything shower. A music-induced exorcism. It didn’t matter. Nothing worked.

No matter how rested, how grounded, how clear I felt — when I sat down to do the thing, the same thing happened. It was infuriating.

My therapist said it sounded like I had a part that was extremely skilled at blocking me from anything that would give me visibility, and the only option left to try was to stop trying to push past it.

They said this part of me was hiding because it knew I had an agenda. It knew I only wanted to speak with it to make it comply. It did not want to be talked through it, even if I was validating it and giving it room to be heard. It didn’t want its mind to be changed.

“This isn’t Self energy — Self has no agenda.”

I’m sorry — WHAT?

Even my parts have the Aries aversion to being controlled. I am telling you, not a day of peace in my damn life.

So I decided I had to just stop trying to have a plan or timeline — another of the many lessons I’ve had to learn over the last year. I operate on felt time, not scheduled time. And while there’s not much this world hates more than that, I legitimately cannot change it. I have tried.

I had to just decide to trust with my supposed certainty, and prove I really knew just how correct this path was, even when I was hitting more blocks. I had to prove I could relinquish control without losing faith in my own capacity, yet again.

Me and my will. Always getting put in our place.

I had to get to the place where I could really say: I know this is my path, there is no question about that. It is all going to come together and I know that. I have been shown that repeatedly. I need to chill tf out, surrender to the process I’m in, and keep developing my ability to tolerate not having all the information at all times.

It’s not happening today, and it might not happen tomorrow, but at some point I’m going to feel the clarity and capacity once again. And everything will make sense.

I had to surrender.

And then!

The second Jupiter moved into Leo — my tenth house (of public roles, visibility, how you’re known in the world) — it all unlocked.

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It’s taken me so long to be capable of writing these stories for people to read.

I spent the last few years allowing anything I cared about to be taken from me, should it be deemed appropriate. The loss didn’t start then, but my willingness to see what didn’t fit and allow it to leave did.

Willing and wanting are two different things.

I had learned by then that it was always in my best interest to face reality and respond to it. But I did not wish to sacrifice anything further; actually had quite the aversion to more loss. I was exhausted. I was at the end of my rope, and the thought of another upheaval sent shivers down my spine.

It felt like I had spent so much of my life recovering from some foundation-crumbling loss I could hardly bear. Every few years, piecing together fragments of a before‑life with pieces of something new, building yet another self that had seen more, felt more, understood more.

I’d survived the abuse of my childhood, escaped the abusive relationship, begun to understand what connected to what. I’d made it through the chaos of my early 20s, found a way to fund community college, and eventually managed to get myself into NYU — the school I had once romanticized in my pre-teen journals.

I barely graduated high school.

I was always testing into AP classes, only to be failing them by midterm — my teachers exasperated over my potential, perplexed why I wouldn’t just “apply” myself. Learning was the only part of school I actually liked. I wanted to do well so badly, I just couldn’t seem to figure out how to manage the school part.

Five years later, I was opening my acceptance letter from NYU’s nursing program.

I had spent the time in between building expertise in my field. I earned my AA in Sociology, facilitated community health classes and groups. I was teaching parents how to become parents, how to understand their babies and stay in sync during early parenthood. I studied psychology and went to therapy, diving deep into understanding myself and the world.

I spent all I had to make sure my life didn’t stay what it was. It felt like everything I ever wanted was finally actualizing.

All that surviving in the first half of my adulthood, I was finally getting myself to New York to really start living.

By the second semester of nursing school, we were going into lockdown.

I had more time in New York locked down than open. Every week, I trekked to 1st Ave and dropped off my mandated COVID test. I braved the sensory nightmare of the spit tests NYU used (for whatever ungodly reason) and spent my lunchtime at clinicals in silence — at least six feet away from the others in my group.

I watched Q-Anon become the seeds for today’s mainstream as the collective’s lack of media literacy passed a catastrophic tipping point. Birthwork friends back home sent videos about antisemitic conspiracy theories on Signal. Colleagues who had become friends, people I’d spent years learning from, former clients that became family.

We chatted through the science of masks over FaceTime, about the real things I was witnessing, having no idea those FaceTimes would be the last. I watched everyone post black squares on Instagram, then I watched their vacation content.

I knew the horrors unfolding in the hospitals — moms laboring alone, being separated from their babies, the poor hospitals with astronomically higher mortality rates, the healthcare workers committing suicide. I listened to the gravity of our grief retold every morning on The Daily. The fear hung in the quiet air of each day. I felt it there, seeping into me each time I walked through the hospital doors.

Even still, I squeezed every lost drop out of that opportunity I had worked so hard to manifest.

I tried in every group project. I volunteered to present so I could practice public speaking. I modeled the values I brought from community and birth work with my patients, hoping my peers would encounter the radical side of healthcare at least once before holding people’s lives in their hands.

I found the professors with specialties in my area and built relationships with them. I assisted them with their research, built my own independent study and internship. I created opportunities for myself.

I cared. And because of that, I survived.

Nine years after graduating high school, I finally had my bachelor’s degree.

It was hard not to feel that little voice of shame. I had enough credits for probably two degrees. All that time, all that struggle, and still only a bachelor’s. I was relentless with myself in this way. Never good enough; all performance warranted critique.

It all felt so anticlimactic — okay, I just did all that. And now... just this? It felt lonely.

No nursing pinning ceremony, or walking for graduation. No party, no family there to cheer me on, no ritual to mark my feat. No showering of gifts, large checks, or Europe trips. Just a casual, last-minute breakfast on a weekday with two longtime friends and my partner — too deep in self-panic to be present.

I had spent the previous week cosplaying producer while we filmed her short film. The months leading up to that — filming her content, editing scripts, and talking her through weekly tantrums. Her inability to show up for this big moment of mine did not faze me. I had not yet learned the lessons, so I genuinely… barely noticed.

My superpower has always been holding many realities. I was about to be freeer than I had ever been in my entire life. I was about to live. Despite the gloomy backdrop, I felt on top of the world.

I had gotten exactly what I went to college for. I went to learn and become, and then I handcrafted a life so immersed in learning I became the me I always knew I was.

A month later, I was scrambling to figure out how to trek back to the West Coast with my dog — alone.

I had zero clue how I was supposed to fund a cross-country move I had been planning to split the previous week. I had been unemployed since the first week of lockdown, when the bar I was a server at closed. I eventually got unemployment but I was living in NYC on under $3K a month, and that was the most financial stability I had ever had.

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By the way, my partner and I didn’t break up! She explicitly clarified she did not want to break up. Spoiler, I never saw her again.

STILL I RISE

I managed to get back to California, and my friends were there to scoop me right up.

I somehow managed to study for my boards, and I passed the NCLEX on the first try, with the minimum number of questions. I somehow landed a job in obstetrics as a new-grad without doing a new-grad program. They offered me the job at the end of the interview. I secured an apartment 4 minutes away an hour later.

No med-surge for me! I could see the light.

Less than a year into being an RN, I began to realize I had spent all of my tolerance getting there.

And I was too porous.

Too inclined to care, too seasoned to toss it up to bad apples. I knew this system inside and out, and I knew this specialty. Staying meant signing up for constant mental anguish I’d have to simply keep soldiering through. And while I was very practiced in that, my nervous system wasn’t so easily hushed by then.

I was realizing I couldn’t keep surviving through life. For the first time, my will was meeting its limit. I felt insane.

ALL OF THAT TO QUIT?

A great deal of my lessons have stemmed from my inclination to martyr myself for what I care about. But I was raised not to consider my suffering as something relevant. I met the start of that lesson here.

Healthcare asked for too much and gave too little. I knew I had to take a beat, or I could forget about ever having the capacity to keep expanding. I had so much to give. I was only getting started, but I was done giving it to a system that wanted to stay what it was. It didn’t care who it hurt. It didn’t mind the collateral damage.

It had to think about the needs of the business.

The moments with my patients carried me.

I held those glimpses of our truest humanity so sacredly in my heart. I knew how existential it all was, and it was never lost on me what a privilege it was to be in these thresholds with people. It did make it all worth it.

I am so proud of who I was in those rooms.

By the time I earned the credibility to start making the kind of impact I felt called to, I discovered how much I had overshot on time in my big longterm plan. I hadn’t accounted for all the evolution that would occur inside of me on my way to the next “stepping stone.”

My awareness of the macro reality haunted me. The individual impact wasn’t enough for me to feel like the struggle even mattered. What I could do vs what I knew was too much.

The decision to eventually leave the bedside was not an easy one, and also the easiest decision I’ve ever made. I knew the realities of inpatient nursing were not sustainable for me. My tolerance for suffering was far from resolved. I still thought it could be a reasonable requirement if the impact of the work was enough. But I stopped trying to be big enough to single-handedly fix maternal healthcare.

It was time to learn how much more covert the fuckery could be in the private sector. I knew the thing I was missing was exposure to the corporate world. I didn’t know the jargon, I hadn’t been in the rooms. It was the final piece of the puzzle, and the vision was so clear. I got an offer that would start as a 1099 role, $25/hr. I took it and kept working nights inpatient.

I couldn’t tell you how, I couldn’t guarantee it was going to pay off, but there was just that thing in me that knew I was going to use it to change my life.

And then I did.

It was a bewildering fairytale for a while.

I didn’t anticipate how organic succeeding in tech would be for me.

I was shocked how aligned it felt, how immediately my “value” was seen and affirmed. How many moments would make sense, how perfectly human and good the people I would “manage”. The relationships I built over those years changed my life as much as the work did.

My instincts had been spot on. I had found myself a version of that world that was possible for me to flourish in, while remaining actively invested in my big picture. I never could have imagined how much would be different by the time I was finished, or how profound the pain it would eventually cause.

Over the last 4 years, I poured myself into healing from complex trauma and all its sprawling consequences, instead of just understanding it. I made sense of the relationship dynamics of my past, maneuvering the interpersonal with grace and integrity. I grew my confidence and leadership voice, and began to see all the threads of my work become clearer.

I turned 30 during a total solar eclipse. I started feeling 30 years of grief. I discovered the credibility of my perception, and learned what safety feels like. I dug into neuroscience and neurocognition, excavating my own neurocomplexity.

I was integrating so much.

Life was suddenly making it very clear what was no longer correct, and 2025 became the grande finale. By then I’d developed a mastery for identifying misalignment in my life.

After spending my entire 20s transforming myself and my reality — finally beginning to access the conditions needed to thrive — I had outgrown it all again. And I was seeing how seriously out of time I was. I was being dragged back onto my path, kicking and screaming.

Thank the gods I stumbled on 's work one day in a research hole on niche therapy specialties, which eventually led me to the exact affirmation I needed to hang onto what sanity I had left.

There was a name for what was happening in me: Calcinatio

I had to finally reckon with the role I was still playing in my own destruction.

Over and over — life showed me the same thing in different ways. More lessons about the truth of the self vs the other.

My ability to adapt to harsh conditions also meant it was easy not to notice them at all. I had to learn how much people would take when I let them. I had to keep meeting the consequences of my willingness to contort myself to no end. I held so much empathy for everyone else’s pain, I let it dissolve any regard for my own. And then I found relationships and environments that would recreate that pain, while claiming to love me. (for the lady, perhaps some backbone)

Around and around I went — finding new voices to be the same bullies, allowing intimacy with people that showed me repeatedly they couldn’t be responsible with it, and collecting more grief. I had to find out the hard way how compliant and cruel people can be when they’re avoiding something.

These last few years had to make sure I really meant it when I said I wanted more. And so, as life does, it taught me about cost. And then it made me choose.

I decided to start having my own back. And then I let it all fall apart so there would be space to receive the magic waiting for me on the other side of that exchange.

Life can be a supremely trash dumpster fire. But there has never been a time I’ve been brave, and worse off.

So go be brave. I swear you can survive it. Life might still be trash, but you will be better than you were.

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I met up with an old friend and her husband last week to chat with them about becoming parents. They’re expecting their first baby and navigating all the layers of the journey that make up most of my brain’s most familiar terrain.

I could talk to new parents all day long. These are my very favorite conversations. They are full of the same sentiments I have been navigating with people for the last 14+ years, and they are the most human. There is softness, and hope, and fear, and all the biggest feelings that bring us to our knees.

We met in their storefront and chatted for over 3 hours around a big table full of snacks and cold bevvies to match the humid 90-degrees outside. I felt a sort of quiet enchantment in the air, with piles of flowers and lush greenery scattered about — little pieces of yesterday and tomorrow, like musical chairs for plants.

There were stacks of boxes and pockets of gorgeous, eclectic furniture configured — leaking glimpses of the future. Neighbors walking by and waving hello, characters popping in and out. The shop was full of fresh dreams and blossoming life, just the same as its keepers.

I couldn’t help but think how much of a silly poem it all was. Everywhere, traces of seedlings. So close to full bloom, enough that the pressure makes you notice it. Tender, like all the best things are.

There is so much bravery required to believe in the worthiness of creating something beyond what is today. And the magic of it is that it forces us to really believe our dreams can be actualized, and that all the discomfort of becoming will be for something richer than whatever was before.

Seeing people be brave in this way is why I love people.

I love that we contain a thing that makes us so wired for creation, we take on chaos in protection of it. We are meant to be drunk with hope, I think. And perhaps that’s connected to my ending up in the work of life and death.

Everything is a birth.

We are all lost in too many ways. There is a screeching to this time. It is loud, and there are horrifying things around every corner. We have to really choose not to let joy go — to play, to love. And the thing that I have never seen disappear, no matter the conditions, is the hope that babies bring.

It is a time of intensity, and it’s just a blink in a life. Many of the couples later grow apart, infants become kids, life continues on after the buzz of those all-consuming early days. It’s not always the happy ending we hope for on the way. Sometimes, it’s even tragic. And even still, there is nothing illusory about this hope.

There is a palpable power to these little blips because of who we become in response. All the special within the cracks. Innocence urges us to evolve. This is why kids are a mirror. If we want them to know it’s worth it, we have to believe it ourselves. They can tell when we don’t.

But it’s not just having a baby, or becoming a parent, that gives you this opportunity to transform. It’s in all the thresholds. When we meet our edges — where we know we are meant to go, and we know it’s going to cost something — and we do it. When we choose to show up for life and allow ourselves to try, we are rewarded with generous evolution. Evolution is not always fun or comfortable or easy, but it does mean you’re alive.

What a gift this has been to hold with people, the rawness of life. The tension of excitement and uncertainty, of love and reality.

It is what raised me, this severity. It became the walls that held me in my own evolving. This work has formed my thinking and choices and identity, and I’m so excited to bring it into a format that has the power to reach more people.

Chatting with my friends reminded me of how much is stirring in my brain, asking to be re-curated. Asking to be offered. This will become my response to the stirring — a 14-year brain dump ☺︎

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What to expect:

• Dot connecting, breaking down complex ideas, helping you understand what the f is going on around & within your life.

• Thresholds — dedicated to naming and normalizing the human experience so you can embrace being wholly alive. It’s about granting yourself permission to be. Where I hold your hand through the thresholds of life because nobody held mine 🫂

• Doula Dissent — dedicated hub for sharing insights, frameworks, and guidance from 14 years in healthcare, public health, and birthwork. Where I’ll be sharing custom templates & resources from my private work with clients. Meant to help equip you with the information + resources to make informed decisions, and more confidently navigate healthcare stuff. I’d love to hear what you might like to see!

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• All niche content & deep-dives, eventual guided reflections, prompts, and frameworks to help you integrate what you’re learning.

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i was born into an ecosystem that was incompatible with my factory settings.

i have always had a very abnormal level of presence. where i am, i am. wholly alive. i am there and i know what’s happening. i came out and was sort of just already… on.

that is perhaps the most dangerous thing you can be — a little girl that’s big.

this is the exact reason my story is what it is.

what began as a rather grueling quest for understanding, as a means of maintaining touch with reality, became my route to discovering a far more powerful truth than i could have ever known i was seeking. once i began to fully understand, i was gifted in return the medicine for all my wounds:

that i was actually never wrong. i was just early — in a swarm of people ill prepared to face what was.

in pursuit of uncovering my defectiveness, of what i thought to be an inevitable exposing of some elusive explanation for all of my supposed self-imposed suffering, i discovered instead that the real healing lives in the grief of discovering a far less sinister reality, one that exists outside the limitations of our most haunting shame.

i think i have always felt foreign to my family.

they didn’t get me, in part, because they hadn’t ever seen whatever i was. they didn’t know what to make of it, and they definitely never knew how to face what i was consistently — unbeknownst to me — reflecting back to them.

the voices were highly critical. the expectations loud & intrusive, and ultimately always moving. what was pure in me was somehow always an assault i didn’t initiate. control was the goal, and i came out allergic to any demand for compliance that would cost me my agency. the force of each demand into contortion whittled me away.

like a candle you’re done burning and put the lid on to suffocate the flame into disappearance; that’s what it feels like to have something powerful inside of you that your own people want to destroy. it makes you think that you are defective, an abnormality in the batch. everything that shapes the development of your identity becomes whatever reaction people are having and repackaging as your character.

the battle was chronic. it was architectural. the message from every direction, delivered in every niche configuration, was the same: what you feel is wrong. your pain isn’t real; it is unfounded and preposterous and inconceivable. or it’s your fault — you brought it on yourself. i hurt you because you provoke me.

i feel foreign to them because i am.

they have never known me. and until recently, i just never let myself fully grasp the injustice of that.

by the time i reached my teenage years, i had already reached my threshold of tolerance for suffering alone in an experience that none of the adults around me would admit was happening. the few that were able to recognize my reality rarely moved beyond acknowledgment into response.

when the primary experience of your developmental years is of chasing connection you either won’t be given, or can’t trust, it feels like starving while being accused of stealing food. asking for something to eat and only ever being told you shouldn’t be hungry.

nonetheless, i held onto my crumbs. i stored them away and survived off them through years of deteriorating disillusionment. there was no version of me that could rest. i was an anthropologist in the gaslight district before gaslighting was a trending term. it was the soil i learned to propagate out of.

i understand now that they couldn’t engage with me because i lived in reality; i was present in ways they’d managed to skirt, and joining me there would dismantle the carefully concocted layers of delusion holding their identity together. everything around me seemed to be built on a foundation of fragility.

this is not unique to my family. this is the culture of whiteness, which is a culture of exploitation and divestment from truth. choose your own reality; no one can tell you otherwise. the facts don’t matter if everyone agrees to pretend they aren’t there. in a way i suppose i got lucky really. i happened to be brutally exposed to the reality of the broader world when i was meant to be enjoying a gentle ride out of naivety.

my spirit was sturdy.

i’m an aries — it was born of me.

i am the match and the striker, friction only ignites me. i will not be put out.

i will create new life beautiful and true no matter how hostile the conditions.

i became a doula during my senior year of high school, and birthwork taught me everything i know about being alive.

i attended my first birth at 19. people were choosing me — a teenager who had never given birth, never been pregnant — to support them through one of the most vulnerable experiences of their lives. to teach them how to feed and raise their babies. to sit with them in the dark hours of early postpartum when nothing felt like it was supposed to. to help them put themselves back together to return to expectations of life before they should have been required to.

it taught me about power, about how information is manipulated to capitalize on fear. about what people are capable of when they understand what they’re navigating. how systems exploit people in their most vulnerable moments and tell them to be grateful they got the bare minimum.

and in this work, it was revealed to me that most of what is broken is broken on purpose.

while that is its own particular flavor of grief, it also meant there was hope. if all that plagues us has been intentionally manufactured, then it can be deconstructed. i spent my 20s studying systems and people, and it taught me that nothing is really all that confusing. i learned that we actually know exactly how to fix things. we just need enough people to know that, and to be willing to show up for it.

the capacity to be with people in their most vulnerable moments — and not flinch, not need them to button it all up before they can have presence — is a rare skill.

when people needed to be sat with in the dark, i pulled up a chair. i filled their water & made sure everything they needed was in reach.

they always let me stay. not because of how useful i was, not because i always showed up perfectly, but because it is the moments in which you have the least to offer that allow you to see who is really there. those moments make it easy to see who people are.

i never took that lightly. they were the first people to really see me. they helped me finally see myself.

being a doula taught me that presence is a gift most people never get to know. the thing that always led to my despair was what despair makes people realize they need.

when reality asks for all of you, you realize how precious it is to have people that notice.

that know what to do when you don’t know what to ask for. people that see you in the dark and meet you there to tell you all the bigness you feel is not evidence of your inadequacy.

when children are exposed to a magnitude of life too intense for their development to walk them through and are left to make sense of those experiences alone, they are met with a rather simple divergence of unconscious paths.

a child who is held through the big things by a person with the capacity to protect them from the shock, actually has great opportunity to develop resilience that does not result in long-term dysfunction.

without these capable forces to doula a child back into safety, they internalize their pain in a way that matches what their development can produce.

a child is aware, to some extent, that they have available only the power they are grandfathered into by the true power-holders — their caregivers.

to believe the adults responsible for meeting their needs are the problem is a conclusion too lacking in the hope needed to survive ongoing chaos.

instead, they are forced to take up a far more “hopeful” conclusion — that they are the responsible party for all the bad they dream of being rescued out of. this allows them to believe they can change it.

this conclusion hands them the project they alone will attempt to manage — the fixing of whatever they internalize to be the cause of their abandonment.

to be witnessed in the bigness is, in many ways, a prophylaxis against future shame.

it is built-in validation, protective for developing a Self that doesn’t question its own reality. the mere presence of an other is enough evidence that the bigness is real, not some delusion we have invented to inspire chaos.

because of course —

what the fuck function would that serve?

why would someone invent a state of suffering, much less one that ensures starvation?

this is the fundamental root of every question i’ve had to investigate over the course of my adolescent and adult life, exhaustively.

“does this make sense with what i know to be true?”

surviving, for me, has meant learning to navigate information with efficacy. or more broadly — learning how to think.

for a species that is fundamentally wired for clarity, perceptive authority is the way home amidst environments of delusion.

what i didn’t know in those early years was that i would carry this blueprint in my nervous system, and spend nearly fifteen years walking into new rooms that would confirm both everything i’d been taught to believe about myself, and everything i felt the presence of but didn’t know how to validate.

i’ve carried a lot of grief over this thematic thievery of all that’s meant to be unalienable, this devastation of non-consensual surrender of birth rites. whatever i assumed i was entitled to, i never seemed to have. i was always an unwelcome intruder, even though i was the first to inhabit the property. the first name added to the deed.

nobody taught me how to believe myself because the people meant to teach you that were too busy running from the reality they created.

i’ve spent so much of my life trying to both transform myself into a person capable of complying with people’s unreasonable expectations, while also embodying something so antithetical to compliance — i might somehow develop a self that can survive the grief of being robbed of something so fundamental.

people were always trying to extinguish me because they didn’t want to see who they were.

the mars in me was too alive to resign to a destiny of evaporation. i always knew i’d choose resistance over compliance with my own colonization.

i went on a quest to understand, so i could fix whatever was broken in me, so i could maybe prevent more loss. but i learned that nothing was actually ever wrong with me. not fundamentally. not in my wiring, or my presence or disposition, or the expression of my heart.

if nobody tells us it’s not our fault, we plead guilty to the judge of our self-concept.

i had to figure out how to understand what was happening, to grasp the why, in order to be brought back to the truth of my perception’s credibility. and while i carry with me a profound sadness for all the little mes that wholeheartedly believed the cruelty so pervasive in our journey was our own fault — now we get to bask in the abundance that comes to those who help what is lost be returned.

that incredibly depressing attempt to fix myself in response to everything that ever went wrong, it turns out — in an increasingly floundering, tragedy-ridden world — actually ended up being the initiation to a fate that i felt from the very beginning of my life.

when we commit to our own self-sovereignty, when we do it scared, when we go back to meet the Selves left behind, we actually discover an existence that is so much more full and awe-inducing. we get to heal little us and see how that changes everything else.

as long as you can know that your reality can be transformed, that something different can exist, you can survive. you can give yourself the opportunity to take back all that was taken from you before you knew what to protect, and then you get to thrive.

i will never know a life — or a self, a body — that wasn’t first steeped in excruciating lack and loss, but honoring the severity i felt, excavating all that tormented me, no matter how much i was villainized for doing so, brought me into a world of possibility i never realized was there. now i know with certainty how much more we can have.

now — i am rich.

in a world where the most basic truth has become hazy, the antidote is an investment in understanding what’s actually happening beneath whatever noise is keeping us distracted and disillusioned.

there is no more dangerous invasion of the human brain than a lack of clarity + an orientation towards compliance. we can have so much more than whatever compromised version of our dreams we’ve been approved for. we just have to decide we deserve to. ♡