And if faith is the muscle? Then doubt and distraction are the belly fat. That shit will fight for its life to stick around before it’s finally forced away.

And I guess that’s the one perk of having a family where everyone hates you and no mama to call when you need her. The gym’s never crowded. Turns out there’s more time for “self-development” when the people who developed you think you didn’t develop correctly.

People think this is sad, but it’s not. It means you get to do your own thing. It means you can really “lock in” and live life on your own terms. You can form relationships with new people who you actually want influencing your children — like my Earth angel across the street.

To be completely blunt, I’m glad I’m not putting my kids around the exact same people who fucked me up as a child — because society tells me I’m a terrible person if I don’t — while I lie to myself and say, “Yeah, I know. But they won’t act that way toward them.”

Knowing what I know now, I think the worst thing we can do is encourage a new mother to settle for the same people who hurt them. Sorry, but that’s how I feel. I think it’s the worst advice ever.

Does life feel terribly unpredictable and scary doing it this way? Half of the time, yes. But that other 50%? We are GOLDENNNNNN, baby.

We love having more time for our own thoughts and worries — not just the thoughts and worries of others who won’t take care of themselves. We love the extra time for coffee dates with our higher self. We love knowing that every single choice we make is a reflection of who we really are and what we really want — not the path someone else tried to pave for us.

The biggest perk of all, though, is permission. Permission to go all in with complete trust and faith in that undeniable force — the invisible thread that connects us all — the mysterious force that makes life worth living. Because if you don’t? Well, ya just might drive yourself off a bridge.

And when you’re a mama to three little ones who need you — despite all your flaws —that’s not really an option. Leaning into the power of faith and trust is always the better choice.

And don’t worry. This isn’t the part where I come out and say, “Yep. I’m a psychic now. If you pay my rent this month, I can channel your great uncle Dave and get him to tell me he’s proud of you.”

And no, that wasn’t a jab at intuitives or “psychics” either. Just like them, I am all aboard the crazy “woo woo” angel train.

I’m just here to share my story and how I used my faith in angels to pull myself out of the deepest grief of my life — in hopes that you, if you haven’t already, find yours. Angels, that is. Not grief.

And it doesn’t start and end with the story of 722.
Believe me when I say, I can’t wait to tell you about the herons.

But before I can tell you about that, I have to tell you about this.
It’s the story of one of my angel numbers — 722.

And hey, you can think what you want about angel numbers. You can dismiss them as delusional woo if you want to — doesn’t offend me one bit. I’m just asking that you hear me out. Because you see, I’m actually a pretty reasonable person. I don’t jump to conclusions quickly or start believing in numbers on the microwave just because some influencer with a tarot tattoo told me to.

I know who I am, what I think, and why I think it. I’m also smart enough to know that who I am, what I think, and why I think it might change.

Evidence. Faith. Research. Nudges. Discernment. Signs.
It’s all a balance. And not to toot my own horn, I think I’m pretty good at it.

So when 722 started catching my eye all the time, to the point where I was creeped out, I assumed it was a sign. When I’d see the number 722, I’d think to myself, “I dunno what the heck you’re trying to say to me, universe. But I’m listening.”

And for context, here’s a fun little fact about me. Like many girls with a messy past, I have a dead ex-boyfriend. And yes, just like the stereotype, he died from a drug overdose. And yup, just like the stereotype, our relationship consisted of two wounded little ducklings doing anything to numb ourselves in the midst of hurting each other. The months spent with him were some of the worst of my life, and I've had some pretty rough ones. In the short time we were together, teenage me decided to down an entire bottle of pills just to escape it. Because when your nervous system is that dysregulated, you don’t really give a care if you live or die. You just know you want out of the present.

So needless to say, this was not the guy I wanted joining my cutesy little “team of light.” I had this feeling he had been trying to come through recently, but I always dismissed it. At the time, I assumed it was merely a fragment of my imagination. Why would he, of all people, be wanting to come through to me? But then I realized. Angels don’t hold grudges, resentment, hate, or despair. They hold hope and light and miracles and connection and faith. Their only job is to spread healing and love.

And despite being the last person I wanted rooting for me from the other side, I had a feeling that, despite how painful it was, our souls connected in this material realm for a reason. It was clear that we were both in a lot of pain. Now that he was crossed over, maybe he was here to help me heal mine.

Who knows. 🪽

All I know is this. One day, while I was hyperventilating and crying in the car — as triggered girlies coping with their inner chaos tend to do — I kept seeing the number 7:22. First, it was a text that came in, right at that hour. Then it was a sign along the road. Then it was the number of likes I saw on a post while doomscrolling. The specifics aren’t important, but the number is. 722. 722. 722. 722.

The message forming around these “coincidences” was clear.
”Hang in there. You’re going to be okay. This suffering has a purpose.”

Then came the nudge.
“Google your ex’s name. Find his obituary.”
So I did.

I can’t believe I had forgotten. The correlation was super wild.
Born on July 22. Died on July 27.
Born on July 22.
Born on 7/22.
7/22.

722 😮

It made sense now. Maybe he was part of my team of light — whether I expected it or not. Or who knows — maybe he wasn’t. All I knew was that I felt like 722 mattered. And I was going to keep paying attention.

I could honestly say without flinching that walking away from my old life was one of the best things I had ever done. I was going to therapy. I was doing Muay Thai multiple times a week. The release of decades of cooped-up cortisol had me shockingly fifty pounds lighter — a way hotter, healthier version of my former self. My son was now attending one of the best public school districts in the country, and my daughter was attending the Reggio-Emilia nature school of my dreams. We were impressively staying afloat on one income despite living in one of the most expensive suburbs in the state. And my marriage? Somehow, despite all the extra stressors, we were thriving. I had finally found the invisible string leading back to my full, authentic self.

And those little nudges from the universe — like the urge to make zucchini muffins — kept reinforcing that for me.

But here’s the hard part. Yes, I could fix my environment. But I couldn’t fix what I just went through — and what I went through fucking sucked. I had just experienced insane levels of manipulation, reckless denial, and psychological fuckery — all from the very people you’re supposed to turn to in times of manipulation, reckless denial, and psychological fuckery.

No wonder my new boat had so many more holes. I won’t go into detail about how I think those holes really got there, but I will say this.

1 in 4 girls are sexually abused before their 18th birthday. For boys, it’s 1 in 20, although many sources report 1 in 6. Out of all sexual abuse reported to law enforcement, 14% involve a child under the age of 6. 49% of those involve a family member. 73% who disclosed such abuse reported negative reactions to their disclosures — including being dismissed, not believed, or experiencing threats or retaliation.

But this story isn’t about trauma.
That’s what therapy is for.

This story is about angels.
And how they ease the stress and fear of a brand new start.

And when you’re extremely vulnerable, without a family, and protecting your nervous system for dear life, a little gesture like the angelic synchronicity of zucchini muffins can be life-changing. Because no matter what, even despite the undeniable improvements in my life, I was desperate for validation. Desperate for someone, something, anyone, anything, to reinforce what my intuition was telling me was true — that I wasn’t crazy. That I’m not alone in this suffering. That I’m lovable and worthy. That I won’t always be perceived how my family sees me — “a spoiled rotten, poor, pathetic, little piece of shit.”

Here’s what comes up if you google the word family:

“A family is a group of people connected by blood, legal ties like marriage or adoption, or deep emotional love. It acts as a basic social unit that provides care, support, and a sense of safety.”

No, the innocent little girl still inside me didn’t have a family.
I lost that when my grandmother, the woman who really raised me, died 10 years ago.

But that’s okay, because I had angels.
And they were going to help me cultivate something even better.
And pass that down to my children instead of all this mess.
I was finding myself a real family — with the help of my team of light.

Those zucchini muffins were just the first step in finding it.

Sources

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2024). About Child Sexual Abuse. [1]

Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention. (n.d.). Child victims of sexual assault by relationship and offender age. [1]

National Sexual Assault Online Hotline Archival Study. (2022). Findings from the National Sexual Assault Online Hotline. Child Abuse & Neglect, 131. [1]

But one morning, I woke up with “the nudge.”

I don’t know how to explain it, but whenever I experience “the nudge”, it’s almost like one part of me wakes up in the physical world while the other part of me flirts and plays footsies with a realm beyond my own understanding.

These nudges are swift and unpredictable, but palpable and potent.
You can try to ignore them, but I’ve learned that it’s always a huge mistake.

I was making breakfast — what I thought would be eggs and oats, but something in me told me, like all nudges do, to stop everything I was doing and LISTEN. An important message was trying to come through.

“You need to make something for the lady across the street. Do it today or tomorrow.”

Nothing about this felt that remarkable at first.
This was the culture of community, and I was finally in it.
I wanted to do my part.

In the short time since we moved in, we’ve been showered with all kinds of gifts —cookies, fresh garden vegetables, fruit baskets, and brownies. One lady even came by with a neighborhood map with the names of everyone’s kids and dogs.

But deep down, I knew this wasn’t me just trying to fit in.
This was “the nudge”, and I wasn’t about to turn my back on my angels after they’d already helped me so much.

“Landen, start grating that zucchini. We’re gunna make some muffins this morning and drop them off across the street on your way to school.”

A few hours later, I received a text message that really rocked my world.

“Ashley, thank you so much for our breakfast muffins. I am so grateful, Ashley. It is 12 years tomorrow since I lost my youngest son to brain cancer. This gesture just warms a chill in my heart.”

………… Ummm, what?!
“Well, that’s an incredibly strange coincidence”, I thought.

But let’s be real.

This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a result of listening to “the nudge.”
And I was shook. No wonder this woman had such ethereal energy swirling and twirling around her. Things were starting to make sense. But the synchronicities? Those were only just beginning.

Stay tuned 😇

By “yachts”, I meant shiny people.
The people who can go to Pilates class at 9 am on a Tuesday because their history of good choices, not just privilege, allotted them the opportunity.

We’re talking about people who really have a grip on their own lives.

That’s what I was craving when I bought the random, rundown farmhouse in the suburbs. Somehow, I knew our little garden-hose spa was step one toward the ascension to a much better life. I had nothing but this fact on my mind.

“Behavioral studies on group influence consistently show that we adopt the financial habits, productivity levels, and lifestyle choices of the people within our environment.”

And I could feel that, swiftly, from the moment we moved in.
Unlike the environment I left, people weren’t victims of their circumstances here.

And sure, we stood out like a sore thumb in this new world.
But we had something very special that yacht people gravitate toward like flies on shit — grit and ambition.

Plus, we weren’t concerned with appearances. Not one bit.
And yacht people find that endearing. Because to them, it feels really radical.

Or, in this case, reminds them of their very own days, out there on the water, trudging along in their little pontoon. Because most yacht folk owned a pontoon boat once.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t judge me the day she stumbled upon all the holes inside my boat. The ones I was desperately trying to fill before she could notice.

Because angels don’t judge — they hold space.

At this point in my humble spiritual awakening, I already had proof of angels.
Everyone focuses on the dead ones — some call them ghosts or spirit guides.

But nobody talks about the ones that are living. I call them Earth angels.

And the funny thing about Earth angels? Just like ghosts, they can be swarming all around you, all the time, and you might not even notice. It’s a gift you have to tap into. And you can’t do it without God — or whatever you call that divine, undeniable presence.

If you think my old potato cellar basement shower was bad?
You should’ve seen the place before my Earth angels touched it.
If it weren’t for my belief in angels, and my angels’ belief in me —
I’d be bathing my young children in a bucket on dirt floors.

Earth angels are really skilled in sniffing out a crisis.
Just like the dead ones, they’re not afraid of a little fire.
They’ve walked through hell before, and they’ll gladly do it again to pull someone else out.

Fortunately for me, I had two angels from my old life already aboard the boat.
But God knew this was a Titanic vs. the iceberg situation.

He was sending in another troop — the Earth angel across the street.

Both leave holes inside of you.
And if you don’t fill those holes with something — anything?
Expect to sink and hit rock bottom.

And it won’t happen all at once.
It’ll trickle, drip — seep in.
One second, you think it’s manageable.
You tell yourself — “Oh, a little water’s fine. Not enough to hurt anything.”
Then before you know it?

You’re in over your head and can barely breathe.

And that’s what my life felt like.

I had abandoned the pontoon boat and had finally ascended the yacht.

Except the yacht had holes and water was coming in — fast.
Plus, what on Earth was I doing on a yacht?
Nothing about this felt safe or familiar.

But I definitely wasn’t going back to the pontoon at this point.
That life looked like a strange, podunk, dysfunctional hell.

But if I was going to live this life?
I better meet some people who have actually been on a yacht before.
Even better if they know how to drive one.

Which is actually scarier than it sounds.
Remember Miley’s song, “Party in the USA?” That was me.

I was a pontoon girl who just purposefully plopped herself in the land of yachts.

And like most girls born and raised in pontoon world, I had to unlearn the lie that all “yacht people” have it easy. It’s total bullshit. At least most of the time, anyway.

Truth is, not all yachts are pretentious, floating mansions. A lot of them are quite practical, functional vessels — simply suited for longer distances and bigger dreams. Maybe their huge and sturdy motors aren’t just impressively designed for aesthetics; they’re equipped for crossing massive, deep, dark oceans — self-reliance over luxury.

And one was coming right this way.

I’d better hurry — quick.

Better get my shit together before they see.

I don’t want her to catch me trying to fix all these fucking holes.
WHY ARE THERE SO MANY HOLES?

Meanwhile, the closer I get to cultivating my own healthy version of “family”, the closer I get to realizing that it is society’s most stunning, heartwarmingly wholesome facade. Social media makes it worse. The cute matching outfits. The adorable poses and fancy balloon arches. The impressive sorcery of well-funded photographers turning years of bottled-up, unresolved trauma into whimsically curated little squares. It’s all just too beautiful and f*cking phony to bear.

So that’s exactly what I mean when I say I knew as soon as I got that text.

The words on the screen said, “How could you do this to your brother?”

But what the text really said?

How dare you acknowledge the parasitic, generationally contagious emotional disease that’s been causing dangerous behavior and wreaking havoc on this family for decades?

It was so obvious now. What’s the point of family if you can’t tell the truth in it?

Yes, family can be great. I certainly hope my children will grow up thinking ours is great. I work hard to make it so. My biggest fear is them one day looking me in the face and saying, “See you never, Mom. Thanks for teaching me what not to do.”

I’ve been around the block enough to know that the definition of “motherhood” and “family” is entirely subjective. In my working life, I’ve met mothers who work three jobs to shield their kids from the food stamps stigma. I’ve also worked with mothers who send their young daughters to be raped by drug dealers for a stamp bag of heroin. Both women are mothers, are they not?

From my own perspective, there has been true magic in the transformation of the “hot mess” maiden with a wounded past into the mother. For me, the privilege of nurturing young souls came with a new profound understanding.

The most harmful thing we can do to another human being is smear our own unresolved wounding or denial onto someone else’s very real lived experience.

And that’s the day I knew I’d never again deny mine. Or my children’s. Ever again.

Because, for me, that’s what it means to be a mother.
That’s what it means to have a family.

So on that day, when I got that text, and that perspective for me shifted?
So did everything else around me. And I was finally okay with that.

If this was my village? I was burning it down.
And where there’s fire, there’s usually hell.

And where’s there’s hell? There are, surprisingly, angels. And they love putting fires out.

* Who do you think my first angel will be? Find out tomorrow 🧚🏼

"How could you do this to your brother?”

And that’s when I knew. It was over.

Everything I knew, in that small moment, became painfully, horribly, traumatically clear. Before that day, I had always felt like something was a little bit “fucked up” about me. But I was never sure what. I discussed it heavily with my psychologist. Somehow, in therapy, is when I felt the most sane. Somehow, in therapy, is when I realized that I wasn’t even insane at all.

I was actually a very sane young woman, concerned about things any competent, caring, rational adult should care about, as well. And don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t a blame game — I had my fair share of demons, too. Before that day, I did all sorts of things with my demons. We got high together. Drank until we were throwing up. Had escapades that would make even the wildest woman blush.

I was that girl. You know the one. She’s sixteen with an older, deadbeat boyfriend because she thinks she’s “mature.” She’s pretty and has a lot of potential, but smokes too many Marlboro Reds. The one you might fall in love with but can’t date because you never know what strange shit she’ll pull next. Loves weed because it helps her dissociate from mommy and daddy issues she doesn’t even know she has.

So you see, deep down, I always knew I was a little bit — “fucked up.”
But when you stop being a kid, and start being a woman?
You start to see things through a wiser, more compassionate lens.
And then you get help from professionals instead of the people who raised you.

And boy, that can get you in trouble.

Anyone who’s dealt with “mandated reporting” knows what I mean. Healing. Accountability. Truth. It is both devastating and liberating. But mostly devastating at first. And for me? The truth cost me everything.

“How could you do this to your brother?”

Those words were the death of my life as I knew it.
But that’s not what this story is about.
No more rendezvous with my demons. It was time to rock them to sleep.

This story is about angels.
And how I used them to build my life, at 30 years old, from the ground up.

But right now, I must make breakfast for my babies.
Come back for part two in the morning 💛

Not to virtue signal or confuse. Not to complicate or rob them of their innocent, ignorant bliss. But to do my number one job as their mom — prepare them for the real world. I tell my kids almost daily, “The more you learn about someone or something, the more you have to accept that you really don’t have one f*cking clue.” I make it age-appropriate, of course — maybe without the cussing — but with the same amount of inflection.

So here’s where this parenting story begins. My husband and three children in a remote fishing village on Costa Rica’s southern Pacific coast. A little stressed, but not stranded, thanks to a little boy with a soda pop bottle full of two gallons of gasoline. Because that’s what you have to rely on when your wife, the only person who knows any Spanish, is inside the Airbnb hurling her way into oblivion.

Here’s how the day before that went down:

After many hours of travel and a flight delay the night before, we woke up in a hotel in San Jose and were eager to get to our real destination — an isolated little beach town called Playa Zancudo. Our five-hour drive took eight hours, because that’s what happens when you exit the rush hour culture of the United States and enter the land of “pura vida, slow traffic, don’t rush”. You sit back and relax — whether you want to or not.

And don’t get me wrong, I love me some slow living — but an eight hour drive can be hell when your family’s summer playlist is the sound of you throwing up. If I had a dime for every time I said “I’m so proud of you, kids” mid barf, I’d be dripping in cash.

My husband desperately wanted to get us to our temporary home; so desperate that we didn’t get gas in San Jose, not realizing how truly “out there” this village was until it was already too late. Yes, we finally arrived — but the closest gas station was an hour and a half away, and our tank was on empty. My family desperately needed a good meal, and there were no soda shops (local Costa Rican restaurants) for many, many miles.

I tried being a trooper and riding back with them into the nearest town, but I didn’t make it more than a mile before Alan said, “Honey. You’re literally dying. I’m driving you back. I’ll just get the kids’ food since you’re too sick to eat. Get rest and don’t worry — we’ll manage.”

It’s a hilariously bad situation I wouldn’t want my family to have to relive again, but as always, I am so darn grateful for it. Where one person may have seen a pointless, pathetic mishap and vacation gone wrong, I saw my children learning how to adapt, grow, and evolve.

When they returned three hours later, I could almost feel the internal dialogue going through Landen’s head. “Holy crap. My parents can really adapt and get through difficult things together. My dad shows up when mom can’t. My mom is super cool for knowing Spanish. My dad is super cool for getting us home and figuring it out.”

Lennon, my fiery middle child, was humbled and grounded by the experience. At one point, she said, “Mommy, I’m so glad you’re okay. But hanging out with Dad was super fun.” Because we all worked together to stay calm, she had zero clue that she was even supposed to be stressed. And if you know my spicy little girl, you know how cool that is. God love her. She might’ve been sick of hearing her mother gag, but she was safe. And that’s all that mattered.

Sure, nearly running out of gas in a foreign country with a seemingly dying mom is not ideal. But honestly… nothing teaches the lesson of drinking enough water like watching your mom in a foreign country get so pathetically and desperately dehydrated, she may need a hospital visit.

And here’s the super big takeaway from it all. Was it really a bad thing that my children got to feel like the foreigners? To show up in a new world they know nothing about — in need of help — with only hand gestures and good vibes to get them through? Some say yes. I say no. Here’s to raising good humans.

And ahh, that sounds so lovely on an Instagram post or highlight reel. It sounds so psychic and matriarchal, doesn’t it?

But no. Not even close.

For lonely intuitives, we’re talking about years of shrinking, denying, and doubting yourself. Decades of habitual numbing. Formative years being told you’re the problem so often, we say, “Fuck it — might as well make it true.”

By this time, you’re in your 30s, with kids, and so darn good at dissociating, you don’t even know who you are anymore. You never did. Because you were never given the safety to.

So no… being the lonely intuitive isn’t just ayahuasca in the rainforest, going to church when it’s not trendy, or blissfully backpacking your way to a spiritual awakening.

Sometimes it’s vomiting your brains out the window of an airport shuttle car on your way to Costa Rica with your 2, 5, and 9-year-old watching.

Because I don’t know much, but I do know this — divine wisdom rarely shows up when things are all rainbows and butterflies. Divine wisdom is not here to coddle, fix, or repair. Quite the opposite.

Divine wisdom has one job and one job only — to unleash the magical chaos hiding within your unmet potential.

Divine wisdom pushes you out of the nest, throws your ass into the deep end, and leaves you in the ring with bloodied knuckles and swollen eyes.

On this particular day though, I was spared from these tribulations. God gave me vomit and diarrhea instead. And for that, I am so grateful. Let me explain.

To begin, after thirty four years of surviving in this body, I can confidently say two things about my soul’s purpose.
1. I am undoubtedly meant to be a mother — a true cycle breaker.
2. I am meant to live an unconventional, nonconforming lifestyle outside of my home country, the United States.

My soul knew I was a traveller the first time I escaped my tiny, rural farm in the middle of nowhere to get on a plane at 18 years old. As for motherhood? That shift came unexpectedly and catapulted me into a whole new universe of spirituality and understanding 9 years ago. * Stay tuned for another Substack on that whole story.

Society is very skilled at convincing women that the heart of a free spirited traveler and a present, loving mother cannot coexist. Motherhood? Too boring. Too monotonous. Too predictable for a traveller like you.

And travel? Too reckless, too expensive, too unstable for women who are responsible moms.

However, deep down? I always knew this was total bullshit.
Divine wisdom always knew.
God certainly knew.

And so this is where the story begins.

A mother in Costa Rica with her three young children — vomiting her brains out on the side of a shuttle car while the universe laughs. I’m telling you, I could here the great Lord saying it.

“You’re not imagining this, sweetie. Yes, you’re happier sick and unmedicated here in this Costa Rican shuttle car than you are on a sunny day in the United States with the help of 150 mg Welbutrin.”

Before I even had the language for what I was intuitively downloading, I started laughing along with the universe too. Because like always, divine wisdom saw the truth before I did. And once you see what divine wisdom sees, it’s a done deal. There is no turning back.

I was sicker than sick, but with each sip of Pepto and electrolytes, I could feel the comforting touch of a force much bigger than me softly whispering, “Everything is going to be okay. Hang in there. I’m right here with you. Welcome home.”

It was our third time visiting Costa Rica. I already knew I loved it. It’s easy to love a private beach with scarlet macaws flaunting their gorgeous colors all day above your head. But it took that moment in the shuttle car to show me that no, this wasn’t just some cutesy, whimsical dreaming — I preferred to suffer there too.

And sometimes… in order to know if something is for you, truly for YOU — it takes a sprinkle of divine wisdom mixed with a little bit of suffering.

And so begins the official journey of a mother of three figuring out how to become an expat. It’d mean the world if you’d follow along.