They’ve shaped me into the woman sitting here today, wondering what she wants the next 30 years of her life to look like.

If you had asked me five years ago where I thought I’d be at 52…this wasn’t it! I was newly married, living in a different city, building an essential oils business while navigating a pandemic.

Now, in July of 2026, I’m newly divorced, moved back home to Northern Kentucky, and I find myself So. Fucking. Lonely. I thought that coming home would automatically make everything feel familiar again. Instead, I discovered something I wasn’t expecting, but I understand. Home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling.

And sometimes, when you’ve changed, you have to build that feeling all over again.

Some friendships quietly disappeared during the years I was gone. I poured myself into my marriage. Then COVID arrived and reshaped all of us in ways we’re probably still trying to understand. Before I knew it, the people who had once been part of my everyday life had become people I only occasionally think about. No one did anything wrong. Life lifed.

Loneliness has a funny way of making you believe you’re the only one experiencing it. It whispers “everyone else has their tribe. What are you even doing?!” It lies and tells you that you never mattered and that’s why your friends are gone. It also tries desperately to tell you you made the wrong decision and you were happier with your ex - even though that had become a desolate and lonely space, which is why you left.

The roller coaster I’ve been on since the divorce has been pretty intense. I moved into my new condo the day after Thanksgiving. The Christmas holiday was brutal. I spent much of the winter isolating, most days pendulating between gratitude and grief. I know I made the right decision. I love my new home and the sacred space that it offers me. I also grieved deeply for my marriage that began beautifully, but slowly became a place where I no longer felt emotionally safe.

For the last seven months, I’ve been experiencing a dark night of the soul. No one would know though. So many have commented about how strong I’ve been through all of this. While I hold space for my clients and for everyone else, I’ve been secretly waiting for someone to notice that I could use a little encouragement. For someone to say it’s ok to not be ok, and hold space for me to unravel.

Then this morning, I remembered something I tell my clients all the time - no one is coming to save you.

I sat with that sentence for a long time. At first, I didn’t feel much. Then it felt harsh. I felt defensive. Offended by my own advice. I tried to but, but, but my way out of what I was feeling. As I sat with it a little longer, allowing myself to be uncomfortable, something shifted. It stopped feeling like judgment and started feeling like freedom. It felt right. It felt necessary. It felt loving. Because if no one is coming to save me, maybe I’ve been waiting/wishing/hoping for the wrong person.

Maybe I’ve simply been waiting for me to show up.

That was that. A 30-minute inner dialogue, and allowing my body to feel what I was saying, and here we are. I have decided that I’m going on a year-long journey to becoming my own best friend.

After all, this is the advice I would give a friend or a client. It’s time to practice what I preach. I need a deep and meaningful relationship with the one person who has been with me through every single chapter of my life. Because ultimately, we are not seeking the approval of others. We simply need to approve of ourselves and love ourselves.

I’ve spent most of my life searching for healing. Seeing a therapist became familiar to me when I was just ten years old. Since then, I’ve accumulated decades of knowledge. I’ve purchased enough self-help books to stock a respectable corner of Barnes & Noble, and I’ve read and dissected enough of them to know exactly what I “should” be doing - which somehow made it even easier to avoid actually doing it (analysis paralysis, anyone?!) I’ve listened to countless podcasts. I’ve explored different faith traditions, experimented with nutrition and different diets, learned about the nervous system, the vagus nerve, studied trauma, essential oils and other plant medicine, practiced and became certified in breathwork (two different types/certifications to be exact), immersed myself in coaching, and searched for wisdom in places both conventional and unconventional.

Every book, every teacher, every conversation gave me something valuable.

But somewhere along the way, I became incredibly good at gathering information while only talking about it, and avoiding the harder work of fully living it.

Knowledge is comforting because it creates the illusion of progress.

Embodiment is different though. Embodiment asks something of you. It asks you to keep promises when no one is watching. It asks you to choose yourself on ordinary Tuesday mornings. It asks you to become the person your journal says you want to be.

I don’t need more information. I need accountability. Not from another program or certification, but from myself. It’s time for me to step up to the plate!

I’ve spent too much of my life looking outward for approval, hoping someone else would tell me I was enough, that I was doing a good job, that I was worthy of love, belonging, and success. I don’t think I’m alone in that. Most of us spend years chasing validation without realizing we’re asking other people to give us something we’ve never learned to give ourselves.

What if I became the one who approved of me?

What if I became the one who believed in me?

What if I became my own best friend?

Not because I don’t want deep friendships or a loving partnership—I absolutely do. In fact, I hope this next chapter of my life includes both. But I don’t want those relationships to complete me. I want them to complement a life I’ve already learned to love. I want to become someone who no longer asks another person to fill a space that only I was ever meant to occupy.

That’s why I’m starting this series. Not because I have everything figured out. I’m starting because I’m finally admitting I don’t.

I want to talk about real life. I want to talk about the grief that unexpectedly visits while you’re standing in the grocery store. The gratitude that arrives in the middle of an ordinary walk. The habits that stick and make life exponentially better. Also the habits you swore would become a part of your life “this time”, that fell off a week later. (Rebounding. Everyone talks about how amazing they feel doing it, and it’s fun, and blah, blah, blah. I’ll do it for one or two days and then not touch it for months.) This stuff is real life!

Over the next fifty-two weeks, I’m going to live this journey out loud. Every week I’ll write honestly about one area of my life that I’m intentionally working on. Some weeks we’ll talk about physical health. Other weeks we’ll explore emotional resilience, mindset, spirituality, nutrition, relationships, finances, courage, boundaries or whatever life happens to place in front of me.

I’ll tell you what worked. I’ll tell you what didn’t. I’ll tell you where I surprised myself, and where I completely missed the mark.

Not because I think vulnerability is trendy, but because I know honesty is healing.

And I know this year will change me…because I intend to change. I could really use a win!! The belief I’m entering into this experiment with is: to become stronger physically and emotionally, more grounded, healthier, wealthier - not just in my bank account, but in my relationships, my joy, and my capacity to love. Most importantly, to become more fully myself.

And if, by sharing this journey, it gives someone else permission to begin their own, then every uncomfortable truth I tell will have been worth it.

So if you’re craving something more real than another list of life hacks and ways to eat more protein. If you’re tired of pretending you’ve got it all together. If you’re willing to celebrate progress instead of perfection, I’d love for you to walk beside me.

I may be learning how to become my own best friend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need encouragement. If you’ve ever wondered whether simply showing up for someone matters, I can promise you it does. Knowing you’re here will make this journey feel a little less lonely.

“We’re all just walking each other home” - Rumi

In my 30s, I thought I had come into my true self. I thought I was living. I thought I had found the light.

My calendar was full. Dinner plans. Happy hours. Networking events. Weekend trips. Drinks on patios. Brunches. Birthdays. Work events. More drinks. More plans. More people.

I thought being busy meant I was squeezing every drop out of life. I thought slowing down meant wasting time. I thought if I wasn’t doing something, seeing someone, or going somewhere, I was somehow missing out.

But looking back now, I can see it so clearly.

I wasn’t running toward the light; I was simply trying to escape the dark without illuminating the places that needed to be seen. The places that needed to be heard. The places that desperately needed love. I wasn’t running toward life. I was running from myself.

An entire decade of movement, noise, and distraction all boiled down to one thing: if I slowed down, I had to be alone with myself. I was both a stranger and someone I didn’t like very much. I had spent years judging myself, rather than loving and really getting to know myself. Slowing down also meant the possibility of having to feel something, which I didn’t know how to do.

So I did what many of us do – I numbed.

I used every legal substance I could get my hands on. Food. Alcohol. Sex. Surface-level friendships. I drank myself into a stupor most weekends with ‘friends’. I went home many Saturday nights with strange men. All out of fear of being alone. And although I was, in fact, spending time with other people, not one of them truly saw me. I craved deeper connection – the kind where you feel seen, heard and felt. The kind where you don’t have to perform or prove or entertain. The kind where you can finally let out the long exhale you’ve been holding.

But it took me a very long time to understand something that now feels so painfully obvious: you cannot deeply connect with others, when you’ve never deeply connected with yourself.

I know. So cliché. You have to love yourself first, right? I used to roll my eyes at that one. But now, I get it.

How can someone know YOU, if you don’t know YOU?

Just before I turned 40, I finally waved the white flag. I was exhausted. I had been performing, chasing, running, numbing, traveling – pretending I felt everything so fully, while secretly feeling almost nothing at all.

So, I went hard on healing in my 40s. I read self-help books like my life depended on it - because honestly, it felt like it did. The Body Keeps the Score. The Biology of Belief. You Are the Happiness You Seek. The Alchemist. Loving What Is. The Four Agreements. The Power of Now. The Untethered Soul. Mirror Work. The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery – just to name a few. Or ten.

I did all the things. EFT. NLP. Yoga. Meditation. Prayer. Podcasts. Essential oils. I went hard on religion for a while, searching for answers outside of myself. I learned about the nervous system, the vagus nerve, trauma, regulation. I gathered tools like they were puzzle pieces. And every one of these things gave me something beautiful, but I was still standing outside the door, looking into a dark house, wanting desperately to find shelter inside.

And then in 2022, I finally found the key to the lock. I found breathwork. The breath unlocked the door to my body. For the first time in four decades, I was able to get out of my psyche and into my soma (the Greek word for “body”). I felt an immediate shift. Not because I thought my way there. Not because I analyzed my way there (So. Many. Books). Not because I journaled my way there.

Because I felt my way there.

The lights came on. I could suddenly see all the places that needed tending. The versions of myself I had abandoned. The layers of protection (weight) I had put on to keep myself hidden. The armor I wore to avoid being wounded again. The performances and entertainment I provided to be liked. They weren’t the real me. They were survival strategies.

With each breath, without having to think about it, I began releasing those coping mechanisms. I began to breathe with more ease, no longer breathing only in my chest, which is an adaptation from being in fight or flight most of my life. The breath led me to my inner child. Little Heather was the one who most needed healing. I reparented myself. I became calmer. The internal roommate got quietter. I was more present. I started getting to know the real me…and I liked her! I started practicing self-care. I developed amazing boundaries around the people who felt unsafe.

In 2024, I became a Certified Somatic Breathwork Practitioner. I knew that I needed to show people this way of healing. I wanted to hand people the key to the lock. I have now led hundreds of people through breathwork, and I can say this with certainty:

The breath is the way to come home to yourself.

The breath has this incredible way of bypassing the noise of the mind and dropping you into the body. The body keeps the score. And it also holds the map back home.

Your body remembers the tears you swallowed because someone told you to stop crying. It remembers the words you never said. The anger you pushed down. The heartbreak you pretended didn’t hurt. The fear you learned to hide. The times you abandoned yourself to keep someone else comfortable.

When you use the breath to dive below the surface and into the body, it’s like someone finally turns the lights on in a house you’ve been living in your entire life, without even knowing it. Suddenly you realize there are entire rooms you’ve never walked into. Rooms you’ve kept locked. Rooms you’ve avoided. Rooms filled with grief, anger, joy, creativity, shame, guilt, desire, despair, softness, sadness, peace, and love.

Some rooms are dusty and untouched. Many are messy. Some are filled with boxes you’ve spent years shoving into corners, hoping you wouldn’t have to look at them again. And then there are rooms that stop you in your tracks. Wait, this has been here all along? It’s beautiful. It has a view I never knew existed.

As you slowly walk through the house, you begin to understand why certain doors were shut. The parts of you that were criticized, hurt, ignored, abused, abandoned, rejected, not welcomed. You locked them away as protection. You convinced yourself that if you shoved it all into another room and closed the door, you’d be okay.

Then breathwork comes along with a gentle knock and hands you a key. And you hear a whisper “it’s safe to go inside now”.

You start opening doors and finding old photographs, old memories, old pieces of yourself, and suddenly things begin making sense. You remember. And you become your greatest teacher.

This is why I react this way. This is why I keep choosing emotionally unavailable people. This is why I overwork. This is why I need everyone’s approval. This is why I keep repeating the same damn patterns.

And then something even more beautiful happens. When you walk into those rooms you’ve been avoiding, your nervous system begins to relax. It’s been waiting for you to walk in and clean out the cobwebs. To clear out the armor that is heavy and no longer needed. Because of this new sense of safety, new neural pathways begin to form. Capacity grows. Emotional intelligence comes online. And you begin finding rooms you never even knew existed.

You crack open a door and find joy. You look in a forgotten corner and can see your intuition, quietly sitting there. You walk down into the basement and hear your voice again. You climb into the attic and, buried beneath all the boxes and old stories, you discover your purpose. It’s smiling ear to ear. It’s so happy to see you. It’s been waiting a long time for you.

It’s wild how full circle this visual is for me. Breathwork was the tool that unlocked the doors, allowing me to explore, which led me to find my purpose – and my purpose is breathwork.

I had spent years collecting puzzle pieces through books, therapy, healing modalities, relationships, prayer, and self-discovery. Every one of them mattered. Each one gave me something beautiful. But there was still a piece missing. Then breathwork entered my life, and suddenly I was handed the key – the missing puzzle piece. And when it slid into place, everything lit up.

Doors around me began opening. Hallways appeared. New pathways emerged. I found treasures I never even knew existed. My purpose revealed itself.

You don’t leave breathwork becoming someone new. You leave remembering who you’ve been the whole time. Who you were always meant to be.

You are not broken. There is nothing to fix. There is only more of you to find.

You come home to the you before the noise, the trauma, the pain, the heartbreak, the loss. Before the world told you who to be. Before survival took over. Before you learned to shrink, perform, prove, protect, please, or disconnect.

You’re still in there. You’ve always been in there – waiting.

And then I show up. Your Hippie Aunt. The one who, through lived experience and doing the work, finally found her own way home.

And now I hold the flashlight for you.

I’m still in awe that I get to do this for a living. I hold space for people as they walk through the house within themselves and begin opening doors they forgot existed. Through breathwork and coaching, I help people reconnect to the wisdom of their body, and gain agency over their lives again - or for the very first time.

I witness it happen, over and over:

The key slides into the lock.

The lights come on.

The doors begin opening.

You find the truth and release the lies.

You remember who you are.

You reclaim your voice.

You step into your power.

You come home to yourself.

One breath at a time.

I lost my mother when she was still alive.

That sentence doesn’t make sense until you’ve lived it. There are losses that happen all at once, and then there are losses that happen slowly - over years, decades - in small daily paper cuts that no one quite knows how to name.

I was 18 years old when my mom had an aneurysm rupture in her brain. Eighteen is such a tender age to lose your mother. My mom didn’t die on June 15, 1993. She lived, but not as I knew her. She was in a coma for six days. When she came out, we discovered she had brain damage, including short-term memory loss, as well as paralysis on the entire right side of her body. It was somehow even more confusing that she didn’t die. She lived another 29 years this way. She was still here. Still breathing. Still physically present. But the woman who I needed to teach me about the world, just as I was entering adulthood, was suddenly altered forever. Life split cleanly into before and after, both hers and mine.

It created a kind of grief that felt impossible to explain. How do you mourn someone who is still alive? How do you accept a new normal when your heart is still bargaining for the old one? I was young, wildly dysregulated, and carrying a grief too big for my body. I didn’t have the language for nervous system overwhelm then. I only knew that I felt untethered. Angry. Heartbroken. Hyper-independent. Lost.

I’ve spent years trying to outrun the ache of losing my mom as I knew her. But thankfully, somewhere in that running, I have found makeshift mothers to take care of me. Women I never met, but who helped raise me. Since it is Mother’s Day, let me introduce you to them.

Sarah McLachlan. Sarah held me so softly and tenderly with Fumbling Towards Ecstasy. That album was released just months after my mom’s brain bleed, in October 1993. So many deep cuts on that album, namely Elsewhere, Good Enough, and the title track. The song ‘Fumbling Towards Ecstasy’ is about surrender. It’s about moving toward love, passion, and aliveness despite fear. Not doing it perfectly. Fucking up a lot. Fumbling your way toward love and embracing the mess along the way.

Surfacing came out just months before my first big break-up in 1997. I turned to Sarah daily after my first love ended our engagement. Sarah was a soft place to land. She walked alongside me in that grief. She witnessed me through the song ‘Witness’. ‘Full of Grace’ gave me strength when I was being pulled down by the undertow. I had someone to sit with in my sorrow. Someone who understood it to the depths that I did, which at the age of 23, none of my friends really did. She taught me tenderness. She made melancholy beautiful. She taught me there was dignity in feeling deeply.

And wouldn’t you know it, sweet Sarah released ‘Better Broken’ on September 19, 2025, just two weeks after I told my husband I wanted a divorce. I still remember where I was when I saw the announcement of this new album. I started laughing. Once again, Sarah came to my rescue, swooped me right up into her arms, and brought me solace with her songs.

Then there is Alanis Morissette. Even though Sarah was my first maternal influence, Alanis is the one who taught me how to be a woman. Jagged Little Pill arrived like a sacred text when I was on the precipice of turning 21. It was released in June 1995, and just a month later, I took my first big road trip with two of my best girlfriends, Kerry and Jill, to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The summer of 1995 will forever be etched into my soul. I was standing at the edge of girlhood and womanhood, still heavily mourning my mother’s brain bleed, but desperate to feel alive again. And man, did that CD do just that. Literally, EVERY SINGLE SONG on that album gave me life, and is deeply engrained in my DNA, to this day. It was like an initiation for me. Alanis gave me language and understanding around anger, sexuality, shame, freedom, boundaries, healing, womanhood. We must’ve listened to that CD at least twenty times, all the way through, on that trip to Myrtle Beach. I’ve listened to it at least a thousand more in the last 30 years.

Alanis continued to mother me through the strained relationship with my mom (and dad), as well as more heartbreak, with Supposed Infatuation Junkie, Under Rug Swept, and So-Called Chaos. She taught me that women can be messy and magical at the same time with ‘Everything’, that forgiveness is powerful with ‘This Grudge’, and she gave me freedom in truth with ‘Precious Illusions’. These albums met me in a different season than Jagged Little Pill. A little older, slightly wiser, asking deeper questions about identity. Alanis never just made music - she handed me permission slips.

Enter Elizabeth Gilbert. I went to a women’s conference in 2006, where she was speaking. She had just released Eat, Pray, Love and I walked out of the conference with a signed copy of the book. I was so fired up by her story that I opened the book and started reading it in the car, finishing a couple of chapters before I headed home. The book arrived like an anthem for reinvention. I was 32, feeling lonely and lost. Still single, not wanting to have kids, but yearning for love while swimming in a sea of dysregulation. She showed me what it looked like to choose yourself, be curious, and that it was ok to do things differently. She gave me language for desire that wasn’t selfish, but sacred. She taught me that women are allowed to outgrow lives that no longer fit, and that we can break out of the societal mold of being married with 2.5 kids. I started coming alive, traveling more, and living more freely.

Lastly, Cheryl Strayed showed up to mother me just before I turned 38 years old. Her book Wild found me in the summer of 2012. I was still single, still trying to find my footing, and quickly approaching the big milestone of 40. Cheryl gave me the proof I needed that devastation could lead somewhere beautiful. She explained, so beautifully, that sometimes finding yourself doesn’t look graceful – it looks like falling apart, making the wrong choices, fucking things up badly, grieving deeply, and still choosing to keep walking forward.

For the first time, I understood - the heartbreak leads to the becoming.

I remember feeling so deeply hopeful for the first time in my adult life. Her honesty about loss, being motherless, self-destruction, and rebuilding made me feel less ashamed of my own unraveling and unknowing. She gave me permission to believe that healing isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about being honest…with everyone you meet, and above all, with yourself. I remember having a visceral reaction to her vulnerability and authenticity. There is a profound quote in Wild that brings tears to my eyes every time I read it, repeat it, and share it (yes, I’m typing this through wet eyes as we speak) –

“What if I forgave myself? I thought. What if I forgave myself even though I’d done something I shouldn’t have? What if I was a liar and a cheat and there was no excuse for what I’d done other than because it was what I wanted and needed to do? What if I was sorry, but if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t do anything differently than I had done? What if I’d actually wanted to fuck every one of those men? What if heroin taught me something? What if yes was the right answer instead of no? What if what made me do all those things everyone thought I shouldn’t have done was what also had gotten me here? What if I was never redeemed? What if I already was?”

What. If. I. Already. Was?

On my 42nd birthday, I drove across the Bridge of the Gods, crossing the Columbia River from Washington into Oregon - the very bridge where Cheryl Strayed ended her Wild journey on the Pacific Crest Trail almost exactly nineteen years earlier. She had hiked 1,100 miles from early June to mid-September of 1995. The distance it took for her to find herself, forgive herself, and come home to who she already was.

Redemption isn’t something we have to wait for from others. We must give it to ourselves. And I finally have.

These four women - through sonic tapestry, ink and art - mothered parts of me I didn’t know how to care for, and that my own mother didn’t have the capacity to. They held mirrors where I needed reflection. They shone light on the parts that seemed too dark to face. They held my hand when life was scary. They helped me survive the messiness of having a mother and missing her at the same time.

My mom passed in October of 2022. By then, I was well prepared, due to the years of searching for the answers and finding it in the music and memoirs of some absolute badass women. They held safe space for the sacred work of my becoming. They taught me how to forgive, to love, and to lose. Grief made room for grace, and 29 years of healing happened in that hospice room.

I’ll never understand why I’ve had to walk through so much grief and loss, but I have deep gratitude for the resources I was given along the way. My own healing path now allows me to hold deeply supportive space for others. I’ve heard from many of my clients and family members that I have mothered many, and that I embody wisdom, guidance, love and nurturing - all the qualities of a good mom. In a sense, I’m simply paying forward what Sarah, Alanis, Elizabeth and Cheryl gave me: proof that sometimes motherhood arrives not through blood, but through the women who help you remember who you are.

When I moved into my condo last Thanksgiving weekend, I immediately noticed a large red Buddha statue sitting in the landscaping across the street. I instantly fell in love with it and remember saying to myself “those neighbors are my people.” A couple of weeks later, I met the female neighbor…and sonofabitch if it wasn’t a former co-worker I had worked with at a law firm over a decade ago. It really is a teeny tiny world! I knew the neighbors were ‘my people’.

At that same moment, I found out they were moving. After nearly 20 years in this condo, there was a family circumstance that arose and they needed more space. They moved out the first of the year, and much to my surprise, red Buddha remained in the landscaping. I texted Lisa and said “I noticed you left your Buddha. Was that intentional?!” She responded back, stating that they left Buddha “for the new gal, to bring her good vibes at her new place.”

I remember exactly what I felt in that moment - a mix of admiration and jealousy. I admired that they were leaving the iconic red Buddha for ‘the new gal’, but deep down, I WANTED THAT BUDDHA. I had thought about asking for it, more than once, but decided not to. It just didn’t feel right. It felt selfish. Lisa intended it for the new owner. At least I still get to see it.

A few weeks later, he was gone. I soon noticed he was moved to the side of the building. He was out of my direct line of sight, but I’d still catch glimpses of him on my walks. Then, construction started. Weeks of different contractors in and out. Clearly, the new owner was renovating before moving in.

About a week or so ago, a regular vehicle began parking in the driveway. It would seem they finally moved in. Suddenly, Buddha was back up front. He was on the opposite side of the driveway, different part of the landscaping, but still in my direct view. I was happy.

And then this morning happened.

Garbage day is Monday, and they pick-up first thing in the morning. I’m an early riser, but I always take my trash out on Sunday night. Always. Last night was no different. I arrived home around 6PM, took the trash and recycling bins to the curb, and pulled in my garage. When I made dinner, I realized the bag in the kitchen was full, but I was tired from running around all day, and figured – if I wake up early enough, I’ll take it out. If not, no biggie.

I woke up about 5AM this morning, remembered the trash, and walked it out at about 5:30AM. Remember, I never take the trash out in the morning. I always do it Sunday night.

And then I saw him…

Across the street, now sitting on the sidewalk next to the trash bin with a piece of paper taped to the front.

I walked over.

“Rumpke – Please if you can take this statue. Thanks”

For a brief second, I was devastated. The thought ran through my head “I don’t even want to meet this new neighbor if they are throwing Buddha away. THEY ARE NOT MY PEOPLE!” But that quickly flipped.

Oh my God…this is for me.

It felt so clear. So exact. So obvious. Like the timing had been orchestrated down to the minute. Had I taken my trash out the night before, I would have missed it completely. Had I gone out even 15 minutes later, it may have been gone.

Instead, there I was. Standing in the exact right place, at the exact right time.

That note may as well have said “Heather – here you go. I know you’ve been wanting this. It’s yours now. I love you!”

I scooped him up so fast and was pleasantly surprised he was lighter than I assumed, weighing about 25 pounds. I put him in my arms like a baby and carried him home. I was cracking up laughing the entire time. Did this really just happen? What are the odds? No one will believe this. I almost don’t believe it. But here we are. And here he is, on my patio. In his new home, exactly where he belongs.

As I stared at him, I almost started crying. This wasn’t just an object that I wanted. This was a reminder. A quiet confirmation.

Of course, I could have bought one. I looked online a few months ago. Did I find some comparable ones? Yes. Were they pricey as hell? Also yes. I never did a see a red one though, and now I understand why.

This wasn’t something I was meant to go out and buy. It was something I was meant to receive. If I had purchased one, it would’ve been me chasing it. Forcing it. But instead, I released the grip. Granted, mostly because I didn’t want to spend hundreds of dollars on a statue. I still wanted a Buddha of my own, but I softened around the desire and the push to get one. And that’s how this little manifestation thing works. You must trust, and give up control. You can’t micromanage the “how”. The Universe handles that part. Your role is to notice the nudges, stay open to miracles, and remain aligned.

And then the ‘winks’ will come. Not always in the way you expect. Not always on your timeline (rarely on your timeline). But often in ways that are far more precise than anything you could have planned. I’m still learning this. I still have moments where doubt creeps in. Where fear gets loud. Where I try to take control again.

And then I uncharacteristically take out the trash at 5:30AM and have Buddha staring at me from across the street, begging for me to finally take him home.

The universe is always listening. Always organizing. Always responding.

Maybe the things meant for us aren’t something we go out and get. Maybe they’re just waiting for the moment we’re ready to receive them.

A few days after the divorce hearing, my friends arranged a cord cutting ceremony for me. There were a few tears, lots of laughter, a near-incident with fire, and most importantly, chocolate cake!!  It was a day of releasing. On the anniversary, what I chose to do, finally felt like closure. The official closing of the book on my marriage.

I started the morning in a state of mourning. The day felt somber. I knew the pilgrimage I was about to take would be heavy. I made myself a cup of ceremonial cacao, a heart-opening plant medicine, and headed out the door. I put my hair up, rolled the windows down, opened the sunroof, and let the warm late April air move through me. I chose my playlist labeled ‘Integration’ and hit shuffle. “These Are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs was the first song that played, and I immediately started crying. These are days you'll remember. Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this. And as you feel it, you'll know it's true, that you are blessed and lucky. It's true, that you, are touched by something that will grow in you.

I popped the address in my GPS for Heritage Acres Memorial Sanctuary. Twenty-one miles. Let’s do this.

The drive there held its own significance. I lived with my cousin and his wife for ten weeks during my separation. I didn’t want to rush into any decisions about where I would live or what would come next. They graciously opened their home to me, which is very close to Heritage Acres. Those sixty-nine days, though, were incredibly difficult. She struggles with alcohol abuse, borderline personality disorder, and narcissistic behavior. Navigating all of that, while uncoupling a seven and a half year relationship, was quite hellish. As I drove down Route 52 toward the Sanctuary, I could feel my body tensing up, my gut uneasy. There was a layer of PTSD showing up, simply being on the road that led to their home. I took long and slow breaths, leaned into the music, and consciously offered gratitude for that time and the lessons it gave me. There was a lot of healing happening just in the drive, before I even arrived at my destination for the healing I set out to do.

The reason I chose Heritage Acres was twofold. They are a green burial cemetery. Green burial is the most natural way of returning our bodies to the earth. No barriers (casket), no interruption (embalming), just a quiet return. Any living thing that dies eventually decomposes and becomes compost. Compost is regeneration. It is, in a way, a form of reincarnation, the transformation of something that once was into something that can give life again. That felt like the most honest way to hold what was moving through me. I went there to honor the death of my marriage and return it to nature, to be composted into something beautiful. 

Then there is the more ethereal reason I chose Heritage Acres. They have a wind phone. This is a phone connected to nothing but a tree. Wind phones began in Japan when Itaru Sasaki, while grieving the loss of his cousin, placed a phone in his garden so he could speak to him. After the 2011 tsunami, when grief was everywhere, he opened that phone to the community. It resonated deeply. There are now hundreds of wind phones around the world (www.mywindphone.com) and there happens to be one thirty minutes from my home, at Heritage Acres.

When I arrived, I felt the waves of emotion already starting. I reminded myself to be fully present for this experience. I checked the map at the front of the property and located the wind phone. I was the only car in visitor parking. The property was beautiful, still and quiet. Peaceful in a way that felt extremely sacred. I took my time walking toward the trail that housed the phone, which was about three-quarters of a mile away. I passed the gentle mounds in the fields where people are buried, and personally, found it so much more peaceful than a traditional cemetery. I located the Paw Paw Trail and began walking on it, eventually seeing a small wooden sign stating ‘wind phone’, pointing down a short path.

There it was. A black phone with an old-school cord, housed in a wooden box, attached to a tree. I approached and sat on the wooden bench beside it. The tears came immediately. There were so many unspoken words. So many emotions waiting to be expressed. When I was ready, I picked up the receiver and dialed his number: 937-304-88XX.

I started the conversation with, “I’m sorry,” and then I let it all come out. “I’m so sorry that we couldn’t make it work. I’m sorry for any pain I caused by leaving. I’m so sad that we didn’t grow togreather.” That was our word. Greg and Heather together, blended into what I thought was our future. I found myself forgiving him for quitting therapy after three visits and refusing to go back. I talked through tears for several minutes. I ended the call with “I love you. But I love me more”.

I hung up the receiver and felt the need to make another call. I dialed 859-371-7293 - the phone number of my adolescence. I was calling my mom, who passed in October 2022. I spoke with her the way I often do these days, openly and honestly. Our relationship feels different now that she’s on the other side. It’s deeper and more honest. As I sat there in the woods, I asked her to send me a cardinal. I waited. Nothing came. I kept talking, letting the conversation unfold naturally. Tears, laughter, presence. When I felt complete, I hung up. 

I made one last call. I dialed the phone number of my childhood home: 606-384-3030. It’s funny how easy it was to remember a number that last belonged to me 40 years ago. This call was to my dad, who passed in January 2009. That conversation felt more distant. The connection felt like a long-distance call with a bit of static. I mostly sat in silence, but I was able to express a few feelings that needed to move.

When I hung up the receiver for the final time, I sat quietly for a few minutes. Something had shifted. I felt lighter. I felt complete in that moment. I had done what I came here to do. I alchemized much of the grief I arrived with, that I have been carrying for the last few years since the inevitable ending of my marriage began to show itself. The grief was given a place to go. I put it into words and let it travel on the wind. I gave the emotions space to breathe, which created space within. Space for this new life I’m creating. I have agency over my life. I have choice. And I choose me.

As I made my way back to my car, enjoying the sunny walk, I noticed a Little Free Library I hadn’t seen on the way in. I stopped to check out the books, and there it was - a cardinal, painted on the side of the book nook. “Thanks, mom!”