I didn’t find this work.
I was born into it.
And then I had to lose the ground beneath me to finally make it my own.
My mother was a Feldenkrais practitioner, aromatherapist, and channel.
My father was a truck driver, Vietnam veteran, and practitioner of Tai Chi and Qi Gong. He carried an extraordinary sensitivity to the world around him.
They questioned what went into our bodies.
They understood the natural world as medicine.
They taught me, long before I had language for it, that life was larger and stranger than what could be seen.
I didn't discover holistic living.
I grew up inside it.
But for years, I gathered that knowing in pieces.
Training after training.
Framework after framework.
What I had not yet done was make it fully mine.
My mother called me at 3am.
I heard it in her voice before I understood what was happening.
Seven days later, my father was gone too.
I was an only child, standing in the house where I had grown up, suddenly alone in a way I had never known.
My whole life, I had moved through the world with my parents at my back.
Somewhere beneath everything I knew, I believed that as long as they were alive, I was safe.
The ground did not hold.
I had already known loss — through stillbirth, through the deaths of friends and mentors, through sitting beside my daughter as she lost her childhood best friend.
I had language for grief.
I had tools.
I had spent years learning how to hold space for others moving through it.
Grief didn't care.
It asked something different of me.
Not to understand it.
To enter it.
So I began working with what was there.
One thing at a time. As consciously as I was able.
I followed what kept opening.
Sometimes that meant writing.
Sometimes it meant making art.
Sometimes I entered the Akashic Records or worked with Human Design. Sometimes I needed Yoga Nidra and rest. Sometimes ritual. Sometimes movement. Sometimes I simply needed to sit inside the question long enough for something I couldn't yet name to take form.
Each doorway gave me another language.
Eventually, those languages began speaking to one another.
And something that was no longer a collection of practices began to emerge.
It became my work.
I'm not teaching from the other side of a completed journey.
I'm living a human life.
I have three children, a marriage, a changing body, a house full of animals, bills, unfinished tasks, and a family that is still healing.
I forget things.
I get overwhelmed.
I do not always sleep well.
I nap.
I have no interest in pretending to be a finished product.
I am a woman who decided, in the middle of the unravelling rather than after it, to stay curious, keep expressing, and live as consciously as I could.
That decision built everything you see here.
Somewhere in all of that, I stopped trying to find a title that could contain every different thing I do.
Writer. Artist. Teacher. Facilitator. Storyteller. Seeker.
None of them were wrong.
None of them held the whole thing.
What I finally understood was that the medium was never the through-line.
Transformation was.
I receive what is difficult to name, give it language and form, and make it available to others.
Sometimes that form is a story.
Sometimes it is art.
Sometimes a meditation, a practice, a conversation, a workshop, a live experience, or something that doesn't have a name yet.
I call that Transformational Story Art.
And I call myself a Transformational Story Artist.
I hold a BA in Transformative Learning and Integral Studies from California Institute of Integral Studies and an MA in Expressive Arts Therapy — Intermodal — from Lesley University.
Additional training and study includes:
Musical Theatre
Holistic Health Counseling
EFT and TFT
Meditation and Yoga Nidra
Soul Art
The Akashic Records
Soul Shamanism
Human Design
The training gave me language.
Life made me use it.
What I bring into the room with you is not the list.
It is what happened between the trainings.
In grief.
In motherhood.
In stillbirth.
In the 3am phone call.
In the moments when nothing I had learned could make the experience disappear.
I lived my way through it as consciously as I could.
And I kept expressing it.
I built what I needed and could not find.
I needed a place where grief could be held mythically.
A world large enough to contain loss, joy, memory, desire, childhood, ancestry, creativity, identity, and possibility.
The Midnight Carnival became that world.
Written in thirty days at the end of 2025, it grew from years of grief, art, spiritual inquiry, memory, and the decision to let my own expression become part of the way I healed.
The book left me with a question.
Now that you remember — how will you show up?
The Remembering grew from that question.
A living community and body of work where insight is not the endpoint.
Where we practise, create, question, witness, experiment, and return.
Again and again.
This is a living body of work.
It will keep becoming.
I built this for the woman who is tired of always being the one who holds space.
For the woman moving through grief who senses that loss has opened an unexpected door.
For the woman who feels the ache of a life not yet fully inhabited.
For the woman who does not need another person telling her who to become.
She needs room to hear herself.
I don't create because I believe I have the answers to your life.
I create because story, art, imagination, practice, and community can open places in us that explanation alone cannot reach.
My work is an invitation to encounter yourself there.
To listen.
To question.
To create.
To remember.
To inhabit more of your own life.
And if something in what I make recognises something in you —
come in.
There is room for all of you.
You don’t have to arrive finished.
You only have to arrive.