October 2025

“The Guest House Dance” was written after an ecstatic dance gathering with over thirty women — a night where movement became medicine and every emotion was invited to take form. Inspired by Rumi’s timeless poem “The Guest House,” this piece reimagines his invitation to welcome all that arrives — joy, sorrow, anger, and grief — not just in the mind, but through the living, breathing body.

During this dance, I experienced a powerful release: rage and grief rising together as sacred teachers. Rage for my own assault and for the countless women whose stories echo mine. Rage for a culture that normalizes violation and silences truth. Grief for the years I mistook endurance for strength. Yet within that storm, something holy emerged — a voice steady and unbroken, reclaiming what had been lost.

This poem honors that alchemy — the way movement transforms pain into prayer, and how the collective power of women gathered in truth can tremble the walls of what we’ve been taught to fear. It is a love letter to sisterhood, to the body as temple, and to the ancient remembering that healing is not quiet work — it is a dance.

October 2025

I wrote Coming Home after a deep meditation where I invited all the parts of myself to surface—the light and the shadow, the tender and the wild. So often we try to escape our pain or silence the voices we don’t understand within us. But this time, I sat still and let them speak. I met my “monsters” with curiosity instead of fear.

What emerged was this poem—a reflection on what it truly means to belong to oneself. It’s about learning that freedom isn’t found in running away from what feels broken, but in turning toward every part of who we are and saying, you belong here too.

This is the journey of coming home: not to a place, but to the wholeness that’s been waiting inside us all along.

October 2025

The Language of Presence emerged after a meditation in which I stopped trying to “get somewhere” and simply allowed myself to arrive. It came in the quiet after striving — when I finally let myself feel everything: the restlessness, the stillness, the longing, and the peace that waits beneath it all.

This piece is a reflection of what I continue to learn through Yoga Nidra and my daily practice — that presence is not the absence of chaos but the willingness to meet life exactly as it is. These words came as a reminder that I don’t have to chase calm or perfection; I only have to relax into being fully here.

September 2025

Life has a way of breaking us open in unexpected ways. Some days bring clarity, others bring ache. I’m learning that both are part of the journey.

When I feel raw or tender, writing becomes my way of staying present with what is. This poem came through as a reminder that healing isn’t about bypassing the hard parts—it’s about allowing them.

September 2025

For much of my life, I didn’t understand the wisdom my hips were carrying. As a teenager, they felt like a burden—drawing attention I wasn’t ready for, making me self-conscious of their size and shape. Later, they became a portal of both joy and devastation: widening to bring life into the world with the birth of my son, then breaking my heart wide open with the stillbirth of my daughter, Kara.

Over the years, my hips became a storage space for everything I wasn’t ready to process—trauma, loss, and grief tucked away like boxes in an attic. I didn’t yet have the tools to sit with those emotions, so my body held them for me.

It wasn’t until I found yoga, mindfulness, and trauma-informed practice that I began to understand this. Slowly, I’ve learned to descend back into my body, to listen to the stories stored in my hips, and to honor the way they protected me until I was ready to face what was inside.

This poem was born out of that realization. It is an ode to my hips—not just for what they endured, but for the space they created, the power they hold, and the creative energy that flows when I move with them. Writing it became a way of honoring the journey of release, reclamation, and reverence.

July 2025

This poem is a compassionate declaration of self-acceptance and integration. It speaks to the courageous act of making space for all the parts of oneself—those still healing, those afraid, those wise, and those still learning. Through the metaphor of gathering at an inner table, it invites readers into a gentle practice of honoring complexity without judgment. “I Make Space” is both a personal affirmation and a universal reminder: we don’t have to be perfect to be whole—we just have to be present.

July 2025

There was a time when I believed resilience came from pushing through.
But I’ve learned that real strength lives in something far quieter:
the inhale that reminds me I’m alive,
and the exhale that teaches me to let go.

This poem was born from years of deep listening—
to my own body, my trauma, my healing, and the breath that carried me through it all.

When everything else felt uncertain,
my breath remained—a compass, a prayer, a place to land.

"The Rise and Fall of Breath" is an offering to anyone learning to come home to themselves
one conscious breath at a time.

May these words invite you back to your center,
to the sacred rhythm that has never left you.

May 2025

After two marriages, two divorces, raising three children (two now grown and flown), and letting go of the house where so much of my old story lived... I recently moved into a new home.

But more than a change of address, this move marked a return — to myself.

For years, I was surviving. Achieving. Holding it all together. Healing. Shedding.
And now, for the first time in my life, I feel at home — not just in my space, but in my body, my breath, and my becoming.

This poem is my way of honoring that sacred shift.
It’s a love letter to the journey, the letting go, and the joyful unknown that waits when we choose simplicity, truth, and trust.

I hope these words meet you wherever you are on your own path — and remind you that you, too, can be your own home.

May 2025

The words came to me quietly at first: I am held.
They whispered themselves into my body throughout the day—subtle, steady reminders.
And then, suddenly, in one fierce, undeniable moment, the truth landed fully in my chest:
“I am fucking held.”

In that instant, I knew I had to honor it.

This poem was born from that sacred knowing—of realizing I am supported by something greater than myself. Not because everything is perfect or easy, but because even in the unraveling, I am not alone. I am held by the earth, by grace, by breath, by the unseen forces that gently carry us when we forget how to carry ourselves.

May these words be a soft landing place for anyone who needs to remember:
You, too, are held.

May 2025

I wrote this piece after my first real interaction with the land surrounding my brand-new home. It was just me, a pair of gardening gloves quickly cast aside, and a patch of overgrown earth waiting to be seen. I hadn't expected such emotion to rise as I pulled weeds and uncovered forgotten life beneath the surface. But something sacred stirred that evening—a quiet remembering, a sense of being welcomed not just to a house, but to a living, breathing relationship with the land itself.

This poem is my love letter to that first conversation with the earth. A moment of grounding, of noticing, of beginning again.

March 2024

"Life’s Canvas Awaits" is a narrative poem that traces the coming-of-age journey of a woman who grows through shadows, loss, love, betrayal, and rebirth. Written as I was leaving the corporate world, the poem reflects both my personal story and a universal passage of reclaiming authenticity. From the weight of responsibility in childhood to the heartbreak of toxic relationships, from grief and self-doubt to the courage of new beginnings, each stanza paints a chapter of resilience. Ultimately, it is a testament to the power of self-creation — a reminder that no matter how many times life unravels, the canvas remains open for colors untold and a story yet to be written.