The short version: I almost died, and then I chose to live on purpose.
I was twenty when they found the tumor. A 13-centimeter mass on my ovary — large enough that my body had been quietly rearranging itself around it for god knows how long. Emergency surgery. The kind where they tell your family to wait, and the waiting takes longer than anyone said it would.
But here's the part that surprises people: the diagnosis felt like relief.
Not because I wanted to be sick. Because everything before it had been worse — and none of it had a name. By twenty, I had survived rape, addiction, homelessness, the death of the person closest to me. I was deeply depressed, racking up DUIs, disappearing into whatever would make the noise stop. There was no tumor to point to for any of that. No surgery to schedule. Just the slow, ugly work of being a person who hadn't yet decided whether she wanted to stay.
Cancer forced the question: Do you want to live?
And if so — what does that actually look like?
After surgery, I started over. Not in a clean, linear way — in the way that real transformation actually works, which is messy and nonlinear and full of backsliding. I studied plant medicine and herbalism. I traveled to Guatemala and Hawaii to learn from midwives. I enrolled in The Herbal Academy. I got obsessed with traditional foodways, fermentation, the kind of nourishment that doesn't come in a supplement bottle. I started paying attention to cycles — menstrual, lunar, seasonal — and noticed that every system in my body worked differently when I stopped fighting the rhythms and started following them.
I studied human psychology the way some people study religion: obsessively, across traditions, looking for the common thread. Somatic work. Parts work. Archetypal frameworks. Nervous system science. Initiatory practices from cultures that understood what modern culture has forgotten — that humans need thresholds, not just therapy. That growth requires crossing something, not just understanding it.
Along the way, I became a mother. My daughter — the Cub — was born on this land in Oregon, and her arrival reorganized everything. Not just my schedule. My understanding of what matters. What to pass on. What to protect. How to build a life that a child can actually learn from, not one where the adults are performing wellness while falling apart behind closed doors.
I've spent the last several years building in private — writing books, developing frameworks, creating oracle systems, guiding people through threshold moments one-on-one. Not because I was hiding (though sometimes I was). Because the work needed to grow roots before it could stand in public. Seventeen complete programs. Multiple manuscripts. An entire archetypal system called The Becoming. All of it created in the margins of motherhood, between feedings and garden beds and the particular kind of exhaustion that only solo parents understand.
Now the work is ready. And so am I.
These aren't abstract principles. They're the things I've tested with my own life and found to be true.
I write books that hold secret passages. I guide people through moments when everything they thought they knew stops working — through 1:1 mentorship and ongoing community. I raise my daughter with dirt under her fingernails and her own mug on the low shelf. I build at the intersection of ancient wisdom and the age of AI, because I believe the people who will thrive in what's coming are the ones who stay rooted in their bodies while the world around them accelerates.
I also help creators and entrepreneurs bring physical products and creative projects to life. If that's you, let's talk.
If you're here and something is resonating — here are the doors that are open right now.