The Remembering

You all like tea, right?

Good — because I have tea, truth, trauma, and triumph.

And if you’re here, you’re nosey enough to want all of it.

Story by story.

Wound by wound.

Alchemy by alchemy.

I’m not here to whisper or water it down.

I am the voice of the ones who swallowed their screams.

The ones who held secrets like burning coal just to survive.

The ones who stayed quiet out of fear, shame, or loyalty —until silence became its own kind of death.

They stayed quiet.

I don’t.

I speak because they couldn’t.

I speak because ignoring the shadow never saved a soul —but naming it freed mine.

The magic never left — it was waiting.

We aren’t here to gossip.

We’re here to witness.

To see ourselves in the cracks and in the flame.

To recognize the familiar ache in each other's bones —and meet the magic pulsing under the wound.

If you want to learn magic the way I did —not in books or rituals or pretty polished practices —

but the way it rises from bone memory and instinct…

If you’re curious how gifts form through real life —not theory, but survival, remembering, and return —

This is where it begins.

Through story.

Each memory is a key.

Each scar holds a spell.

Each chapter reveals the natural sequence of my unfolding —

how I didn’t just survive,

I transmuted,

remembered,

and became.

I didn’t “find my magic.

”I returned to it.

And as we go,

you’ll remember pieces of yourself, too.

Now —let’s begin.

---

Chapter One -

The Day Innocence Cracked

This series is for her.

I remember the day like it was yesterday.

We went to the park — sunshine, sandwiches, and the kind of childhood happiness that feels like forever.

My father was Air Force.

Always gone.

Always in the sky.

But today? Today he was coming home.

We were going to meet him.

I ran into his arms like the world held only two souls — me and him.

He picked me up, spun me, and time froze.

I was a daddy’s girl through and through.

His arms felt like home.

And then… everything shifted.

While my parents talked, I played — unaware that the ground beneath my life was cracking.

When it was time to go, the air felt wrong.

Heavy. Sharp.

Like the sun dimmed without warning.

We sat in the car for what felt like hours while they talked inside again.

When my mother returned, she wasn’t the same.

Her face held grief… and denial.

Something had broken.

My father wanted a divorce.

He was leaving — for another woman.

And with that choice, my world split.

My version of the divine masculine shattered —and so did the feminine.

Home inside my parents was no longer safe.

The two people who were supposed to be the world’s first sanctuary

became the first fracture.

Safety and stability vanished in the same breath.

There was nowhere soft to land.

No one to run toward.

Just a child holding the weight of two broken worlds at once.

My mother’s pain didn’t stay with the man who caused it —

it turned toward me.

“He didn’t want kids.”

“You look just like him.”

“Seeing you hurts.”

And worst of all?

I loved him too loudly.

Too fiercely.

Too innocently.

A child believing love stayed.

She couldn’t hold that —so I became the wound she didn’t know how to carry.

In one moment I learned:

Love is conditional.

Being myself is dangerous.

Pain is loyal when people are not.

And so I learned to survive by shrinking,

by sensing,

by holding grief that didn’t belong to me.

This was the day little-me stopped believing the world was safe

and started believing I was the problem.

This was the burn...

---

I didn’t know what abandonment was,

or how it would shape me.

I only knew the air changed that day —and I had to learn to feel it.

Sensing energy became my lifeline.

Not magic yet — survival.

A way to stay safe in a world that suddenly wasn’t.

It was the first thread of what would one day become wholeness.

But back then, it was just how I learned to breathe.

I learned to read the room before I learned to read or write.

My first language wasn’t words — it was energy.

---

There was no comfort in walls anymore.

Inside felt sharp.

Too quiet in some places, too loud in others.

A house full of adults who were breaking —and no room for a child who still needed softness.

My mother stayed —but the version of her who could hold me was gone.

My father disappeared —his absence hanging louder than the silence he left behind.

So I went outside.

Not because I understood what was happening,

but because my body knew where the air still moved.

Where I didn’t have to carry anyone’s pain.

Out there, nothing demanded I disappear.

I didn’t have to tip-toe around emotion

or read the weather of adults in the room.

Outside, I didn’t have to shrink or censor myself.

I could breathe. I could exist.

Nature didn’t ask me to be less.

The trees didn’t look away when I hurt.

The wind didn’t punish me for loving loudly.

The earth didn’t silence my heart.

Out there, I was safe.

I could wander, notice every small miracle,

and feel beauty instead of fear.

I could just be a child —curious, wild, whole.

The land held me when people couldn’t.

The world outside didn’t break;

it held, it listened, it healed.

Out there, I felt seen.

I felt peace.

I felt like myself.

When home stopped feeling like home,

nature became mine.

---

Chapter Two -

When the Rain Found Me

Outside became my breathing space.

A world where I didn’t have to earn safety — I could simply exist in it.

I remember the first time the rain felt like it wasn’t just falling —

it was arriving.

In California, you can feel a storm before you see it.

The air shifts.

The world holds its breath.

Silence stretches — not empty, but full.

Something in me stretched with it.

The sky darkened, but I didn’t run inside.

Clouds gathered like witnesses,

and the wind brushed my skin like it knew me.

Then — that first drop.

Cool.

Clean.

Absolute.

Not punishment.

Not chaos.

Release...

I felt it in my bones — the pressure breaking,

the world exhaling,

and suddenly the inside of me could exhale too.

I didn’t have a word for grief.

I didn’t have a word for abandonment.

I didn’t have a word for safety, or loss, or longing.

But I had rain.

It hit my skin and the ache loosened.

It washed the tightness out of my chest.

It spoke in sensation before I ever knew language:

You are not alone.

You are seen and felt by us.

You are of us.

We cry the same as you.

The rain didn’t tell me to be strong —it showed me how to soften,

how to let go without breaking.

Nature taught me release and purification —that letting things fall

is how things grow again.

I remember watching the storm roll in across the sky —not scary, but sacred.

Other kids might hide inside during weather like that.

I went toward it.

I stood still enough to hear the quiet before the thunder,

felt the wind shift like a promise,

breathed in the scent only rain carries —earth waking up, air opening, something being cleansed.

Nature cried with me.

The sky released what the house wouldn’t let me speak.

And in that water falling from the heavens,

I felt peace.

I felt seen.

I felt whole enough to keep going.

I didn’t know it yet,

but I was learning a language that would shape my life:

The atmosphere speaks.

Energy moves before words.

And storms are not endings — they are beginnings.

Back then, I wasn’t calling in weather.

I wasn’t directing energy.

I wasn’t reading storms like scripture or companion.

I was just a little girl

who found refuge in the rain

because humans didn’t know how to hold her.

But the sky did.

I didn’t know it then,

but trauma had opened my senses —and nature became the one who taught me how to use them.

Trauma made me aware of energy.

Nature showed me what energy was.

My first real lesson wasn’t in books or words —it was in the way the air shifts before rain,

the way the world exhales after a storm,

the way belonging lives in wind and water and earth

long before it lives in people.

I learned we are not separate from energy —we are shaped by it,

held by it,

and reflected through it —in nature and in each other.

And in all of this, there was a lesson:

The lesson of this story is energy.

We are born able to feel it.

Some of us have it torn open by trauma.

Some meet it gently in nature.

But the ability lives in all of us.

My sensitivity didn’t make me weak —it made me aware.

Trauma opened the door,

but nature is who taught me how to walk through it.

If you want to learn to feel energy —to read a room, a person, or even the weather like I did —to sense truth the way storms speak before they arrive —

members, head to your page

and explore the first practices I used to expand this gift

in a natural, intuitive, soul-aligned way.

And if your journey ends here for now,

I hope this gave you something true to sit with,

something to feel into,

something to remember about yourself.

If this isn’t your cup of tea

and you still made it this far — thank you.

Know that I’ll still be sharing the random spells,

crafts, musings, and everyday magic that show up along the way.

There are many doors into this world.

Take the one that feels right for you.

You are always welcome to return when the next story calls you.

We have many more layers to peel back,

many more breaths to take,

many more pieces to reclaim.

I was only five here —and we have a long way to go.

Stay with me if you feel the pull.

We’re just getting started.