I discovered that it is possible to viscerally feel love toward her, even after years of disdain and dissonance. What’s more, that love has made room for new ways of being that disapproval never could.

A poem capturing my journey into deeper vulnerability, without erasing myself, for the sake of love.

I lived in a town called Penrith at the bottom of the mountains, named Blue because the dense population of eucalyptus trees gives off that hue from a distance. I always welcomed that drive.

Putting yourself out there, only to be left questioning your abilities and feeling like a failure is an experience I know well, but one I no longer want to participate in.

The thing is, I’m a human first. And it seems that when I stop to notice and peer outside the lens of my conditioning, two things are almost always true...

A childlike conversation with the stars about trust and the dark.

I sat back one day and was shocked at how I’d managed to write myself out of everything I had been working on. Where was I?

Poetry for the soul searching for herself, in all the noise of how to be. Maybe you can pull up a chair, read these words, and just stay for a while, here, in the invitation to just be.

So, as you might imagine, my efforts to create certainty became a coping method. It was one of the ways my nervous system learned to create safety.

The mirror that my son was holding up to me was unbearable at times. I wanted to smash it, run away from it, avoid it at all costs.

There are moments, big and small, in my life that have me smiling, feeling encouraged by a sense of healing, greater capacity and depth…

So I started gathering pieces of other people as reference points. The way they lived, their resolve, their creativity…

It is a kind of oxymoron, a weird, squiggly journey, to start with such an adverse concept of self, only to find that love and wholeheartedness are about coming home to your own body, thoughts, emotions, and process… to own your story.

I recognized this voice. It belongs to the part of me that seeks control in order to avoid something. As I stayed with her, I sensed what was behind the bracing. A wounded part that is so very afraid.

For months I’ve been holding myself in this tension, between empathy and the fear of failing them. And then one morning, wisdom whispered something beautiful.

The part of me that feels anxious… she’s allowed to be here. When I feel critical, she’s allowed to be here. When I feel scared, she’s allowed to be here.

An ode to my beautiful niece, Evie Grace, whose passing on this day in December 2017 first unearthed my journey with grief.

After a lifetime of hyper-vigilance, it feels almost strange to notice that my default is slowly, gently shifting toward rest, joy, and peace. This journey began the moment…