My awakening didn’t arrive in a flash of lightning.
It was slow. Gentle at times. Brutal at others.
For years, I lived in fear’s shadow — thinking I wasn’t enough. I longed to love and be loved… but forgot how to love myself. I believed in healing — in others healing — never once thinking I could be the one who held the medicine.
Then one day, my soul whispered: It’s time. That whisper became a wildfire.
It cracked me open. In a moment of surrender, I stopped trying to fix, force, or figure it out. I began to listen. To trust divine timing. And I learned — you can’t rush what’s sacred.
2015 shook me. It stripped me bare. It demanded I meet myself fully. Not the polished version. Not the people-pleaser. The real me — raw, intuitive, wild-hearted.
That year, I met self-love. Not the fluffy kind. The fierce, liberating kind that rebuilds you from the ashes.
And now, every creation I pour — every ritual, every flame, every vessel I shape with clay-covered hands — is infused with the truth I earned.
You see, this fire isn’t new. It’s old. When I was just a girl, I found myself at the pottery wheel in high school art class. Clay felt like magick — grounding and alive. I went on to study art after school, but life pulled me elsewhere. I needed to survive. To earn. So I stepped away. For years.
But the clay never forgot me.
Now, after decades of healing and returning to my own flame, I’ve come full circle. I’ve returned to the wheel. And this time, I create with intention — sacred vessels that hold prayers, fire, water, herbs, and soul.
My work is not a performance. It’s remembrance.
This is what I was born for. To walk beside those reclaiming their own fire. To offer magick that’s real. Messy. Sacred. Transformational.
Because when we love ourselves back to wholeness, we don’t just heal — We rise.