Home Is a Frequency
The rented carriage house in Putney, Vermont, sits at the end of a long dirt drive, tucked into the woods so still the silence catches my racing thoughts mid-flight and holds them. I booked it the week before, scrolling Airbnb before dawn, following that pull low in my gut. The universe doesn’t separate herself from my body anymore, her voice is my body. Heat swirls through my chakras swift and deliberate, lighting up my chest like a flare. For years I drowned this signal with logic and fear. Now, when she shows up with fire, I move. The equinox has drawn me in for as long as I can remember,…
Living in the Liminal: A sojourn of shedding, shifting, and surrender
I’d been living in a New York minute for 21 years, chasing subways, promotions, late-night parties and some invisible finish line that never arrived. I was depleted, and the usual levers I pulled to power through weren’t working anymore. I thought a week alone in a cozy yurt, wrapped in the northern New England woods with nothing to do beyond keeping the fire blazing, might be the reset I needed. The yurt felt indulgent in the simplest ways. Its circular shape was cocooning yet spacious with a wood stove and sitting nook, a fully stocked kitchen and a queen sized bed stacked high with brightly colored blankets and overstuffed pillows.…
The Ground Beneath Me: A story of soil, sisterhood, and the home I found on a Turkish mountainside
There are moments when my intuition hits with a calm, full-body yes, like a certainty that lights up my chest pouring warmth into my gut, bringing a vision in my head with sharp focus. I felt it in a café in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, scrolling through volunteer listings after months of drifting through Ecuador, Mexico and now Bolivia, my days ruled by spontaneity and chance. The novelty was fading. I was craving structure, joining a team with shared purpose and dreamed of working with my hands and learning new skills. When I saw the listing for a mother-daughter-run organic homestead in Selçuk, Turkey, I knew instantly, that was where I…
I Have Boundaries, Dammit! How a Misspelled Tattoo Became the Symbol of My Return to Self
“I know what I’ll do today, I’ll get a tattoo!” I thought, watching the sunrise from my floor-to-ceiling window in a luxurious $22-a-night Airbnb in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Sprawled across a king-sized bed, I soaked in the comforts of my surroundings, worlds away from the mosquito-netted jungle hut where I’d just spent ten days deep in the Amazon on my first Ayahuasca retreat. Ten days of fasting from salt, sugar, and distractions. Ten days of facing myself. Through four ceremonies, laboring through excruciating physical pain, the walls I’d built to outrun my own feelings finally started to crack, making space to face the parts of myself I’d been too busy,…
