The Return

Why do some people heal—and others don’t?

That question has followed me my entire life.

Healing isn’t just about getting better. Real healing rearranges your gravity. It pulls you out of relationships, identities, and family systems that can’t survive your clarity. If you stay committed, you don’t just lose symptoms—you lose entire versions of yourself. And once that happens, there’s no going back to who you were.

For reasons I didn’t understand as a child, I was born into that pull. Intense emotion. Crushed self-esteem. A nervous system that felt everything. That sensitivity pushed me first into therapy, then into psychic exploration, shamanic healing, and eventually into encounters with non-human intelligence. Not because I was searching for magic—but because I was trying to understand what was actually happening.

Science is beginning to catch up to what mystics, shamans, and intuitives have always known: we are more than our bodies. Humans are not sealed units. We are communicative beings, embedded in a larger field of consciousness. Telepathy is not a fantasy—it’s a capacity. Some are born closer to it. Others cultivate it. And if it can be cultivated, it’s not special. It’s human.

But here’s the part no one sells honestly:

Healing is not easy. Awakening is not glamorous. You end up outside the story—but you can’t fully re-enter it either. Functioning in the “real world” starts to feel dishonest, performative, hollow. The invisible world—the intuitive, symbolic, non-local layer of reality—becomes more real than consensus reality ever was.

That’s where the Disclosure movement is actually heading.

Not little green men.

Not spaceships.

Not saviors from a universe “out there”.

Disclosure is the recognition that we are hybrids—biological beings interfacing with a non-local field of intelligence. That communication across time and space is normal. That non-human intelligence doesn’t live out there—it exists in the same field consciousness we access through intuition.

Awakening, then, isn’t about adding something new.

It’s about letting go and crawling out from under the intense narrative that keeps us capture in a reality that only works for a select few.

Every definition you inherited about who you are must be questioned—even the ones you love. Especially the ones you love. Most identities are not chosen; they’re absorbed. Family roles. Cultural scripts. Spiritual labels. Trauma costumes. And because they come from an inverted system, they are often corrupt at the root.

The process is simple, but not gentle:

First, you let go completely.

Then—only then—you choose what to carry forward.

Intentionally.

Consciously.

On your own terms.

This site is here to help you step out of someone else’s story of reality—and decide, for the first time, what actually belongs to you.

You don’t have to agree with everything here.

But if something in you recognizes this terrain,

you’re already closer than you think.

The Return

A story of rebirth.

The holidays don’t just bring up memories. They bring up unfinished stories—the ones we never had time, safety, or language to finish.

I haven’t been well since Washington. Really, I haven’t been well since the desert four years ago. But this past summer made it undeniable. Packing boxes, dragging one foot, my legs failing—I knew my back was fucked up, and I pushed through anyway. We had bought the condo. There was no pause button.

After the move, after the fixes, after pretending I was fine, I couldn’t walk. Three months in bed. Not recovery. Not rest. Just confinement. And for someone as active as I am, that kind of captivity breaks something open.

It felt like exile all over again. From myself. From momentum. From the life I thought I was returning to. Every day I could do a little less. Muscle failure. My dog walks got shorter and shorter. One day I walked down to the harbor—one block from home—and couldn’t get back. My husband had to come get me because my legs just… quit. That scared me more than I let on.

And yet, looking back now, I can see the pattern.

Denver was my hometown. Not just a place I lived—my entire life was there. I grew up in Colorado. My friends, my restaurants, my routines, my familiar corners of the world. My sense of orientation. My ex didn’t just end a marriage—he stole my home with one selfish choice. He erased the context of my life in a single move. And something in me split when that happened.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s shamanic reality. I knew what happened had affected me on a level I couldn’t reach directly, but I also believed I was doing the best I could. I stayed focused on being in the Between, holding that present space outside polarity. What I didn’t see was how hard I was still pushing. For me, that meant real risk. My body finally stepped in— inflammation took over and forced me down before I could end up paralyzed.

In real shamanic traditions, soul loss happens during overwhelming events—betrayal, shock, trauma—when the psyche can’t integrate what’s happening fast enough. A part of you shatters and steps aside to protect the rest.

It waits.

Before all of that—before the desert, before exile—I had already started coming back to life in Denver. After seven brutal years of losing everything—my career, my body, my identity—I was quietly rebuilding. I was learning to accept my disabled body and its limitations. I found new ways to route my creativity. I started doing fused glass at a local studio and was completely hooked. Then watercolor showed up. I’d never taken a class, never trained, and yet the paintings came through fully formed. People bought everything I made. Every piece.

All I have left now are scraps of unfinished work—like shards of a mirror reflecting a former life.

I was starting to come alive again. That much was real. But something was already off.

My then-husband began to withdraw. He threw himself into work. This was during Covid, when we were essentially captive in our apartment together, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. My transformation wasn’t subtle. While he sat in the office on Zoom calls, I was having downloads, channeling, being knocked into chairs to receive information. I tried to keep it contained. I really did. But let’s be honest—there’s only so much you can hide when your inner world is detonating.

From his perspective, I probably looked completely unhinged.

From mine, his life suddenly looked insane.

Two people waking up in opposite directions under the same roof is… not ideal.

Colorado winters were too hard on my body, so I made a decision. I pulled my savings and bought a small place in Arizona to get through the winter. The plan was simple: he worked remotely and would come down when he could. On paper, it made sense. But something felt wrong. I couldn’t name it yet.

He was unusually nice when he drove me to the trailer. That should have been my first real clue.

Everything with him had always required effort. Pushing. Even financially. He made close to ninety thousand a year, and I was living on Social Security disability, yet I still paid half of everything. Looking back, I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Nothing about that relationship was smooth. I knew we would eventually split—I just wanted the dignity of choosing when and how. I wanted agency. I didn’t want it taken in one clean move.

A few weeks after I arrived in Arizona, the truth surfaced in the most mundane, brutal way possible.

Through the U.S. Postal Service, of all things, I saw it—his ex had forwarded his mail to our condo in Denver. Our condo. They were moving in together in my home while I was gone.

My head literally spun. I got dizzy. The world tipped sideways, like gravity had shifted. I remember thinking, Did you actually do this? It felt unreal—like something out of a Jerry Springer episode. Total betrayal, executed quietly, in plain sight.

I let him live in his lie for a full month before confronting him. A month of cheerful texts. How’s your new place? Are you enjoying it? Work sucks. Don’t know when I’ll be able to get down there… A steady drip of normalcy, like nothing had happened.

I finally confronted him on Christmas Eve.

Because apparently that’s how my life works.

That’s when my life didn’t just crack—it burned down to ash. I lost everything. My hometown. My haunts. My friends. My life as I knew it. And somewhere in me, I knew my body had taken the hit too. That some of the back pain I’d been carrying came straight from that betrayal. It made sense. He’d pulled the rug out from under me, and when I hit the ground, something broke.

It became obvious they had planned it. Waited for me to leave so they could execute it cleanly. No confrontation. No mess. Just erasure.

As devastating as that was, it revealed something important. That level of betrayal doesn’t come from strength—it comes from cowardice. From someone who can’t face discomfort or tell the truth, so they hide and maneuver instead.

In that moment, I didn’t just lose a marriage. I lost my home. My orientation. My sense of continuity. And something in me split—not because I was fragile, but because the blow came from inside the walls.

That was the exile.

And when that kind of extraction happens, the psyche does what it has always done to survive.

It preserves what it can.

The desert that followed wasn’t a retreat. It was exile. What should have been forty symbolic days turned into three years. Instead of art, I went inward. I did my shamanic work. I received downloads. I built my hypothesis. I dismantled systems. It was structural work, not creative. The artist in me had to wait.

I knew the desert wasn’t punishment. I don’t believe in fairy tales about an overseeing personality handing out biblical suffering. This wasn’t that. It was shamanic. The final stage of my dismantling. And honestly—what could be more on-brand for a shamanic initiation than total destruction and physical paralysis?

That’s when I finally let go. In the desert, I stopped fighting. I knew exactly what stage I was in, so I leaned into it. I let myself grieve fully and allowed the downloads to come through, assembling the pieces of a seven-year journey. It was gruesome and magical—a complete dismantling of my personality and a real integration of my ego, not a bypass.

My old ways evaporated in waves of pain, loss, betrayal, fear, hope, and wonder. When there was nothing left to cling to, something truer finally had room to take shape.

Then Washington forced me down again.

I don’t stop easily. I push. I override. Apparently the only way I learn balance is when the universe physically puts a hand on my chest and says, sit down.

I learned my back can’t be fixed. No more solution hunting. I learned that pushing through fatigue isn’t brave—it’s reckless. I had inflammation in part of my spine that, if I hadn’t stopped, could have left me paralyzed. That got my attention.

This summer wasn’t about getting better. It was about accepting my body. My age. My limits. Learning to stop when my muscles get tired instead of muscling through. Learning that rest isn’t failure—it’s intelligence.

Only then was there enough space to receive what had been waiting.

When I returned to the desert recently, I arrived sick. Sinus infection. Fever. Exhausted. Emotionally scrambled. I wasn’t sleeping—just drifting through strange, vivid dreams. And like I always do when things start blowing up, I asked the only question that matters: What the fuck is going on?

What surfaced first wasn’t answers—it was emotion. Grief. Anger. Old things breaking loose, finally looking for a way out.

That’s when I started seeing something.

A human-shaped form, silver-white, wrapped in something like crystal thread. A cocoon. And every time I noticed it, my system settled. My body responded before my mind caught up. Whatever this was, it mattered.

Over the next few days, as antibiotics and steroids cleared the infection, I could feel into it more deeply. A shaman learns to dissect sensation, to track it back to its origin. The recognition landed.

It was me, cocooned, waiting to be birthed anew.

In shamanic soul retrieval, the soul doesn’t shatter forever. The fragment waits—until the nervous system is safe enough, until there’s enough capacity to bring it back without blowing the whole system apart. A shaman can help facilitate this for others, but once you recognize the process, you can also learn to rest into it yourself. 

So one morning, somewhere between fever chills and sweats, I breathed it back into myself. Deliberately. I reclaimed it, and marked its return quietly in my own mind, and for the first time in days, real rest came. I slept for an entire day.

Once again, it was structural. Ripples. Reconfiguration. A system recalibrating now that a missing piece was restored.

When I woke, I was changed. A clarity settled in that had nothing to do with medication. Life started responding again. And a few days later—because subtlety has never been my path—my clairvoyant abilities came roaring back online.

Out of nowhere, I was invited to a neighbor’s house for what was supposed to be happy hour, but it quickly became clear it was something else. One of the women there is dying of cancer. Her doctors had told her the treatments were no longer working and that she had months left. And yet she looked strong. Present. Fully herself.

I’d done a medium reading for another neighbor the year before, and word had quietly spread. No one said anything directly, but I could feel the hope in the room. They were wishing—maybe praying—that I might help steady her.

She had lost her husband the year before to a sudden illness, one that came up in the reading. When someone who is dying receives a reading, it can bring a peace that nothing else quite touches—not reassurance, but recognition.

Her husband came through first, suddenly and powerfully, with such an intense wave of love that it caught me off guard and I burst into tears. That’s how the reading opened. So much for easing in.

Then her father stepped forward. Gentle. Solid. He told her he would be there when she arrived. That he would bring her across. The room went completely still. We all cried. It was tender. Real. I knew I’d given her something no value could ever be placed on.

Afterward, I remember thinking: Well… I guess the merge took.

And here’s the question that keeps echoing now.

This process—soul loss, exile, waiting, retrieval—it isn’t random. It unfolds in remarkably similar ways across cultures and time. Almost as if there’s a system in place, one that will guide you to what you’re seeking—if you can hear it.

For three years, I fought to heal, trying to get back what I thought I’d lost. The harder I tried, the worse I got. I even tried to revive my art, but the muse was gone. I’d lost my ability to paint watercolor entirely. It felt cruel at the time. Now I see it differently.

I wasn’t being blocked. I was being guided to let go.

My old life had to be dismantled completely before I could truly see my hypothesis for what it is, before I could live in the Between—watching life unfold with near-perfect synchronicity instead of trying to control it.

And I had to be forced. Let’s be honest. My ADHD is intense combined with full spectrum psychic and clairvoyant abilities online, the universe usually has to shove its way into my awareness. My life is a comedy of errors punctuated by cosmic interventions. I was forced to stop. Forced to rest. Forced to learn balance before bringing that cocooned part back—because if I’d integrated it earlier, I would’ve burned myself out again.

Or worse.

So if you’re feeling emotional ups and downs that don’t make sense… if your body is forcing you to slow down… if something in you feels like it’s waiting, calling, hovering just out of reach—

Maybe nothing is wrong.

Maybe something is unfolding exactly the way it always does.

Soul retrieval doesn’t require belief. It requires listening. And sometimes—especially for people like me—it requires being stopped hard enough to finally hear.

That’s what happened.

And if you’re honest with yourself,

you might already know what’s waiting for you too.