Every Body
Every Heart
Every Soul

Tells a Story

Every Body
Every Heart
Every Soul

Tells a Story

Here's Mine...

The first memory I have of pain doesn't come from a moment I was awake for. It comes from the moment I opened my eyes in a hospital bed, tied down so I wouldn't hurt myself, with an oxygen tent enclosing me like a world made of plastic. I was eight years old, staring up at my parents' faces — two young people in their twenties who were doing everything they could not to fall apart as they realized I was conscious.

I didn't know where I was. I didn't know what had happened. I didn't know that I had been lying there for ten days. I didn't know that a car had hit me so hard I was found bleeding from my eyes, my ears, and my nose. I didn't know that a doctor had witnessed the accident, run into the street, and cut open my throat with whatever he had on him to perform a tracheotomy that saved my life.

I learned those things later — much later — when I was old enough to understand the miracle and the trauma in the same breath.

What I did know was that I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. When the car hit me, my jaw was the first to hit the asphalt which in turn broke both the condyles that allow the jaw to open and close. My left arm was dislocated. My liver was lacerated. My spleen was bruised. And my tiny eight-year-old body lay there, full of tubes, bruises, stitches, a jaw wired shut and a silence that terrified me.

My physical body healed over the next month, but some wounds never stopped traveling with me. My jaw still dictates how I sleep. My body still remembers what it means to be touched by trauma. My system still reacts differently to medical interventions. And every once in a while, the pain in my jaw reminds me of that little girl, trapped in a body she didn't understand, fighting to stay alive.

Life went on, as it always does. But pain leaves a blueprint. And mine had already begun to form.

Years later, grief found my family again. My grandfather — the man who showed up for my sister and her little boy every single weekend, the steady male presence she depended on — suddenly passed away. One phone call. One MRI table. One massive heart attack. And he was gone.

My sister was shattered. I watched her collapse into grief year after year, unable to find peace. By the fifth anniversary of his death, I was afraid for her — afraid of what carrying that much unresolved pain could do to a person.

So I arranged something I'd never done before: a three-way call with a medium.

I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know if it would work. I only knew I needed to try.

And then something unbelievable happened. The medium connected with my grandfather instantly. Not eventually. Instantly. And through her, he told us he wasn't in pain when he died. He told us he had seen the light during the MRI and stepped into it willingly. He told us he was with our grandmother, and he was okay. And in that moment, my sister finally breathed again.

The medium ended the session with a sentence that would quietly change the course of my life: "I never saw myself doing this. If I can do it, anyone can do it."

I didn't know it then, but something in me shifted. A seed had been planted — one I wouldn't understand until years later.

Life continued, and I stepped into a long-term partnership with a man I had once loved deeply. Together we had two beautiful daughters who remain the greatest blessings of my life. But the relationship became a slow erosion of my spirit. I kept giving everything I had, hoping he might someday meet me in the places I begged to be seen. He didn't. He couldn't. And I slowly fell apart trying to hold us together.

By the final year, I cried every single day. Every morning I woke up with heaviness in my chest, and every night I went to bed feeling alone even though someone was sleeping beside me. The resentment grew, the loneliness hollowed me out, and it became nearly impossible to recognize the woman I had become.

One night, after hours of trying to swallow my tears so no one would hear me hurting, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I needed a place to collapse where no one could interrupt the truth of what I was feeling. I lowered myself onto the cold tile floor, and the temperature of that tile hit my body like a shock — the kind of shock that pulls a truth out of you that you can't keep quiet anymore.

The cold seeped into me. It numbed parts of me that had been aching for too long. I curled up, letting the hardness of the floor hold what I couldn't hold anymore. And then something in me let go. Not a little release. Not a soft exhale. A full surrender — the kind that happens when the human part of you has been brought past its breaking point.

My body stayed on the tile, but I didn't.

I felt myself rise out of my physical form. It was gentle, like slipping out of a tight jacket. I looked down and saw my body lying there, still curled, still crying, still breathing — but I wasn't inside it anymore. I floated above it, weightless, and the bathroom dissolved until I was surrounded by stars. Not above me like a night sky, but within reach. Close enough to touch. They shimmered with a softness that felt ancient and familiar, like a realm I had known long before this life.

I tasted dampness in the air, thick and cool, and it filled my mouth like mist. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't resisting. I wasn't even thinking.

I was surrendering.

And in that place — wherever that place was — my soul whispered the truth it had carried alone for far too long:

"Take me. Please. I can't do this anymore."

There was no drama in the words. No anger. No begging. Just truth. Raw, exhausted truth.

And then, in the vastness of that star-filled space, a voice thundered through me with such clarity and force that I felt it echo through every layer of who I am:

"Love will come."

Not gentle. Not poetic. A command. A promise. A lifeline thrown directly into the core of my spirit.

The moment I heard it, I snapped back into my body with a jolt. I opened my eyes on the bathroom floor. I sat up. And I knew — with a certainty I had never known before — that God had spoken to me. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Literally.

And God had told me to live.

I stood up with a decision already carved into my being: I would leave my partner. I would save my own life. I would choose myself. And I would not look back.

The very next day, everything felt different. Guided. Directed. Supported. I walked into a bookstore and bought a cart full of books by authors I didn't know: Esther and Jerry Hicks, Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay, Eckhart Tolle. It felt less like choosing and more like remembering. Within three months, I left the relationship. And with that single brave act, the universe opened doors I didn't even know existed.

I began studying energy healing, shamanic journeying, essential oils, and intuitive development. I trained with masters and mentors who helped me peel away the layers of pain, fear, and survival patterns that had shaped my life for decades. The more I cleared, the more my intuitive abilities sharpened and expanded. Gifts I didn't know I had awakened like ancient memories returning.

I discovered I had "intuitive superpowers" and each one became a tool I now use to help others transform their lives.

Clairvoyance gave me the ability to see energetic imprints, memories, patterns, and symbolic images inside someone's subconscious field. Clairaudience allowed me to hear the guidance, words, and truths their soul had been trying to speak. Claircognizance brought through bursts of knowing, instant insights that cut straight to the core of the issue without hesitation. Clairsentience let me feel what others feel — not just emotionally, but energetically — so I could help them untangle the blocks sitting inside their bodies.

Together, these abilities became a language — a bridge between where someone is hurting and where their healing is waiting.

I have now helped thousands of people, across the United States and internationally, release the stories, wounds, and energetic blocks that keep them in cycles of pain — emotional and physical. People come to me burdened, stuck, afraid, or disconnected, and they leave lighter, clearer, freer, and able to breathe again.

Energy healing isn't a concept to me. It isn't a technique. It isn't a profession.

It is the very path that saved my life.

It is the reason I'm here. It is the reason I didn't die. It is the reason God said, "Love will come."

And now, it is the reason I help others find their way back to themselves — to peace, to understanding, to freedom, to love — with the same divine guidance that once pulled me back into my own life.