I heard Jane Fonda talking the other day about turning 60. How this birthday is the beginner of your “third act.” She said, “What do you want your third and FINAL act to look like?” That got me thinking.

As I wrote in my memoir, “Daughter Unbound: Breaking the Chains of Generational Trauma,” my first act was a complicated upbringing and youth that followed me into marriage + motherhood. My second act was discovering and healing the familial and societal patterns that blocked me from honoring and loving my true self.

As I enter this third act, I look back with so much compassion and awe at young Heather who exhausted herself repeatedly in her quest for wholeness and peace. I have finally arrived, and now I seek an altogether different chapter.

Peace. Adventure. Nature. Family. Safe and loving friends. Books. Quiet. Consistent movement. Strength. Bravery. My “healing era” is over. The work is done. The “flourishing era” has begun, and I am ready for it. So many thanks to those who helped me get here 🫶

Love,

Heather

The Transformative West Highland Way

We finished hiking the West Highland Way 1 week ago under the warmth of the spring sun. I am still processing the physical, emotional, and spiritual experiences that occurred during those 96 miles. As a writer, words and expression usually come easily. What I find instead is a profound quiet and stillness. In my mind, body, and heart. A deep reservoir of peace that asks for fewer words and more presence. I will attempt to share my journey to peace with you here.

The magic of Scotland began before my feet even touched the ground. As the plane descended through the clouds, I gasped at the vast green land beneath me. How could anything be this green, this rich, this alive? At that moment, her beauty, history, and vastness began working on my soul.

The West Highland Way begins in a small village in the "Lowlands." As we arrive, I am immediately aware that we are taking part in a great ritual-something many others have done before us, many others to follow. We pick up our WHW passport and take a photo next to the obelisk marked with the iconic WHW thistle in the center of town. Our smiles are broad with anticipation and excitement that this dream is finally about to happen. We have planned, we are prepared, and yet we have no idea what truly awaits us on the trail. 

Our first steps onto the trail take us past copper signs of all the waypoints we will travel through over the next 7 days. Each sign boasts the name of a small village with ready inns that will receive our weary bodies and sore feet with hot showers, nourishing food, kind inn keepers, and a warm bed. As we step into the woods, the sun casting shadows along the path, we are giddy with excitement and immediately in awe of the thistle, the foxglove, the bluebells and rhododendrons, splashes of purple everywhere amidst the deep green forest.

We quickly establish our walking routine. We take turns pointing out the beauty, sharing our gratitude for our privilege, gratitude for our healthy bodies, gratitude for Emily, her daughter, and Graham, my dad, our spiritual companions we invited along on this trip. We share stories, we walk in quiet, we take selfies along this mostly flat terrain while our bodies adjust to walking 8 hours in a day. When we complete our first day on the trail, our feet feel battered, we are ravenous, exhausted, and elated. We put our feet up the wall, stretch our muscles and joints, and fall into bed after a robust Scottish dinner and our first sticky toffee pudding. I am dreamless, my body deep in recovery sleep.

Day 2 feels different. We walked 8 hours the day before, and we get to do it all again, this time with peaks and valleys that will challenge us and awaken a sense of aliveness that I felt only once before on the waters of Quetico, Canada, as a young teen. I assess my backpack and immediately take out anything that is not absolutely necessary, its weight on my shoulders teaching me the importance of simplicity. Take only what you need. As we walk through rolling pastures and bay at the white sheep and lambs, we chatter on, our heads on swivels, marveling at the beauty around us.

Our first true challenge comes at the ascent to Conic Hill, the small mountain giving way to sweeping views of Loch Lomond, our companion for the two full days. As we climb up the many rocks, ever thankful for our walking poles, I share a story of my father as a child, lonely and missing his mother so far away in Canada, his overbearing father filling their lives with preaching, poverty, and uncertainty. As the path steepens and my heart is filled with compassion for the father, I suddenly bend over, sobbing, wailing for his challenges, his hardships, his sadness. And that is the first spot where I scatter his ashes from the small bunny urn. I hold the bunny close to my heart, close my eyes, and acknowledge his life journey, the grit and resilience it took him to build a life out of the ashes of his childhood. I thank him for his unconditional love and for his inspiration in guiding me to this very spot on the precipice of the Scottish Highlands. I sprinkle the ashes of his formerly strong, athletic body on a patch of heather, as well as in the small creek flowing by. I bid him a safe journey to the sea, beckoning the water to wash away his grief and mine. As I stand to continue my climb, we see a black heart rock on the ground at our feet, his spirit thanking me.

The climb to Conic Hill is steep, slippery, and slow going. As we climb and climb, the rain drops begin, and our poles provide stability as the wind picks up strength. The climb is a practice in presence. Don't look back, don't look forward. Look down and take it one step at a time. When we reach the rocky landing, I once again gasp, this time at the 360-degree views of the winding path that led us here, the creek that my father now moves through, and the vast and blue Loch Lomond stretching out 27 miles in all directions. I stand atop our first peak, close my eyes, feel my palms rise to my heart. I cry with gratitude that, through so much hard work, I shed the patterned life of fear and am now a strong, brave warrior atop a windy mountain overlooking one of earth's greatest treasures. 

Day 2 continues to offer us challenges, as we climb up and down the steep and gorgeous hills of the Trossach National Park, the water to our left, old growth trees shrouded in ferns to our right. Just as we think, this has to be our last climb, we encounter another. We curse and we laugh and we cry and we grow strong. Like life, the path teaches us that nothing hard lasts forever. And as we endure and overcome every climb before us, our bodies are slowly changing. My biceps begin to take shape again, my calves awaken and quicken my pace. My mind clears of the wars and data centers and ICE raids and the golden ballroom to quench the thirst of a narcissist. The ever-changing and challenging path, the woods that hug our souls, and the quiet sounds of the babbling brooks and wrens. This is what I hear now, what I breathe with. These are the sounds that heal my heart.

On day 3, we awaken early to our third day of sunshine, a grateful gift from the typically soggy Highlands. Our strong bodies are demanding nutrition to keep up with our 8- to 9-hour movement, so we easily polish off porridge, scrambled eggs, toast, yogurt, fruit, and coffee. We gratefully drop our suitcases off once again with our luggage transfer company, and set out for our last day amid the trees that hug the coast of Loch Lomond. The trail is less steep. Today's challenge is new, the trail ever changing beneath our feet. We walk slowly and ever mindfully among slippery rocks from past days' rain, jutting roots, creek crossings. Our poles guide us among rocks, bogs, and heather, and they mostly prevent me from falling, although I do twice--once on my arse, once on my hands. The thistle WHW signs gently guide us through the pristine forest, and our chatter grows quieter, as we fall into the rhythm of this beautiful moving meditation.

Another gift of the trail is falling in step with walkers from around the world. We meet and make friends with hikers from The Nethlands, Germany, England, France, Canada, and even locals from around Scotland. We share tips and gratitude, we apologize for our country, and we share snack breaks beside waterfalls. The path breaks down walls typically found in society, and we share vulnerably about our losses, and we are received in kind. Heart connections are easy on the trail. We are all broken open by its beauty. Our connection with 4 special friends, Rutger and Aswin, Uta and Claudia, is celebrated by me leading a short yoga flow at the end of the long Loch Lomond. Our sun salutations take on deeper meaning as we bow to her warmth, mountain pose feels regal among the green glacial Highlands, our tree poses tiny and yet mighty among the Trossach pines. I thank our new friends for giving me this gift. Sharing my love in my spiritual home with heart friends.

On Day 4, we sadly say goodbye to the loch and head north, hiking deeper into the Highlands under soft rain. The day is longer but more ambling, and we are treated to Highland Coos, 13th-century cemeteries, larger mountains, trains on train tracks, and endless waterfalls and rivers, the Highlands teeming with moisture from above and below. We walk through clear cut swaths of land, only to discover the diligent forestry work of thousands of tiny new trees planted around the ancient tree stumps. Our bodies no longer feel battered by the ground, our packs feel light on our shoulders. We walk with ease, we talk less, we hydrate, we snack, and the day passes like we have been walking all day every day of our lives. We end the day losing our way on the trail, adding an extra 2 miles to our 12. Though our feet hurt and the pavement is unforgiving, we press on and solve our issue, building on the resilience we are discovering is the deep foundation of who we both are. Ending our first day wet to the bone, we are grateful for Scotland's notion of a "drying room," where our wet shoes and clothing dry overnight as we sleep in our warm, cozy beds.

Day 5 is the anticipated day--our longest at 19 miles. The trail consists of mostly "military roads," pathways built by the British in the 1700s to monitor the Jacobite resistance. History wraps us in her arms as we walk easily through the Glencoe glens, the wide open sky such a contrast to the dark, magical fairy forests of the day before. We begin to ascend a smallish mountain that takes us once again to a peak with a sweeping view of yet another Scottish loch. We are surrounding by the intimate beauty only available to through hikers. We can see this beauty because we can walk among it at age 60. As I see one lone tree standing overlooking the valley below, my heart knows my dad needs to rest here. High above the ground, overlooking this valley covered in heather. I take out my bunny urn once again, hold it to my heart, and pray to my father who I feel is walking beside me every step of this pilgrimage. I tell him I am so sorry he could never hike this path. It was built for someone like him. The peace I am finding is all he wanted in his painful life. And now he can rest here, amid the walkers and the rain and the sky. 

We meet up with our Dutch friends, and they share some peeled fruit, which makes me weep once more (a core father memory), a wee dram of Isla whisky, and easy conversations that make the miles pass by easily and joyfully. The Kings House hotel and its stunning view of Glencoe Mountain are a beacon of hope as we finish those last long 3 miles. Our endurance is tested. Our strong legs keep on. Our poles are now extensions of our bodies. We shower and feast on dinner and drinks like 300-pound men, feeding a sense of hunger that my regular life never touches.

On day 6, our penultimate day on our beloved WHW, we awaken to a forecast that no hiker prefers but must experience to have a true Scottish journey. 100% chance of rain, 30 mph winds. After a breakfast feast, our daily porridge warm in our bellies, we say goodbye to the inn's warmth wearing our ponchos and many layers, and we head out to tackle our next challenge: the Devil's Staircase. The path toward our steepest and highest peak at 2000 feet offers spectacular views of Rannoch Moor and the true epic Highlands. When we approach the sign describing what is before us, two wrens land together on the sign, Emily and my dad sending us love, strength, and encouragement. I sense he will be by my side today more than ever before. As we begin the steep climb, my legs are grateful for the 70 previous miles that definitely prepared my body for this ascent. Judith's encouraging words behind me, the beauty before me, and my father's spirit within me all push me forward, one step at a time. When we make it to the top, the horizontal rain is blowing and thrashing us, and we have a good laugh that we paid thousands of dollars to do this.

I encourage Judith to stretch her marathon legs, and she quickly moves beyond my vision, and for the first time, I feel truly alone. The wind is whipping loudly through the arm holes of my poncho, and the rain is beating down on my back. Only a silhouette outline of the mountains are visible because of the thick stormy sky. The moment requires presence, grit, trust, and inner guidance. As I slowly walk high up in the sky, I am in awe of my strength and bravery. Ten years ago, amid a terrible burnout, I couldn't walk to the mailbox. And now I'm walking 96 miles in all types of weather, over all types of terrain, and I feel completely at peace and unburdened of fear. My father's voice begins to speak amid the howling winds. "You are alone. You are strong. One day you will be alone. Bob will be gone, and you will be alone. And just like today, you will put one foot in front of the other, and you will walk. You will walk through the grief and the loss and the pain and the thrashing emotions, and you will emerge. You will focus on your strength, not your pain. Practice that now. Focus on your strength, not your pain. Keep going. There is love all around and within you. And I'm always by your side." I cried and cried tears of joy and knowing and love and gratitude as I pressed on and finally made it to the other side of that devil's staircase to meet my dear loving friend at a roaring waterfall. And it was there that I knew I needed to leave something behind for good.

Someone very close and dear to me broke my heart a year ago, and I have carried the anger, grief, and pain deep in my body. As I traveled that windy, rainy mountainside, my spirit told me that life is meant to be lived in joy and lightness, and the Highlands beckoned me to put down the weight of anger. I needed to express it like I hadn't before. So overlooking that raging water, the element that cleanses and heals us, I screamed all the feelings that demanded to be felt. I screamed and yelled and sobbed until I was empty. I bent over with Judith's hand on my shoulder, and I wept for the loss and sorrow. And then I threw my heavy wet gloves into the water, to physically heave the heaviness from my body, and I watched as this magic land's source carried away my grief. In the release, I was reborn.

Rainy Day 6 ended with a long, steep descent that crushed my right knee, and we arrived to our tiny village ready for the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted, another daily afternoon of yoga to recover our bodies, and a another delicious dinner overlooking yet another river surrounded by green forested mountains. While we slept, our inn keeper washed and dried our shoes and wet clothes, prepared our final breakfast, and the Scottish locals spilled out into the streets to celebrate their first World Cup game win in 30 years.

Waking up to our last day on the trail seemed impossible and grand. The sun was already high in the sky, and we knew how lucky we were to have a gorgeous warm day for our last 15 miles. With all the lessons and releases and memorials and miles experienced and integrated, we began our last day so very differently than we did our first day. Now seasoned hikers, one with the path, healed by the abundance of nature. My spirit needed this day to be quiet, introspective, slow, and present. We were deep into the Highlands, and I wanted to take in every single moment. The steep climb from Kinlochleven was nothing compared to the Devil's Staircase, and we marveled at our strength and endurance as looked back at the tiny village far below.

The mighty Munro mountains were the backdrop as we slowly and reflectively made our way toward Ft. William and the "man with sore feet" statue at the end of the trail. We knew that eventually we would encounter Ben Nevis, the highest peak in the UK, but nothing can prepare you for the vista when that mountain appears around the corner of the trail. You feel like you are so high up in the mountains, and then suddenly Ben dwarfs your existence. You realize you are but a small, temporary blip of humanity standings among millions of years of evolution. And somehow that makes you feel one with consciousness and the universe. With Ben Nevis in full view, we discovered our final memorial sight for Emily and my dad. Two aged, moss-covered old growth stumps surrounded by new growth with Ben shining down on them. I sprinkled my father's ashes in the small gap between the bark and moss, and I sat down and felt wrapped in his love. Judith sat down on Emily's stump, and we held hands and thanked our spirit guides for guiding us to this very moment. And in that quiet moment, I knew where I want my own ashes spread someday. On this very path, with Ben looking down on me, resting peacefully forever with my beloved father.

The rest of the day was a quiet reflection on our journey. All the heart shares, all the many miles, all the new friends, all the tears, all the yoga and legs up the wall, all the kindness and connection, the deep, deep quiet among the trees, glens, flowers, lochs, and mountains. What is it about you, Scotland, that reaches deep down into my soul and heals me?

As I took another turn on the winding path, I entered a small wooded area next to a brook, and in the middle of this precious setting was a moss-covered tree with low branches reaching out wide. I was drawn to step off the trail to stand beside this gorgeous tree. It's energy was pulling me closer and closer until I wrapped my arms around it and held on for dear life, tears spilling from my eyes as I knew I was being held by my father's spirit. I hugged that father tree for a long time. Releasing our embrace with a gentle kiss and a thank you. When I returned to the path, I could barely breathe, his spirit so deeply surrounded my mind, body, and spirit. I took slow deep breaths in and out, weeping with gratitude for this sacred time with him.

The moment we stepped off the wooded path to walk the last quarter mile through the brick-paved Ft. William shopping street was surreal. One moment we were in the quiet woods, and the next moment we re-entered society with all its sounds and people and bustle. Our reflection in a storefront was an afront to my eyes, having spent days away from mirrors. Then, the bench was in our sight. Our great spiritual adventure was suddenly coming to a close. After 7 long, beautiful days, it just ended. I reached for Judith and wrapped her into a big Heather hug, and that's when we heard the clapping and yelling coming from the pub. We looked up to see all our new friends cheering our finish--the perfect ending to a perfect journey.

Scotland's AMAZING West Highland Way is a gift that keeps on giving. Bountiful, beautiful nature that reminds you of your connection to source. Challenges that reveal your inner strength and resilience. Scenery that shuts your mouth and all its distractions and opens your heart to a deep well of peace. Proof of your loved ones' spirits that are only a liminal space away, always. Miles that strengthen your arms and legs and bravery and sense of possibility. Friends you just met and feel like you've known a lifetime. A walk with a dear friend who you didn't think you could know and love more and yet now you do.

With deep gratitude for this life,

Heather 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

 

In 2 days, I fly to Scotland for the second time to walk the iconic 96-mile West Highland Way with my best friend, Judith. We have been planning this trip for many months, we trained in all sorts of weather, we bought all the things, and the time is finally here. As I wait to begin our journey, I ask myself, Why am I walking this path? What is my intention?

My father taught me to love nature, and he could only dream of a trip like this, crippled as he was by his fear of flying and my mother's mental illness. I will walk for him.

Fear was embedded in me by both of my parents, the result of their traumas. It kept them feeling safe. I spent more than half my life caged by fear. It too made me feel safe. I have healed that wound. I will walk to honor my brave spirit.

Judith and I have walked our life together for 33 years. Over the decades of our precious friendship, we have both loved mightily and lost mightily. We will walk to honor those who have passed, those who made us into the gentle warriors we are today. We will walk 96 miles because we can.

The rugged beauty of Scotland stole my heart in 2023, reaching deep inside my soul and showing me I once lived among her blue lochs and rolling hills. I will walk the gorgeous Highlands path as the final steps of my healing journey. I will leave behind all the pain, all the wounds, all the tears, all the shame and guilt and betrayal, and step strongly and peacefully into my rebirth.

Life is so fleeting. Say yes to your heart 💜 

Love,

Heather

All his lessons

My father died 4 years and 3 months ago. In the 56 years that we spent together, I knew him to be kind, gentle, sad, funny, patient, athletic, brilliant, and supremely loving. In today's world, there is a lot of research and discussion about trauma. My father was no stranger to trauma, but he grew up in the 1930s and 1940s when no one recognized the ill effects severe trauma could have.

This morning on my way to work, I listened to a podcast about resilience. The guest spoke of resilience being not a trait we are born with but rather a muscle we build through our challenging life experiences. Trauma in all forms creates the possibility for resilience if sufficient protective measures are in place. She mentioned several very powerful ways to create the pathway to resilience: participating in sports (being part of a community), spending time in nature, and finding places of refuge (such as public libraries). I almost ran my car off the road.

My father was a quiet man who never told me what to do, hardly gave advice, and stood out as a gifted listener. Meanwhile he demonstrated every single day what his spirit guided him to do to heal the great losses he experienced as a child. He played on softball and volleyball teams for 60 years. He drove to the forest preserve every weekday at lunch to "forest bathe" before anyone used that term, and he took us to the woods every chance he could. He was an avid library goer from age 5 until 88, when Covid shut them all down. 

Thank you, dad, for all the lessons you shared with me, in your quiet, unassuming way. Thank you for teaching me the healing effects of movement communities, book communities, and nature. I find myself in these places too, I have healed my own trauma in those spaces, and I continue to feel close to you because you led me there. 

May you strengthen your resilience muscle in your own ways.

Love,

Heather

Am I "Healed"?

When I wrote the first draft of my memoir in 2019, I thought I had gone as far as I needed to go on my "healing journey." My anxiety was under control, I had forgiven my mother, and I loved myself. What else did I need to learn? Lol, right?

Over the next 6 years, I endured COVID-19, the death of my father, the near loss of my husband, my third burnout, the death of my mother, and estrangement from someone I had once trusted with my whole heart. Each of these experiences brought me to my knees, challenged my beliefs and patterns, grew my resilience, and taught me life-changing lessons. I am now many miles farther on my path, and I have healed many more of my childhood wounds. Am I healed now?

I recently led my fourth 200-hour yoga teacher training. This training was different because I co-led it with two extraordinary women who were leading a YTT for the first time. We were friends when the training began, and now we are sisters. Over the 6 months of training, I taught them how to teach a training, and they taught me so much more. 

In my family of origin, expressing my anger was not tolerated, and conflicts were hardly ever resolved with healthy, open communication. Most of my life, I have feared conflict in relationships. Teacher trainings are a safe container to discover and challenge our ways of being, and they are exhilarating and exhausting to lead. A few times during our training, we three leaders bumped into each other, we felt angry, and our feelings got hurt. And then the most remarkable thing happened. We came together and talked about it. We shared why we were angry, why we felt hurt, we saw the others' perspective, we owned our part in the conflict, we apologized, and we MOVED ON, feeling closer than ever before and knowing our own selves a little better.

I will be forever grateful that these two beautiful, wise young women taught this 60-year-old crone that there is always room to grow and learn, that healing wounds is possible at any age, and that I'm lovable when I'm messy and worthy of forgiveness. I will be forever grateful that these soul sisters taught me that conflict is not to be feared but rather a wonderful opportunity for connection.

Am I healed now? Probably not, and that's okay. I look forward to my next lesson in this great school of life.

Love,

Heather

The Andness of Mother's Day

Last year, Mother's Day arrived on the heels of my mother's quiet death. Painful events that followed her passing left me shocked and angry. Mother's Day as a daughter felt hollow, as I contemplated her conditional love for me.  And it felt utterly joyful as a mother of two daughters who planned an elaborate surprise lakefront picnic just for me.

One year later, Mother's Day arrives with a familiar tug-of-war between gratitude and grief. Gratitude for the loving friendships that I cultivated and now share with my darling daughters. Gratitude for our laughter, our ease, our unconditional love. And also grief. Grief for what was never, ever possible, no matter how hard I tried, because of her trauma. Grief for all I have lost since her death because she couldn't truly see me and shared her blindness with others.

Doing the emotional and spiritual work to break the cycle of generational harm has led to freedom, self-respect, power, and peace. And today, and for several days now, there is also sadness. Despite all my work along this healing journey, sometimes I still forget and try to outrun the sad--distracting myself with chores, social media, busyness. When I finally remember and get quiet and still, I remember the way and allow myself to hold my sorrow in my loving hands with presence and compassion. I wasn't seen by her because her pain blinded her, and that is a sadness that deserves and needs to be felt. And in creating space for feeling, I am seen and cared for and healed once more. And all that is left is gratitude.

With love to all who struggle on Mother's Day, I see you.

Heather

 

He would be proud

Many people ask me, “How long did it take you to write your book?” The first draft, 4 months. The 10 edits, 6 years later, 4 months. Then they ask, “Why did you wait for 6 years?” Because I knew my journey to peace and loving myself would not be well received by my mother. I was well trained to keep the peace.

Today, I got to thinking, my mother always overshadowed my father. Her emotions muted his. Her energy swallowed him. I never until today thought, how would my father have responded to my book? If I could read it to him right now, what would he say? I imagine it would go something like this:

“You did a really fine job, Heth. You were always so sensitive and thoughtful, and you never gave yourself enough credit.” And then he would laugh at himself for saying “fornicate in the hall” and “throw the goddamn ball,” and we would laugh together about the way certain memories last forever. Then he would stroke my face as he read about his death, and he would thank me for the cherry tree and the “pa bench.” And then he would say, “Nice job with the beach house. Keep riding that bike as long as you can.”

He wouldn’t be mad.
He wouldn’t make it about him.
He would be quiet and humble.
He would be grateful that I know peace.
He would be so very proud.

Book launch party

Yesterday I hosted my first book launch party with the help of my daughter Hannah, my friend Judith, and my dear husband Bob. I always get a little nervous when I host a gathering. What if people are too busy and no one shows up? I know it's not personal. Yoga taught me that. I try to stay nonattached while also being human and hoping people show up.

The people in my life showed up. And it was so beautiful. The energy of celebration was palpable and somewhat humbling. I have worked for so long to birth this book, it has become part of me. People's enthusiasm reminded me that writing a published memoir really is a big deal and is something to be really proud of. So I'm showing up for myself too.

Reading excerpts of my story out loud in front of 40+ people might sound terrifying. I loved it. What's more, I loved getting to interact with my people and draw out THEIR stories and the emotions connected to our criss-crossing paths. My people told me I am "brave" and "courageous" to share so much with such vulnerability. I don't know another way to be.

This author journey is exceptional. I didn't expect it to be so fun and so rewarding. I'm ready to start planning my next event so I can expand out from my precious community to meet new faces and hear more overlapping stories, bringing strangers together to feel our shared humanity.

As an English major and avid book reader, I have always believed in the power of books to bring people together. As a new author, I am so deeply grateful for my readers. Thank you thank you thank you.

Love,

Heather

Do I want to sell a million books?

When people hear that I wrote a book, they congratulate me and offer praise. While I deeply appreciate their lovely words and kindness, writing my memoir was a deeply humbling experience. It was a heartbreaking journey of processing and stepping forward from the darkness in my life AND it was an act of service.

My publisher asked whether my goal is to sell as many books as possible. Anyone who knows me well knows I’ve never been motivated by money. No, I don’t care how much money I make. What I DO care about is this:

I want my book to find the hands and hearts of people who need it.

I want to share my raw and authentic hero’s journey with anyone struggling in the worlds of addiction, abuse, anxiety, trauma, low self-esteem, or high sensitivity.

I want people to read my book and feel less lost and alone and more seen and understood.

I want the two decades I spent seeking, discovering, and embodying my blessed healing practices to serve as the roadmap I wish I had had.

I want people to read my story and share it with their loved ones who they know need my story. I want to hear stories about readers helping their friends heal. That is the currency I seek.

I don’t want fame or glory or attention or accolades. I want to make a difference in people’s lives. I want my journey to have served a purpose—I want to spread self-compassion, self-love, and healing as far as I can.

In peace,

Heather