My Journey Home
I share this story with an open heart, not because I have all the answers, but because I believe there is healing in telling the truth about our journey. If any part of my story reminds you of your own, then perhaps we're both remembering why we're here.
6/27/20265 min read
When people ask me about my childhood, I always smile because I was such a quiet little girl. I was a thumb sucker until I was about eight years old. Looking back now, I think that was my way of soothing myself. I didn't talk much, I watched, listened, and absorbed everything around me.
As an adult, I've realized that little girl became really good at taking everything in but not always expressing what was happening inside of her. I learned to suppress my own voice before I even knew I had one.
One memory came back to me years later during a somatic healing session. I was about three years old. My parents were arguing, my dad had been drinking, and I remember being passed back and forth between them. The feeling that stayed with me wasn't fear—it was uncertainty. Looking back, I think I spent much of my life trying to create certainty by controlling everything I could. One of the greatest lessons life has taught me is that healing isn't found through control. It's found through surrender.
When I was around twelve years old, I remember feeling so unseen, unheard, and misunderstood that I didn't want to be here anymore. I tried taking a handful of pills, which only gifted me with diarrhea. Thankfully, I'm still here. Looking back now, I don't see a lost little girl. I see a little girl who was longing to be seen, loved, and understood. I think so many people know what that feels like.
At twenty-four, I became a mother, and my son changed everything. I would always tell him, "You're the only one who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside." He helped me remember my heart.
As a single mom, I built two successful salon businesses and was proud of what I had created. Then, in 2013, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It affected my speech, my vision, my memory, my clarity, my ability to stand for long periods, and my emotions. There were days I couldn't tell what was me and what was the illness.
After experiencing a miscarriage, life surprised me with naturally conceived identical twin girls. I had jokingly told my partner, "Knowing our luck, we'll probably have twins," and two weeks later there were two heartbeats. Later, a close friend reminded me that years before I had said I would one day have little girls with curly hair. I had forgotten saying it, but there they were.
My children have always reminded me that there is more to this life than what we can always explain. My son spoke about coming back before he was born. My daughters once told me, "Mommy, we chose you because you're a beautiful mommy. We came to help you." Whether someone understands those moments spiritually or not, they taught me to listen more deeply.
In 2019, my great-uncle Fred passed away. He was one of the people who believed in me the most. As he crossed, my grandmother's favorite song, Un Día a la Vez ("One Day at a Time"), began playing. I don't believe he left me. I believe he simply began walking beside me in a different way.
Then came 2021, the year everything I had built began to fall away. For years I had felt it was time to let go of my salon, but I held on because I cared deeply for my clients and my team. Then a young driver accidentally drove into my salon. The damage itself wasn't the hardest part—it was everything that followed. The stress eventually triggered my second MS flare, affecting my speech, vision, and much of the left side of my body. I spent more than a month in bed and utilizing a cane for balance.
For someone who had spent her life trying to hold everything together, I suddenly couldn't hold anything. I couldn't fix it. I couldn't control it. I had to be still. In that stillness, I watched life continue. People made their own choices. Some stayed. Some left. Everyone revealed who they were.
Not long after, my marriage began to unravel. I realized we were both trying to hold onto versions of ourselves that no longer fit. There was still love, but we weren't living authentically. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is tell the truth, even when it's painful.
I remember praying, "Okay, God... I'm listening now. You've taken everything I thought defined me. Just show me what you want me to do." That prayer changed everything. I had reached the point where I was simply sick of my own shit—the stories, the patterns, the control, the survival. I was tired, and I surrendered.
Little by little, the right people, teachers, and experiences began appearing. I remember praying, "If I'm going to do this work again, don't let me do it alone. Send me the helpers." One by one, they came.
Eventually, I was invited to sit with Grandmother, the sacred vine, Nixi Pae. Within two weeks of receiving that invitation, I was in ceremony. It didn't give me something I didn't already have—it helped me remember.
Living with MS has become one of my greatest teachers. It invited me to look deeply at how I was living. Over time, I've learned to use my voice, to speak my truth, and to live from my heart. I've found something I had been searching for all along. Peace.
For me, peace became the antidote to the anger I had carried for so many years. It came through prayer, ceremony, honest reflection, and remembering.
That's why I named my work True Self Healing Transformation. I believe our true self has always been there. Healing isn't becoming someone new—it's remembering who you've always been.
People often ask what healing looks like. I tell them there comes a point where you're just sick of your own shit. You get tired of carrying the same stories, the same wounds, the same patterns, and something inside finally says, "I'm ready."
One of the greatest teachers on that journey has been grief—not only grieving people, but grieving old identities, old stories, old beliefs, old relationships, and old versions of ourselves. Every time I've allowed myself to move through grief instead of around it, my heart has expanded. Grief has increased my capacity to love, to hold compassion, and to meet life with more openness.
Today, I don't believe healing is about fixing what is broken. Healing is about remembering—remembering your truth, your worth, your gifts, and your connection to yourself, your purpose, your community, and something greater than yourself.
I don't believe I'm here to heal anyone. I believe every person already carries that wisdom within them. Sometimes we simply need someone willing to sit beside us while we remember.
Every time I thought I was losing my life, I was actually finding my way back home.
Back to my heart. Back to my truth. Back to myself.
And if my journey reminds even one person that they can find their own way home too, then every step has been worth it.
Because that, to me, is what healing really is.
It's coming home.
