Walking back Home, Following the Tread
This is the Story I Carry
There was a time when I couldn’t hear myself.
Not just my voice but the part of me that could feel, choose, and belong.
I was disconnected.
Addiction helped me numb what I didn’t know how to face. I didn’t have the tools or the safety to be fully present. I was afraid of my own aliveness, and what it might cost to show up with all of me.
The silence I carried wasn’t peaceful it was hollow.
Recovery forced me to stop.
I sat alone in a quiet house, and noticed: The edges of the mask I wore to survive, to be loved, validated, accepted.
For the first time, I saw how much my addictions had been protecting me from the truth and that truth wasn’t empowering. Sometimes, truth is the thing we spend our whole lives avoiding because it reveals the parts of us we’ve buried to survive asking us to feel what we said we never would.
That truth broke me open, asking to remember what was too painful to hold and take responsibility in ways that felt terrifying.
I saw how I’d built a life from the outside in. Chasing what I thought I was supposed to want.
I was hollow, lost.
I was dying slowly in the name of survival.
So I left.
I left the construct that I build around performing.
I left the structures that told me who I should be.
I started walking, working odd jobs, traveling, shedding skins. I began to come home to myself.
The path since then has been a long initiation.
Grief cracked me open.
Heartbreak showed me where I was abandoning myself to feel loved.
Ceremony taught me how to stay, how to sit inside the ache without needing to fix it.
I began to trace trauma not only in my personal story,
but in the systems I was living inside.
I saw how white supremacy, patriarchy, and colonization weren’t just “out there.”
They were living in my choices, in my silence, in the way I saw myself as broken.
That shift changed everything.
It showed me that healing isn’t self-improvement.
It’s remembering.
It’s reclamation.
I stopped trying to be perfect, and started learning how to listen.
To my womb.
To the Earth.
To the breath between words.
To the stories living inside my body.
Witnessing my first birth taught me that presence is not passive, that serving birth is a soul lesson teaching me to be with what is.
To hold a moment without reshaping it.
To self-regulate and trust the intelligence of life as it unfolds.
I don’t walk this path because I’ve “arrived.”
I walk it because I’ve chosen to stay.
To stay close to truth.
To stay with what’s hard.
To keep listening.
My deepest medicine has been awareness.
To notice.
To listen without armor.
To stay tender in the presence of what hurts and what heals.
This is what I carry now:
Not answers, but presence.
Not perfection, but deep attention.
A devotion to truth over performance.
A willingness to sit with the messy wild threads of my story and hold them with care.
The tapestry of my blood linages and those who have though me is what weaves me, their wisdom continues to enrich my life teaching me about will, humility, and prayer.
My body remembers.
My breath remembers and what I've learned is this: when we truly listen, we cannot stay guarded.
Listening is allowing.
It’s how we return.
MAA was born from this unraveling.
It’s not a method or a brand it’s a space of return.
To voice. To body. To Earth. To the rhythm of belonging.
In this space, I walk beside you.
I’m a weaver, a witness, a space of reflection.
Someone who is also in the lifelong practice of coming Home.
If you’re walking at the edge of grief, of birth, of remembering. I’m here.
