When I reflect on the years I have spent at war with myself, at war with what is, my heart swells. I look at myself from a higher plane and send compassion down to those pits of hell. I would be lying if I said I don’t experience that war anymore.  It’s just that now, after making healing my life’s work, I can see it sooner. I can see that it is a choice. And, I can see that it’s not the choice I want to make for my life. And I can let go - again.

It felt like I carried the wounds of 10,000 women as a child. Generations of abuse. My mother’s harsh words, her gaze, her experiences carried within her, were transferred to me. Because she didn’t want them. And so my heart broke every single day as a child, and as an adolescent, and then as a young adult - because I believed her. I believed that I was nothing. That I was lazy. That I wasn’t good enough. That I was too sensitive. Projections, fears. The off-loading of shame.

When I speak to...