I am exiting the underworld. The descent was long—through chronic illness, through systems that fracture the body and mind, through the particular violence experienced by women who refuse silence. I write from that place, and am still learning to walk in daylight.

This work is what I needed when I was hanging on the meat hook. The words I could have used to feel a little less alone, and a lot less afraid. Company in the depths. Belonging in the untamed places. Beauty that doesn't pretend everything is fine, acknowledges the fracture, the wound, the structural violence—and still insists on attention, tenderness, care. Beauty that says, "I see you, I see what's happening, and I'm not turning away."

I'm trained as an anthropologist, which means I read personal crisis as inseparable from planetary crisis—as interconnected, interwoven, part of something greater than any one of us facing the hardest parts of being human alone.

I listen to moss, to stones, to the old stories of descent and return. My work lives where structural analysis meets the sacred, where grief, with all its many faces, becomes a way of knowing.

I write about chronic illness, chokecherries, myths, archetypes, and the infinite paths to the Divine. I write of dogs, and ancestors, of life, and death, and life again. My work refuses to be still, just as the questions that arise from this being human refuse to stay in one place. They're rhizomatic, rooted wide, reaching toward what we've lost and what is still possible. Toward belonging. Toward Mystery. Toward hope.

If you're in the depths, if you need words that land in the body, if you're done with solutions and are ready for kinship, community, and connection as the way through—this is for you.