— Coffee before words. Always.
— Movement that reminds me I have a body worth inhabiting.
— Asking my kids hard questions and letting the silence sit.
— Writing the thing I'm most afraid to write.

daily rituals

- Writing in the early hours before the house wakes up.
— Coaching women who are done disappearing.
— Watching my kids swim and wondering how they got so fast.
— Somewhere warm, barefoot, with something strong in my hands.

YOU CAN FIND ME:

— Performing wellness while quietly falling apart.
— Telling women to be grateful for lives that are making them disappear.
— Healing that asks you to stay small while you do it.
— Stories that wrap up too cleanly.

I'm NOT ABOUT:

— Disappearing is learned. And so is coming back.
— The stories we don't tell are the ones that keep us small.
— Perimenopause is not an ending. It's the first honest chapter.
— Your kids are watching you more carefully than you know.
— It is never too late to trust yourself.

I BELIEVE THAT:

For most of my life, I believed survival meant adapting. Becoming who others needed me to be. Staying useful. Staying agreeable. Staying small.

What looked from the outside like freedom, a decade of world-schooling my children across continents with my husband, was, in many ways, an attempt to create distance from a family story I could not yet name. Even oceans weren't always enough. My parents used mutual friends and extended connections to track our movements, turning distance into another way to exert control.

We weren't just traveling. We were running.

And eventually, I had to stop asking how far away I could get and start asking what I was trying to escape.

No one burned the world down for me.
So I had to learn to do it myself.

That reckoning became Butterfly Dust.

I spent most of my life making myself smaller. Not metaphorically, literally. Standing at 6'3", I learned early that disappearing wasn't about height. It was about survival. It was safer to shrink, to silence, to become whatever the room needed me to be than to take up the space I actually occupied.

I got very good at it.

Then my son was born. And something in me looked at him, this new person who had no idea yet that the world might ask him to be less than he was and I knew I couldn't keep teaching disappearing by example.