Who I Am
There is a place where words fall short, and I feel the most seen there....
"I am the wind that whispers you closer to the water
I am the water that disrobes you from the past
I am the past the comes to haunt you in memory
I am the chill that dances up your spine
I am the breath that gasps as you enter
I am the ease the follows
I am the mountain who's ice flows through you
I am the willow that bends down low to your ear
I am the peace that always remains"
- Jenny Lee
My Journey into Wholeness:
It’s hard to trace exactly where the journey toward wholeness began. Maybe that’s beside the point. What matters is this moment—and everything that brought me here.
Like so many, my story began with a deep ache for belonging. Both of my mothers left when I was ten. Without stable guidance or a spiritual anchor, I grew up untethered, quietly searching for something to hold onto—something real. In those early years, survival became my teacher. I learned how to navigate uncertainty, and somewhere in that terrain, neurodivergence began to take root.
By my twenties, I was submerged in the patterns many of us know too well: self-sabotage, numbing, seeking worth in all the wrong places. My pain shaped itself into a decade-long eating disorder, substance addiction, and relationships that mirrored a fractured self. It was chaotic, dark—and strangely empowering. I faced death more than once. And I kept going.
These bottomings-out taught me more than any textbook could. They stripped me bare, revealing both the shadows and the strengths I hadn’t known I carried. By my late twenties, something in me said “enough.” Not with shame or force—but with surrender. I didn’t want to punish myself into healing.
I wanted to love myself into wholeness.
Healing became my path—not in the performative, perfection-seeking way, but in the way a thirsty woman searches for the source of water itself.
I found solace in plants, in rites of passage, in earth-based psychologies that remembered what the culture forgot.
Breathwork became a turning point—especially the gentle power of Breathwave. It gave me a way to open, to release what had been held for too long, and to trust life as something that could flow through me again.
In these practices, I found the courage to be still.
To feel. To meet the grief beneath the striving.
And all along, music stayed close. My guitar, my voice—these were the threads that kept me connected to something essential. Even when no one was listening, I sang. Song became medicine. A bridge between chaos and clarity.
Then, in my early thirties, I crossed into yet another threshold—this time, an unexpected rupture after an experience with MDMA. It fractured something in my nervous system and opened a floodgate of unresolved fear. The anxiety was relentless, but so was the insight.
This wasn’t just another layer of healing—it was a total reshaping of how I related to life. The reckoning was deep, and it still hums in my system. But I listen to it now. I let it teach me.
Today, I live a life I once couldn’t imagine. I say with no exaggeration—it’s a miracle I’m here. I could have easily been lost to addiction, or caught in a life that slowly drained the light out of me.
Now, I am a professional musician, a self-employed healing artist, and the founder of The Temple of Belonging, a beloved women’s gathering rooted in community and ritual. I’ve healed from an eating disorder not by erasing the past, but by claiming the power it left behind. I’ve learned to stand in my life with both feet on the ground, in creativity, connection, and deep service.
What I know now is this: healing is possible. But it doesn’t always look like triumph. Sometimes it looks like trembling. Like starting over. Like choosing presence over performance. Every heartbreak, every breakthrough, every quiet moment of grace is a call to return to what is most true.
And if you’re here, reading this, you might be feeling that call too—the longing to come home to yourself, to reclaim your power, and to meet life fully. I’m here to walk that path with you.
I hold an unnamable reverence for grace—for the seen and unseen forces that have guided me when I didn’t know where to go. I say I’ve healed myself because I didn’t turn to conventional models of care, and yet I was never alone. Brave friendship, wise elders, clean water, and the wildness of the earth held me when nothing else could.
Life has been endlessly generous with me, even in the moments that looked like endings. And for that, I offer this work—not as a performance, but as a prayer.