The path that led me home

"You have to be completely lost, in order to find yourself"

Healing, one Echo at a time.

I grew up as the youngest of ten siblings in a house that was full of love but shadowed by chaos. There was yelling behind closed doors, voices raised so often that it became the background noise of our lives. Tension clung to the walls like wallpaper.

From a young age, I learned how to read the room, how to shrink myself, how to keep secrets and protect the people I loved. I wore clothes that didn’t fit, had appearance insecurities, and constantly compared myself to the girls around me whose families had more money, more stability, more ease. I always felt like I was less than. Like I was on the outside looking in, just trying to find a way to feel like I was enough. My parents always warned us: if anyone found out about their habits, they could be taken away, and we might never see them again. That kind of fear embeds itself deep in a child’s mind—I grew up knowing how to lie before I really knew how to speak my truth.

My siblings, almost every one of them, battled addiction. I watched them fall, one by one, and I knew the fear that lived in my family’s bones. We were always waiting for the next phone call. The next overdose. The next goodbye.

So, I became the one who had to hold it together. The one who wasn’t supposed to mess up. But I did. By the time I was 14, I was giving pieces of myself away in hopes it would make someone stay. I started numbing myself with substances, sneaking out, and chasing validation. I was diagnosed with OCD, anxiety, and depression. And in my darkest moments, I turned the pain inward—self-harming, hurting myself in secret, because I didn’t know how to speak it out loud. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be seen. I thought if I was funny, wild, popular, the life of the party, then maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d belong. But the truth was, I was breaking underneath it all.

When my first brother died in 2016 from an overdose, it hurt. But it didn’t stop me. I kept spiraling, kept partying, kept pretending. Then in March of 2020, my second brother died the same way. That broke me. That changed me. After my second brother passed, something shifted in me. I started seeing him differently. Not just as my brother, but as a human being who had been hurting, who had needed love and understanding more than anything. I realized he wasn’t weak. He was just tired. And I understood that kind of tired deeply.

I began to see that we’re all just children walking around in grown-up bodies. Still aching to be loved, still trying to feel like we’re enough. My brother had tried to lead the way, but he couldn’t make it through. So, I decided I would. I was dragging myself through each day like I had cinder blocks tied to my ankles. My body felt like a stranger to me. Bloated, bruised by my own choices, eyes dim from too many nights spent chasing silence in all the wrong places. I kept pouring things into the emptiness, hoping something would stick. But nothing did. I was starving for peace and security, for stillness, for some version of myself that felt whole. And I finally realized, no one was coming to save me. I had to climb out on my own.

So, I began the hard work of changing my lifestyle. I started working out, eating better, getting better sleep. I tried to care for my body, like it deserved to be lived in again.

And then came the unraveling of a connection I had poured myself into…one that shook me more than I ever expected. It brought me to my knees. But it was also the turning point. The moment everything cracked wide open. That emotional unraveling was my awakening.

After that, I dove even deeper. I started seeing a therapist and signed myself up for cognitive behavioral therapy. I picked up paintbrushes and created art. I made candles, soaps, and body oils. I explored my creativity. I journaled, learned grounding techniques, breath work, and meditation. I sat in silence. I created rituals and routines and tried to become someone I could stand being alone with.

For the first time in my life, I stopped running from myself. I stopped looking for rescue. I started dating me. I got to know the woman behind the pain, behind the patterns. And slowly, I stopped feeling lonely in my own company. I started to feel safe there. There came a point when I realized I wasn’t rebuilding. I was becoming. I wasn’t just putting the pieces of myself back together; I was creating something entirely new. Something honest. Something strong. I stopped obsessing over being chosen. I stopped trying to prove my worth to people who couldn’t see it. I no longer needed to chase love, approval, or attention. I became magnetic by learning how to sit with myself, how to hold myself, how to trust myself. I became powerful by embracing the quiet parts of me, the ones that used to feel like weakness, my sensitivity, my intuition, my silence.

Confidence, for me, wasn’t loud. It was calm. It was knowing that if someone didn’t choose me, I would still be okay. That if something ended, I would still rise. That even in my lowest moments, I still knew who I was. I learned how to give myself closure. How to release what didn’t come with answers. How to breathe through the ache without needing anyone to fix it. And the more I leaned into that strength, the more I noticed the shift: I stopped chasing people. I stopped explaining myself. I stopped shrinking just to be loved.

I’ve lost. I’ve hurt. I’ve broken. But I’ve also healed. And now I carry fire where there used to be fear. I am no longer the girl who carried everything. I am the woman who finally set it down, looked at the wreckage, and chose to rebuild. Brick by brick, breath by breath. I’ve walked through grief, through heartbreak, through the kind of pain that doesn’t have a name. And I came out stronger, softer, more grounded in who I am than I’ve ever been. My healing wasn’t pretty. It was raw and honest and uncomfortable. But it was mine. And it brought me home to myself.

Now, I live with intention. I speak with truth. I hold space for others because I’ve learned how to hold it for myself. I’ve created peace where chaos used to live. I’ve created safety where fear used to rule.

This isn’t just my story. It’s a reminder that healing is possible. That strength can come from the deepest pain. That you can begin again, no matter where you’ve been.

My hope is that this space becomes a soft landing for those who are still in the thick of it. A place where your story is safe, your voice is honored, and your healing is valid. Because if I can come home to myself. So can you.

And the best part is...this is just the beginning.

Sadhguru

“You cannot suffer the past or future. You are suffering your memory and your imagination.”

Sadhguru’s directness hit me when I needed it most. He reminded me that stillness is a choice, that clarity is cultivated, and that the world outside is a reflection of the chaos (or peace) within. His humor, simplicity, and spiritual depth brought me back to the present moment again and again.

Richard Rudd

"Each challenge we face holds the potential for a profound gift."

Richard Rudd didn’t just give me a system. He gave me a compass. The Gene Keys map helped me understand the patterns I was stuck in, not as flaws, but as invitations to evolve. His words are like poetry with purpose. They taught me to slow down, to contemplate, and to trust that our DNA holds sacred codes of transformation.

Blu of Earth

"Your voice is a spell. Speak from truth, not fear."

Blu gave me permission to be soft and fierce, mystical and grounded. Her presence is a reminder that the feminine is sacred, that embodiment is a portal, and that grief and joy are sisters. She models living from soul. Not ego, not wounding, but deep remembering.

Carl Jung

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

Jung’s work cracked open the inner world. He gave structure to the chaos of the mind. Through his lens, I began understanding my shadow, my archetypes, and why we must face our darkness to find true wholeness. He taught me that the path to integration is not about perfection, it’s about remembering our original self.

Jordan Peterson

“If you fulfill your obligations every day, you don’t need to worry about the future.”

When everything felt meaningless, Jordan Peterson challenged me to look deeper. His teachings on personal responsibility, order, and meaning gave structure to my suffering. He doesn’t hand you comfort, he hands you the shovel and tells you to start digging. And somehow, that empowered me.

Sam Harris

“The self is an illusion, not in the sense that it doesn’t exist, but in the sense that it’s not what it seems.”

Sam Harris bridges the gap between science and spirituality without diluting either. His approach to mindfulness, meditation, and human consciousness is clear, grounded, and intellectually honest. He taught me how to sit with my thoughts—not escape them. He reminded me that spirituality doesn’t have to be mystical to be transformative. It can be simple. Still. Aware.

Wu Wei

"Flow with the river, not against it."

Wu Wei is not a person—it’s a principle. From Taoist philosophy, Wu Wei taught me the power of letting go. That surrender is not passive, it’s intelligent. That nature never hurries, yet everything is accomplished. In a world that taught me to force, hustle, and strive… Wu Wei whispered: just be. You are already enough.

Poranguí

"Healing doesn’t just happen in the mind—it happens in the body, in the drum, in the earth beneath your feet."

Poranguí is living medicine. His music, movement, and teachings pulled me out of my head and back into my body. He reminded me that rhythm heals, that sound can cleanse, and that our bodies carry wisdom beyond words. In his presence, I remembered how to feel without analyzing.

Your story inspired me deeply; it resonated with my own journey of healing and transformation.

Emily R.

Reading your journey gave me hope and strength to face my own struggles and embrace change.

Michael T.

★★★★★

★★★★★