Abandoned in the garden shed... has time forgotten me too? Vines grow in through the door cracks, binding my stem. They tighten as I starve for water and sunlight.

Am I meant to sit in the dark and wilt? Why don’t you want me? Will anyone ever see me again? Am I worth being seen at all?

​​Music sees us— in our tiny, safe spaces as the walls close in tight— giving us permission to fall apart.

Years of your life spent longing to be seen and loved; the spirit of a wild lover silently screaming to break through. But continual rejection erodes self-worth. You find yourself desperately abandoning parts of who you are to receive any charitable drop of affection.  Every missed touch or gentle glance deepens the belief that something about you is repulsive— unworthy of love.

The shovel should have never been in your hands. That relentless digging to unearth a long ago hidden key, unlocking the door to everything you’ve been seeking. Even the handle has broken from the toil.

In an act of angry rebellion against everything that told you that you weren’t enough— including yourself — you determine to glue your crown back together and regain your self worth. No more destroying your crown by playing the push, pull game of uncertainty called “he loves me, he loves me not”.

When flood waters rise, Fire Ants aren’t yet aware that they won’t likely survive alone. Drawn together by the force of raging water, they hold tight to one another, creating something far stronger than any individual—an interconnected raft that rises above the floodwaters. This act of collective resilience speaks to the power of letting others see us, and be present with us, in our sorrow. As the Fire Ants depend on one another to stay afloat, together we can survive what would otherwise pull us under.

Holding a secret is like holding your breath. Suffocating. All consuming. You grow weary of the hiding and the constant effort to maintain the façade. What if you could write it on your forehead for all to see—no more holding back? You are desperate to unburden yourself, craving the relief of being seen and the freedom of no longer having to hide.

Letting go of long-held secrets is like purging poison from your soul. A flush of relief that leaves you both exhausted and empowered. In your sorrow, though raw and painful, others can finally see you. Healing can begin.

Feeling your story being rewritten is disorienting, like the ground beneath you has crumbled. Memories are cast in doubt, and the narrative you trusted has unraveled…”Was any of my story true?” you ask yourself. Rejection, anger, and sorrow quickly swoop in and begin rewriting your past. But in the midst of healing, you courageously take hold of the pen and begin forging a new chapter. Shedding the old narrative, you write a story of rebirth. A story of overcoming. You write your story.

Secrets can’t be untold. Now you must watch as the story of your life unfolds around you, reduced to a character in a narrative you no longer control. Unable to face it – to face them – you retreat, fearfully waiting for what happens next.

Each breath is heavy but grounding— gathering strength. How are you expected to create magic for others unsure if there’s even any left within you? Just one more minute here…

Even as your souls are forced to untwine, your identities remain blurred and indistinguishable. Losing love leaves you disoriented, questioning everything… Even small, seemingly meaningless things like your favorite color—wondering if it’s something that is yours to claim or simply a reflection of them?

There’s a story about a little girl who wanted to ride the see-saw, but had no friends to join her. Determined, she placed a brick on the opposite seat to balance her weight. Her mother, watching from a distance, felt a pang of sadness, seeing her child play alone. Yet, the girl felt a quiet pride, content to go up and down with her makeshift companion.

The agony of realizing you can’t always protect the people you love cuts deeply. You want to shield them from every wound, every heartache, to wrap them in a cocoon of safety. But you’re powerless against the pains that life brings. Watching them struggle hurts more than your own suffering, and you desperately wish you could be their impenetrable armor.

Destroying old ways of thinking about yourself is like setting fire to a part of you that no longer serves your growth. It’s the beginning of a new relationship with yourself—one rooted in ease, acceptance, and the belief that you are worthy of a life that flows, rather than one you have to chase. You no longer have to force anything—you no longer have to fight for what’s not meant for you.

Our hands tell the story of our life’s work, etched in the lines, dirt and scars that mark their surface. They carry the weight of what we’ve held— tools, loved ones, responsibilities, dreams. The dirt beneath our nails shows how we’ve dug deep in desperation, trying to root ourselves in something that will last. We tend to our lives as gardens, expecting a bountiful feast as a reward. Yet, many times, we find ourselves at the final harvest with empty stomachs that can’t be filled.

Shedding, dissolving, enduring, waiting— we are no longer bound by gravity or sorrow. This is our time of rebirth— emerging rearranged to create the life we dream of.

Each piece of flower dyed fabric bears handwritten love letters from friends who, like me, have journeyed through similar experiences of loss, growth, and healing. The wings honor the radiant beauty of these friendships and the profound impact they’ve had on my healing journey— teaching me that I can be fully seen and fully loved. Together, we discovered the life-changing power of being truly seen in community, allowing ourselves to share our stories and support one another through every moment.

Years ago, I rescued her from a neighbor’s burn pile. Since then, she has been my ongoing project, constantly evolving—a reflection of myself. Her stomach has been cut out, her crown cut off. She’s grown antlers, been wrapped in plaster bandages, and left to endure the weather. Recently, I removed her crumbling bandages. Following the Japanese art of Kintsugi, I mended her cracks with gold, highlighting damage and repair rather than hiding it. Her stomach now holds the seed of potential and the story of her frustration with this endless process of “becoming”…    Cicadas have emerged from her gut, reborn and already in flight.

This once unimaginable, unattainable place is a living sanctuary. It bears endless, fragrant blooms where void wastelands once existed. Here, nothing is forced— hands lay delicately open to possibility. It is safe to embrace your truest feminine form— to unveil in the blossoming garden that is planted and tended to for your own delight.