Some truths can’t be uncovered until the body screams them out. This piece is part two of a multi-part series from my solo shadow work ritual week in Port Ludlow. It explores what happened during my plant medicine journey—and what emerged through my body before my mind could understand.
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This summer, I took myself on a solo shadow-work week to Port Ludlow — no distractions, no performance, just me, the forest, and the sea. What unfolded was one of the most honest and unfiltered descents I’ve ever walked into. Brutal at times. Sacred at others. All of it necessary.
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There’s a version of love that isn’t really love. It looks like caretaking, sounds like devotion—but underneath is exhaustion, imbalance, and the ache of never being met. This is for anyone who’s tired of performing connection.
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This is raw. Pulled straight from my journal. I didn’t write it to be neat—I wrote it to remember what safety actually is.
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We both tried to be the “right shape” for each other. But the cost of fitting in was the death of truth. This is what happens when the whispers become screams—and you realize you’re the only one who can save yourself.
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I thought I knew who I was. But the second plant medicine journey showed me otherwise. What I called “me” was mostly masks—versions shaped to survive, not to be true. This piece isn’t about clarity or resolution. It’s about the hollow aftermath of unraveling. About the 90% that wasn’t mine—and the 10% seed that still is.
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Somewhere between the manufactured laughter and the scripted rhythms, I saw my own reflection—the social scripts, the roles, the performance. The moment you see it’s fake, you can’t unsee it.
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A drive from Santa Fe to Abiquiú became a reckoning — with the myths we’ve been told, the truths we’ve buried, and the freedoms we’ve stolen in the name of progress.
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Where the body exhales and spirit inhales. A whispered remembering from the threshold of land and sea.
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Some connections defy reason. They’re not just close—they’re sacred. You feel whole when they’re near. And when they leave, something in you aches like they died. Even when they haven’t. This is a reflection on that kind of soul-bond— the kind that splits you across lifetimes and tethers you to someone in inexplicable ways.
