This is my Story
As a child, I grew up feeling unsafe and unheard. I experienced many forms of abuse and neglect. From the womb, I was plagued with inexplicable fear and shame that permeated my every cell.
At a very young age, I understood how to read a room and predict the emotions of others as a means of navigating my own safety, getting my needs met or at least trying. I spent so much time in this ethereal world, analysing energy, that I found myself really disconnected from the physical world. I spent most of my time floating outside of my body, feeling lost. Now I know, I was coping through dissociation strategies-- compartmentalising all my feelings into tiny boxes hidden so deep in my mind and body that I forgot they were ever even there.
Trauma manifested itself in my physical body, as trauma often does. I was diagnosed with Endometriosis by age 13 and by age 20 I had undergone 5 surgeries to mitigate the damage.
Life in the Hospital
In my early twenties, I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis and Crohn's Disease and spent 18 months in the hospital. Western medicine failed me in every possible way. In Canada, I had full medical coverage. I was in the Royal University Hospital in Saskatoon Saskatchewan for over a year. I was told I was receiving the best medical care available. This care would have cost well over a million dollars in the USA.
The treatments I received were violent and created unfathomable pain that never stopped. I became a test subject for experimental treatments which included multiple surgeries and a constant cocktail of aggressive medicines.
In the beginning, I had an ileostomy which my body rejected. This was followed by more drugs and more surgeries. I was given medications that included an accidental lethal potassium IV which caused me to flatline instantly. I was revived. But the chemical cocktails continued: chemotherapy, immunosuppressants, narcotics, antidepressants, benzodiazepines, and black-market drugs. All of which were prescribed and administered by my team of physicians.
More surgeries. More pills. More pain. More trauma. One day my stomach could not process anymore and my small intestine knotted until I was vomiting my own feces. My abdomen became grossly enlarged and my stomach quite literally exploded. By the time I found help, I was picking my own intestines off the floor.
As a result, I was inducted into a coma and went into another surgery. It was in that surgery where I died yet again and was brought back with life-saving intervention. This was the last time I would die under the care of this team of medical professionals -- because the universe intervened and decided that I needed to live. Maybe it was to tell this story.
Western Medicine Failed Me
I was 24 years old in November of 2004. I weighed 76 pounds and was discharged one week after my ninth surgery. The medical system had given up, so they sent me home to die. They told my mother I would not live to see Christmas. My mother was desperate to save me so we journeyed to Alberta and to the safety of my extended family. My Aunt was my first spiritual healer, she was a holistic therapist with specialties in massage, reiki, magnetic therapy, psychology, and many other modalities.
With her love, guidance, and education I began to journey into myself and begin my healing process.
Over the course of a year; I was able to regain enough strength to endure two more surgeries, which corrected some of the previous damage and enabled me to be able to have normal bowel movements without an external bag. My final surgeon was a gift. He was a doctor who spoke my language, teaching me how to fight for myself. His teachings set me back on a path to living. He refused to operate on me until I could come up with a reason as to why I should still be here and I was coming up blank. After experiencing all the emotions; starting with outrage at his arrogance,
I realized I had no idea why I deserved to live... but that I desperately wanted to. By the end of 2005, I was slowly getting stronger each day and there was a little light at the end of the tunnel . . .
My Love Story
I was 20 years old when I went on my first date with Scott. I knew at that moment that he was the love of my life. Our romance was perfect, a real “love story”.
After 2 years I was diagnosed and went into the hospital. Scott was my rock, not only for me but also for my mother. He supported both of us financially, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. He carried me through every twist and turn. He was the balance, always rational in the daily trauma and drama. He was patient and kind and he loved me unconditionally. He listened to my drug-induced calls, my tears, and endless fears and he never judged me for them.
After my discharge in November of 2004, Scott left his friends and family behind and moved to Calgary. He wanted to be with me every step of the way, as I got stronger in my recovery. In June of 2005, we were married. I was not strong enough to walk down the aisle, but Scott carried me down instead. The love and support from him during my crisis gave me the strength to keep fighting.
By the fall of 2005, our dreams were starting to come true. My health had reached a baseline and I was able to make enough space to engage in life. We had purchased a new home and celebrated our first Christmas. Each day, there was so much love — and little by little more normalcy.
My husband was killed in a car accident on January 9th 2006 . . .
and the following nine years I spent spiraling in grief.
The first two years after his death, I lived in a blur. I don’t remember once taking a full breath. The pain was always present. I was filled with rage, uncontrollable anger, deep misery, and blame. I blamed my society, cars, my mother, my friends. I blamed the world we live in and I blamed my husband. But most of all, I blamed myself.
Why him? Why not me? Why did the universe or God or whoever was in charge, keep me alive only to make me live like this?
All I wanted was for the suffering to end.
Over the next 7 years I spent time working backward; processing, healing, forgiving myself and others. Putting together the timeline of experiences and implantations that create the person I am today – I dove deeper into my spiritual journey, desperate to understand why this had all happened to me. Through this time of self-discovery, I experienced multiple modalities which helped me understand and accept my genetic blueprint and karmic soul lessons and heal myself inside and out.
How can you find yourself
if you don’t even know who you are?
There was no sudden moment that transformed me. No magic spell that restarted life.
My journey from heartbroken to healer was in a thousand small moments where I learned to reclaim myself using the tools I use today to help my clients heal.
A lifetime of health problems showed me that our western medical system is broken. It doesn’t prevent, only treats. It doesn’t heal the root, only tries to fix the symptom. It’s why I chose a healer's path, to help pass on the knowledge that saved my life.
It’s been over 10 years since my last severe symptom. I’ve found peace and acceptance by serving others with the sacred task of healing. I spend my days working with people who, like me, have spent too long-suffering. I help men and women dive into all their layers and discover the storylines that underly the path of true healing.
From shame and blame to RECLAMATION
We come into this world with a soul purpose covered up with layers of karmic lessons and genetic programming. It is up to us to discover how to remove those layers so we can truly become who we are destined to be.
My entire journey was and always has been around reclamation. Reclaiming my soul, reclaiming my story and my narrative; has brought an understanding of my history, my ancestors, my birth, and my deaths. When I learned the truths about my story, the knowing inside me clicked. It was in those answers, understanding my biological imprint — that I truly began to make sense of all the trauma I experienced throughout my life.
Discovering my truth set me free.
