The thread of my becoming.

Dear one,

Perhaps you too have felt it — the ache of becoming.
The unraveling that makes no sense in the moment.
The grief that feels like too much to carry.
The strange callings that pull you far from home, only to circle you back again. and again. and again.

This is the thread of my becoming. And perhaps, as you read, you will feel the resonance of your own.

From the time I was a little girl, I was drawn to mystery. Stones and crystals filled my hands, the unseen called to me, and I knew there was always more than what the eyes could see. I would whirl in red skirts, dancing tarantellas with my family late into the night, heart wide, body alive in celebration. There was a sense of belonging then, through music, food, and tradition.

By sixteen, I began to turn away. I tried to fit into a world that asked me to mute the parts of myself that felt too wild, too Italian, too loud. But the whispers of Spirit never really left, and life had its way of circling me back to what I already knew deep down.

In my twenties, I travelled, danced between pilgrimage and play, discovery and unbecoming. India cracked me wide open to Spirit. Italy reawakened my love for culture and roots. Croatia, Switzerland, Thailand expanded my vision of life and community. Later, Bali, Hawai‘i, Sedona, Vanuatu, and New Zealand became portals that reminded me of earth’s raw sacredness and her devotion. Most recently, Turkey, Greece, and Italy again, each one calling me back not just as a seeker, but as a woman carrying codes of remembrance.

At twenty-seven, after already carving out stability through property and business, I married my love. It hadn’t been an easy path to reach that point, but with grit, tenacity, and the codes imprinted from my lineage, I had “made it.” I was high on life, balancing a thriving business, an active social life, and heart-expanding experiences. Soon after, I stepped into what I now know as the dark night of the soul, though at the time I didn’t realise it. I powered through as my ancestors did, allowing each fall but never letting it take me out completely.

By twenty-nine, I was pregnant. What should have been joy became a harrowing initiation as I bled endlessly, my life and my child’s life hanging in the balance. At the very same time, my beloved zio died in a sudden accident. As if tethered, my bleeding stopped the moment he passed, and I carried my son, Kyius, full-term. Later, we would discover he had a rare blood disorder, the very same my zio likely carried. I began to sense the threads between life and death, how his departure may have opened the way for this new life to arrive.

The years that followed brought more loss, more pregnancies that slipped away. All while running a business, growing, and holding others in their journeys. My fertility path became initiation. It grounded me in the divine intelligence of the body, expanded my emotional intelligence, and deepened my knowing of hair — not as strands, but as memory, energy, and lineage. My zio continued to visit me in dreams and visions, reminding me I was guided, tethering me to Spirit.

Grief became my greatest teacher. It cracked me open to compassion, teaching me to turn pain into prayer. More initiations came. Illness. More loss. The pandemic. And then walking my beloved friend across the rainbow bridge, midwifing her through death as I had midwifed life. It was an honour, a privilege, and it taught me that my role is not only to hold beginnings, but endings too.

This was not my first encounter with cancer. Over the years I have lost many dear ones, and in my work I’ve often been the one to hold clients as we shaved their hair. Each time it was a rite of passage, a devastating and holy moment where we spoke of resilience, healing, and beauty beyond the surface. These experiences shaped me. They taught me why I hold hair with such reverence — because it is never just hair. It is identity, memory, energy, and becoming.

Loss after loss drew me deeper into inquiry. Into self responsibility. Into emotional intelligence as a way of living. They led me to study neuroscience and the body, to understand how grief imprints itself in the nervous system, how breath and ritual can unlock healing, how cacao and the simple act of presence can restore us.

It was in this space that Inanna came. Fierce. Demanding. She stripped me bare and asked me to meet the sacred rage, the wild feminine, the places I had avoided. She showed me the futility of clinging to outdated ways of working, living, and loving. She demanded I dissolve what no longer served. And so I did. It was here I learnt to trust. To surrender cycles that had to end. To let myself be undone so I could rise again.

This is how I came to know myself as a cycle breaker. Often the black sheep, the one willing to walk through fire, carrying both the burden and the blessing of change. It is not an easy title to hold, but it is one that leads to joy, to freedom, to healing. Generational wounds, once locked in the ribcage of those before us, began to stir and unlock. Breath and cacao became my keys. They softened the locks, opened my chest, restored ancestral memory, and showed me that the body itself is the altar, the lineage, the map.

This year, my forty-fourth, a master number, the call came again. To Turkey. To Greece. And then to Italy. I noticed other women arriving too, drawn by invisible threads. We were being called to sacred sites, to footsteps of priestesses and Mary, to pottery shaped by ancestors’ hands, to whispers of survival and devotion. I could feel something sacred stirring.

And then came the vision.

On July 30th, during breathwork, my cousin appeared — the one who had died while I was in India. He guided me to Italy, where my zio was waiting. He welcomed me, led me through the rooms of the family home, and brought me to my nonna Maria. She sat in her chair, stern eyes fixed on me: “You have not yet fulfilled your task. Do you see why we guided you to Turkey and Greece? To the lands where Mary and the priestesses walked barefoot? You were gathering codes.”

Then Mary appeared, radiant. Light and rose codes streamed into me, shaking my body, opening me wider. She showed me the fountain at the centre of our land, a crystal grid unfurling, ancient trees, and whispered: heal the land, and the land will heal you. Three names were given, cousins who were to walk beside me. At first, I resisted. But Spirit reminded me: responsibility is not burden, it is the ability to respond.

Within days, I was back in Italy. At the fountain, we gathered, four granddaughters carrying what was lost. My cousin, my zio’s son, stood with us as the Divine Masculine, holding a rose from his father’s garden. With tenderness he scattered petals over us before offering the rose back to the land where his father had died.

Together we prayed with cacao, laid crystals in a sacred grid, and pressed our hands into the earth. Tears poured as grief moved through us — generations of it — and then softened, leaving only grace. We washed our hands in the fountain, drank its water, and sealed the ceremony with purification. Days later my father and eighty-year-old aunt planted the final crystals. The circle closed. A five-generation thread complete.

I am and always will be a student, of nature, beauty, neuroscience, astrology, art, teachers, and mentors who remind me of joy. I don’t hold on tightly to their words but allow them to move me, clear me, guide me closer to truth.

What happened at the fountain in Italy is what I now hold for others: the remembering, the release, the return. There is so much more to this story, so many moments that have had me on my knees both in prayer and in gratitude. My story is one thread, but it is woven with yours.

This is why I do the work I do. Why I tend hair as energy and lineage. Why I create spaces for women to soften, to remember, to return. Why I ritualise the everyday, weaving ceremony into what might otherwise seem ordinary.

Each session in the studio, each circle, each gathering, carries the threads of this path, grief transmuted into prayer, beauty rooted in truth, remembrance as medicine. Whether I am tending crowns, guiding a cacao journey, or co-creating ceremony, my work is an extension of this lived becoming.

If your heart feels the pull, you are welcome to journey with me. To sit in circle, to be held in ritual, to rest in the chair where hair, heart, and lineage are honoured together. To join us in the Embodied Artist or Sacred She gathering, or to step into the studio and experience what it means to be tended in devotion.

This is the thread of my becoming. And it is the work I now hold for others, the remembering, the release, the return.