I am an adoptee.
An adoptive mother.
A reweaver of what was severed.

I am here to tell the stories, make the medicine, and hold space for people navigating the in-between:
Between identities.
Between generations.
Between who they were and who they’re becoming.

This space is for all of that.
A blog, a ritual archive, a gathering place.

At this point in the summer, everything smells like campfire, chlorine, and essential oils.
We’ve been hugging family, meeting babies, restocking balms, swimming with cousins, eating too much sugar, and chasing joy across the Oregon coast.

And in the middle of it all?
I got to witness my brother become a grandfather.
I got feedback on my skincare from the people who love me most.
I remembered that my work and my life are braided, not separate.

This summer is respite and roots. An unraveling of the year.

A reminder to be here.

We stepped away from screens this week and into something far more magical: a creekside camp, crackling fire, and the kind of joy you can only find barefoot in the woods.

What if blooming didn’t mean overworking? What if beauty could be gentle?

The nervous system is our body’s communication highway. It tells us when to retreat, when to rise, and when it’s safe to rest. But most of us were never taught how to listen to it. We were taught to override it.

Rose doesn’t promise to take your pain away.
She promises to sit beside it.
To whisper beauty back into your bones.

There is a reason she comes with thorns.
Love and grief live side by side.

But the petals — oh, the petals — they still bloom.
And so do we.

What started as simple massage oils for my clients became a full-body dive into herbalism, aroma chemistry, skincare formulation, and energetic layering. I don’t just make “products” — I make experiences.

I created a healing business—and then nearly forgot how to rest.

This is the story of how I found myself on the edge of rage, made my own balm, and began reclaiming the rituals that bring me home to myself. It's about dark baths, lake walks, perimenopause, and refusing to perform rest while quietly burning out.

This is my own damn balm. And it’s working.

I submitted two personal pieces to No More Margins, a literary journal amplifying Black women writers. These stories explore my journey of self-reclamation, from being a brown girl in a white world to standing fully in my reflection. This blog shares the heart of that submission—and what liberation means in layers.

When you intentionally engage with scent, you're not just calming your nervous system (though that’s powerful, too). You’re creating a ritual: a pause, a presence, a point of connection. You’re saying to your spirit, “You matter. This moment matters. Come home.”

Born from a mother's hands and heart, Monkey Balm was crafted to soothe life's bruises — a ritual of healing that grew into a living legacy.

Begin your day with a simple sacred practice — a soft return to your body, your breath, and the earth beneath you.

The ritual begins: I approach the mirror from the right, a cautious sideways slide into my own reflection.
First, just my head and shoulder appear — a dark brown eye registering shock, then settling into uncomfortable acknowledgment.

This was how I learned to see myself: not head-on, but in partial glimpses.