From Behind the Mirror

Journal Reflections: Rose Journey, Cabo San Lucas, HerFestival 2025

As I sit in this secret—but not so secret—hotel courtyard of roses, birds, and bunnies, I feel gratitude. Relief. A touch of sadness and grief. And awe—deep, quiet awe. I’ve just completed a week of co-facilitating a retreat in Mexico, with Rose Medicine at my side.

This current pause in time—to integrate—has allowed me to feel the Sister Wound that surfaced, alongside the Mother Wound… and even the Grandmother Wound. Generational and familial scars rising to be seen, unearthed to be healed. Wounds long buried in time, found in this time.

We are held in our excavations. Guided by Rose.

She aided me personally, guiding me into the quiet truth of why I sometimes struggle to speak. Why my voice still goes silent. Why my light still tends to hide. Not always. But undeniably… sometimes.

This morning, I woke in a tender place—hovering between strength and vulnerability. My body, wise and watchful, revealed where I have gone soft—passive in my stance and hips. Rose medicine still lingered on my tongue.

As I stretched in bed, dissolving the aches from travel, I lifted my legs to the sky. I pointed and flexed my feet, feeling both weakness and restoration. Strength began to return, rising from my toes up and through, to my hips and spine.

My body offered me an image—me walking through Cabo sand, and later that day, through the airport aisles. I’ve been noticing this “flop” in my feet over the past few years. But suddenly, it clicked: Push back. Press into the Earth.

My mother’s voice echoed in my mind—all the times she’s said she never wants to “shuffle like an old person.” Okay… thank you, Mom, for the complaint. But I don’t want to shuffle either. I don’t want to move passively through this life. I’d rather claim my space. Stand in my strength.

But it’s not just the feet—it’s a state of being. A possum-like collapse. A dorsal vagal descent. My belly flops forward. My back pinches. My heart juts ahead as if my ego is hiding behind it. My throat remains exposed.

So I drop my chin with intention (Prana contained!) My heart returns to its rightful seat—not resting on the breastbone, but nestled along the spine, in the cave of my chest.

Welcome home, heart.

An old, veiled memory surfaces. A constellation of aha’s lights up my brain.
This ‘flopping’ isn’t aging.
It isn’t laziness.
It’s trauma.

This new stance—heart anchored in the chest—supports my reclamation of voice and power. This active choice, this container of strength, becomes a bridge from being opposumed… to being connected.

And then comes the deeper why.

I reflect on my offerings at HerFestival this year. I brought a unique and potent yoga/dance style that moves emotion while helping us reclaim strength. I call it Bala! Tantra—meaning strength + power. I also shared a rose potion and dried rose buds, used throughout the day and into our dreamtime.

These tools—along with the water and fire ceremonies and the deep healing sessions with Tia Ana Maria and Jean—invited memory. Not just for me. Many participants unearthed memories, uncovered patterns, and felt long-buried desires rising toward clarity.

So what to do about it?

Personally, Rose pierced my subconscious like stars appearing in the night sky. The light revealed what was still hidden, still tender. During one session, Tia Ana Maria dug deep into my hips and solar plexus. It felt like a gentle exorcism. So much cleared. So much became clear.

When I felt betrayed.
When I was bullied.
When the love I needed was given to my sisters.
When the love I longed for from my father was unrequited.
When the love I desired from my mother came distorted.
When my grandmother gaslit my truth.
When I was neglected, yelled at, controlled, abused.
When I was spied on and molested.
When my wounds were ignored. My story—dismissed.
When I had my voice used against me.
When I was left—unseen, unwanted, and forgotten.

I almost choke saying this—because I was choked.

But I whispered anyway. A child’s plea to her grandmother.
And she protected me.
But she also chose him.

Who chokes a two-year-old? A sick person.
Who protects the predator? A broken one.

I reclaim my power from when I was two and behind the mirror.
I rise like a phoenix, ash-covered and alight.
I embrace my dark Goddess self.
And in that darkness—I am whole.

Rose medicine guides me.
Her vibration lifts the veil—helping me remember, recognize, and reweave.

These old narratives—shadows on the gem of Self—do not define me.
I don’t carry them forward like a hobo’s pack slung over fate.

The new narrative is this:
I am alive.
I am not misunderstood.
Perhaps… I misunderstood my role—and that, I can change.

I can choose my response.
I can care—or not.
Speak—or not.

But now, if I choose silence, it’s mine. Not a compulsion. Not a freeze.

I no longer give others power over me.
I push back when others try to define me.

No more floppy feet.

I claim my body.
I claim my voice.
I claim this life.

I can now age gracefully.

I receive the starlight of grace, power, and wisdom—my birthright and my nature.

Thank you, Ancestor Isa… thank you, Ancestor Rose.