Reflecting on where it all began is a powerful reminder of how far we’ve come. Especially in moments when we feel stuck or uncertain, looking back can reveal the progress we've made. There's always a pivotal moment in our journey where we can pinpoint our momentum and growth. 

Today is one of those moments in time that I know I will reflect on as a pivotal time that encouraged growth and determination. Today as I share this with you, Our Darling Emma, who would be 40 today. We are days away from a year without her. She was the greatest sounding board, never holding back from the truth, a daily reminder that life is too fucking short to let the hard things weigh you down.

The truth is, Emma’s stubbornness and fierce determination are what fuelled me to bring this to life. She never let me sit in my own shadows for long. She believed in rising. In moving. In doing the damn thing—even if it hurt.

We all grieve differently.
I’ve chosen to turn my grief into creation.
Because if this year has taught me anything, it's that life is too short not to.

Today, I honour you my darling Emma by living and sharing my truth. One that I am so grateful that you were there by my side every step of the way. 

My moment it all began; when I became a Mum, and the only thing I had mentally prepared for was the birth. I had been training my mind and body for birth since we decided that we would try for a baby. I think back now to how naïve, and emotionally immature I was. I had never had much to do with children or babies, it didn’t look too hard on the outside. And if it was really that hard, why would people go back for more? Honestly, that was my mindset.

Fast forward to birth, another story for another time. I spent 5 days in hospital and not 1 hour of that was spent alone with just me and my girl. It was busy, I was on such a high (From the drugs and oxytocin) visitors day and night, sometimes up to 10 at a time. It was beautifully full noise, just the way I liked it. Everyone came to celebrate and shower us and our girl. It didn’t stop. When we got home, those first 6 weeks were a blur of people coming and going. Stopping in, dropping off food, stop for cuddles and cuppas. I thought it was wonderful, and I was delusional into thinking this is what life would be like with a baby.

All of a sudden, the visitors stopped, life got very quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. I didn’t realise that my husband had asked for people to give us space. I was horrified. Unbeknownst to me, he saw the cracks, he could sense I was on the verge of a break down – he’d seen the signs before. I on the other hand, was oblivious. I felt fine, tired yes, I was loving the attention (Distraction) and love of having company. It was my connection to the outside world- as my world had become very small and incredibly overwhelming. My inner world began to become loud - The constant chatter to myself, "You are small and insignificant."

My connection to the outside world was starting to feel hard to keep up with. Everyone else was continuing on with their lives, going to work, being social, going to the gym, running and swimming. Yet my life was becoming overwhelmingly small and confined to my home. Isolated - alone with a baby and my own thoughts. 

I’d felt this way before, but this time I had a baby to take care of. Those cracks that Dig saw, were now wide open, raw and I began to crumble. I tried my best to keep up with the social calendar, but as Primrose grew, the harder it felt and the more isolated I began to feel because I couldn’t keep up and do what everyone else was doing. I tried, but the more I tried to continue, the worse I felt. My tolerance to everything was a short fuse, I felt embarrassed. I was forgetful and distracted, I had zero energy to keep up and I this baby that needed to be attached to me, I couldn’t keep up with the crowd anymore. Resentment sank in. This was a feeling that was new... and terrifying.

I missed my old life.

I didn't feel safe in my body, I didnt' feel safe in my mind. There were day's that I was scared of myself. The darkest thoughts I’ve ever experienced in my life. Thoughts I never thought possible for myself. I had just gotten Primrose down to sleep, Dig and I sitting on the couch one night. He had been reading a story which he needed to share with me. A story of a woman who had suffocated her nine-month-old baby. My first thought? That poor mother. Before I could stop myself, I said it out aloud. Dig knew that I had been struggling to adapt to motherhood, but in that moment, he saw just how much. Trying to make sense of what I said, he instantly tried to fix – it’s what they do, bless him. Offering to take Primrose to work, move out to his mum and dad for help. The guilt and embarrassment I felt for sharing my thoughts. Imprinted that I was in fact, an awful human being and deserved to feel the weight of those heavy feelings. 

The truth is, I resonated so deeply with that mother, I heard a story of a mother who had gone over the edge, isolated, and obviously traumatised and with her own story of trauma. She felt to me so overwhelmed and consumed in her isolation, trauma and sleep deprivation (a form of torcher). I had heard of Post-partum psychosis, may be that had consumed her and she had no willpower to stop. That was what I had imagined, as I had felt myself close to the edge.

I’ve been in that dark place, thankfully for some reason I was still able to hold a firm ground before tipping over the edge. Trying to get the baby to sleep, just wanting some time to yourself, overstimulated from being touched 80% of the day. I was in such a state that I couldn’t think clearly. I reached a point that I understood why people shake their babies. That’s a really hard thing to admit, and extremely confronting. But I have to be honest. I knew deep down that I would never act on it, but I understood why and how it could happen so quickly. 

Sleep deprivation, and my own childhood flashbacks all became incredibly confronting. I didn’t feel safe, safe to be alone, safe in my body. I was trying so hard to keep a brave face and to keep up with our social circle, but the years of personal neglect, negative self talk, and realising that I never felt safe in my own body to express myself. I was convinced that I deserved to feel this way, a form of punishment for the ugly thoughts that consumed my mind. My daughter and husband didn't deserve this, but I did. 

I would drink alcohol most nights just be able to “feel” something, some nights a whole bottle of wine. On the outside I tried to keep it together, to show a face of a woman thriving in motherhood, inside was a very different story. If I veered off the “face” of having it together and open up about how I was feeling, I was either palmed off – embarrassed and sometimes felt misunderstood. This was something that I had to accept; this was my new normal. No normal person would have such dark thoughts.

I lost my sense of self. I withdrew. The negative cycles of self talk, feelings of resentment, shame, guilt spiralled out of control and I became consumed.

The resentment fuelled my disconnection from my baby, from myself and my husband. I became hypervigilant. The rage that came over me without any warning. Rage that made me feel so ashamed and riddled with guilt, was scary. I would act without having any control over my person. This belief system was clear though, the stories that I told myself became self-destructive; I am a horrible person, I am horrible mother, I am a horrible friend. “I am going to fuck up my girl!” I knew it. I wasn’t meant to be a mum, I’m too selfish to be a mother.

My attempt to Sleep train exacerbated everything I was feeling. Everyone did it with their kids, I believed it was something that I had to do too. 3 weeks of trying everything except Cry it out, in the end, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let my girl cry on her own. She just wouldn’t sleep without me “helping her”. I remember my midwife saying to me at 8 weeks postnatal – breast feeding was a bad sleep association. She reiterated what I had already been telling myself. I am a bad mother, something is wrong with me, and there is something wrong with my baby. Breastfeeding was the only thing I felt “good at” – I still miss it. And it is the only way my girl would sleep.

I found myself driving some days, for hours to get Prim to sleep. Some separation. One weekend, Dig was trying his best to help me. I had been enraged, trying for hours prior to get Prim to sleep. During our drive the conversation became heated and the car all of a sudden became very small, and I couldn’t breathe. I had an out of body experience, and I needed to get out of the car. I began to yell at him to stop the car. He wouldn’t - we were in the middle of the highway. My mind began to spiral and my body began to shake. I remember thinking, “I would rather Die by jumping out of this car at 100k/hr than be in here for 1 more minute!” And I almost did. I almost opened the door. It was the second time in my life I had contemplated suicide. In that moment, I believed that the world, my family would be better off if I wasn’t in it. I deserved no place in it.

When Primrose was 5 months old, I was in another fit of rage. She was not having a bar of going to bed, she needed more from me and I couldn’t give her what she so desperately needed, I had nothing left. The more I pushed her away, the stronger she pulled herself towards me. I did not want her anywhere near me anymore, but at the same time I knew she needed me and I could not physically remove myself from the situation. She was crying, and I started screaming at her, hitting her on her nappy. My husband walked in and tried to take over. It was another one of those out of body experience's. I just couldn’t let go, I wouldn’t give her to Dig - it was my job to calm her, but could not see that I was not calm myself. I eventually very forcefully handed her to dig. I stormed outside completely overwhelmed in my thoughts.

Then, my phone rang. The news that our beautiful friends had just lost their daughter in an accident. I fell to the floor, falling with shame, guilt, and confusion but also for the first time seeing my privilege. 

I had the privilege of being with my daughter trying to put her to sleep, she was alive. What they wouldn't give to be in my shoes in that moment.

Ashamed of my behaviour towards my daughter, and confused, why was this happening to such amazing people. What they would give to be in this position, their baby was gone. I could still hold mine. 

That moment changed me forever as a mother. Motherhood is a tender, complex journey—one that I was taking for granted.

One of those pivotal moments in time, those experiences that happen in our lives that shake you to your core. It wasn’t fair, or ok to continue in these behaviours. Our friends were suffering in deep grief, and we had the privilege of being with our girl every day. I had to change. Our children are a mirror to our inner self, and if I was going to continue to have these beliefs, and behave this way I really was going to “f**k up my family”.

I had been to talk therapy before; it was time to try again. I’ve always having this deep knowing that I wanted more out of life, that these behaviours weren’t “mine” but passed down through family behaviours and conditioning. I didn’t want to be this person anymore.

There was a quiet voice within me—nudging, whispering, asking for something more. I wanted to show up differently. To grow into a more present version of myself. A softer mother. A woman no longer weighed down by stories that weren’t mine to carry.

I knew I had the chance to shift something. To gently lay down the patterns passed through generations. Not because my mother—or her mother—failed, but because it was time to choose another way.

If you would like to know more about Generational Trauma you can find more information here: https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-integenerational-trauma-5211898

There was a deep knowing within me—not just a desire, but a quiet truth—that my daughter deserved more. I longed to raise her with a stronger sense of self, to help her build belief systems rooted in confidence, self-expression, and safety in her own body. I wanted to do things differently—for her, for us.

In those early years, I gave everything I had. I showed up with all the capacity I could handle at the time. But often, in trying so hard to get it “right,” or "perfect" I’d push myself past my limits. I burned the candle at both ends. I'd be so busy trying so hard that I'd neglect myself and my own needs (the belief that my needs didn't matter). And the harder I tried, the more it felt like I was falling short—like I was letting her down, letting myself down, letting my husband down.

There were moments I had nothing left to give. And yet, I kept trying—because the love was always there, in it's own ways, even when the energy wasn’t.

The harder I tried, the more I withdrew. Likely because of my own neglect. I withdrew from my husband. I withdrew from My Baby. I withdrew from society. I withdrew from myself. I was in survival and deep depression. I’d been on any depressants before, and I hated the way they made me feel, or not feel so to speak. They can make you feel numb, zero emotions, zero joy, just living a mediocre life. I had to try them again as I was lost, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought to myself; “this is what I have to do. Live a mediocre life, because it's what I deserved."

Fast forward, along my second daughter. I knew what to expect now, I knew I needed time alone with just as a family to connect, recover and heal. The recovery with Scarlett was harder. Everything felt harder this time around. I was a bit older. I was carrying a lot of weight. And had been neglecting my own needs even more for the last 2 1/2 years.

After she was born I threw myself into being the best mother I possibly could and I withdrew from my husband even more, abstaining from any sexual contact or connection for 18 months. I remember thinking, I wouldn’t blame him if he left me. I don’t even want to be with me, why would anyone else want too? I threw myself into being a mother. I felt more of a connection; it felt more natural this time around. I was a lot calmer and nurturing towards my girls, though I still struggled physically and mentally. The guilt and shame around my behaviours when I first became a mother. I wished that I could have given this to my first daughter, I continued to neglect myself and avoid processing them.

A year after Scarlett was born, I became sick with bacterial meningitis. I was in hospital for a week on antibiotics. Once I got out, the symptoms never went away. For more than six months, I was back and forth to the doctors. Only to be told that there was nothing wrong. I even went to Brisbane to have a colonoscopy and an endoscopy to see if I had an auto immune disease.

So I went on, neglecting, avoiding my feelings and emotions, trying my best to continue a "normal" life. After likely complaining to a friend, she recommended me a book; “The postnatal depletion cure” by Oscar Serrellach. https://www.droscarserrallach.com/

That book changed my life – I now understood what people meant when they said.
Knowledge is power."

When I first came across his book, it was like he had written it just for me. Every word felt like it had been pulled straight from my own experience. Every symptom he described—I had them all. It was as if, for the first time, someone truly saw me.

That’s when it clicked.
I wasn’t just depressed—I was depleted. Deeply depleted. And suddenly, it all made sense. The fog, the fatigue, the sense that something just wasn’t right. For the first time in a very long time, I felt something shift. I felt hope.

I knew I needed Oscar in my life. I needed to be on his radar. So I reached out to his clinic—and that moment became the beginning of my healing journey.

For the first time since becoming a mother, I felt like someone was actually listening. Not just to my symptoms, but to me—the whole person beneath the exhaustion. Oscar was deeply passionate about helping women recover from postnatal depletion. He didn’t want to hand me another prescription for antidepressants—he wanted to help me heal the root cause.

And again, I felt hope.
I remember crying with relief after our first session. The way I’d been feeling—it wasn’t just in my head. It wasn’t normal. And life is too short to feel that unwell, that unseen.

He ran bloods, assessed my nutrients, and placed me on a full recovery protocol. And he was right. I was completely and utterly depleted—anaemic, on the verge of diabetes, missing vital B vitamins, severely deficient in Vitamin D… the list went on. I can’t even remember them all. But my body was waving every red flag—and finally, someone noticed.

Oscar and I also spoke about my lifestyle and family history. He explained the long-term impact of living in a constant state of stress—how elevated cortisol over time can wear down the nervous system and slowly chip away at the body’s ability to heal.

Until that moment, I hadn’t fully realised I was living in a continuous state of fight-or-flight. I had normalised it. I’d been holding so much for so long that I forgot what calm even felt like. And yet, everything he said made so much sense—my immune system, my fatigue, my inability to bounce back… it was all connected.

I was fascinated. He wasn’t just treating isolated symptoms or handing me a prescription—he was seeing me as a whole person. And together, we began the process of healing my entire system, not just managing the pain.

One of my biggest goals was to eventually come off antidepressants—and to never need them again. I was done with feeling numb. Done with just existing. I wanted to know what it was like to feel alive in my body.

That’s when he began speaking to me about the nervous system and somatic healing. He talked about the importance of movement—especially gentle, intentional movement—as a way to regulate and reset the body’s stress response. I’d always loved moving when I had the energy… and something about what he was saying just landed. It felt like the most natural place to begin.

Not long after, I had a moment I’ll never forget.
Primrose woke up at 4am one morning and asked to watch TV. A few days earlier, she’d been telling me about the Cosmic Kids yoga sessions they’d been doing at kindy. So I said to her, “If we’re going to watch something, let’s do yoga.”

There was no way I was going to sit through cartoons in the dark at 4am, waiting for the rest of the house to wake up. To my surprise, she agreed.

Something shifted that morning on my lounge room floor. It was a beginning—of movement, of reconnection, of love and excitement.

I remember thinking, WOW -This is amazing! I felt so good, not only because I was moving my body, but also sharing this precious time with Prim.

Before having kids, movement was a huge part of my life. I was at the gym every day—training in big groups, feeding off the energy and connection. I competed in triathlons, and when I wasn’t at the gym, I was out running, cycling or swimming. I moved my body in some way, every single day. I didn't realise how much I missed moving. 

When life shifted and Dig was out the door by 5:30am and didn’t get home until after 6pm. The rhythm of my life completely changed. And slowly, without even realising, movement slipped away.

That morning on my lounge room floor I missed this. The way it felt to move. Not just physically, but emotionally. It was like something inside me woke up.

What surprised me most was that I didn’t need to go to the gym or have people around me—I just missed the feeling of moving.
I used to believe I needed a group to feel motivated, to be held accountable. But that morning, moving on my own, I felt something deeper: freedom. I didn’t need anyone else to validate what I was doing. I just needed to move—for me.

Yoga became the thing I could come back to everyday. It helped me connect to my breath.
It allowed me to tune into my own body, rather than compare myself to others. 

It wasn’t about chasing external motivation anymore. It was this new sense of reconnecting to myself, from the inside out.

Some days it was 10 minutes, some days 45. I moved with what I had. And the more I moved, the more I noticed a shift—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. I was sleeping better. I had more energy. My thoughts were clearer. I could breathe deeper. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was coming back to life.

I started getting up before the rest of the house—just 20 to 45 quiet minutes to myself. Sometimes, little footsteps would wander in and join me. They’d play, lie beside me, or even fall back asleep. This became our gentle morning rhythm.

And I realised something that hit me hard:
Not long ago, if my kids interrupted me during something like this, I would’ve felt furious. That frustration would have me in a fit of rage. But here I was, just being in the present moment and enjoying this time together. Letting them be part of it. Something was shifting inside me.

I was no longer just treating symptoms. I was healing, on a deeper level, an unexpected level. 

This wasn’t just about getting stronger or more toned—although I did start to notice those changes too. This was about building a new relationship with myself. With my body. With my mornings. With my mind.

And even now, as I write this, I can still feel the goodness of that season beginning. After so much suffering… something had finally started to shift.

I was no longer just surviving. I was beginning to feel, something that I was not used too—physically, mentally, emotionally.

I was changing. Evolving. Not just in my body, but in my thoughts. The fog that had wrapped around me for so long was starting to clear. I could think more clearly. The things I’d learned in therapy—the tools, the language, the awareness—My capacity to hold onto this information began resurfacing in quiet, powerful ways. They no longer felt like distant concepts. They felt like choices I could actually make and put into place. This new sense of awareness was incredible. 

After a few more consults with Dr Oscar, I began fasting—carefully and closely guided by his expertise. This part of my journey is deeply personal, and it’s not something I share as advice or recommendation. But for me, under his supervision, it became a key part of my healing.

My symptoms continued to improve, and in just over three months, I released 20kg of weight I had carried for years—not just physically, but emotionally and energetically. And while that was significant, it wasn’t the most important change.

What mattered most was that life itself was becoming brighter. I was seeing myself—and the world around me—with a clarity I'd never experienced.

I started to recognise the habits and behaviours I’d been stuck in. Patterns I hadn’t questioned, or maybe avoided. Stories I’d absorbed and worn as my identity. And for the first time, I could see the ripple effects—not only on me, but on my family too.

After four to six months of consistent care, I reached a milestone I had long dreamed of:
I came off antidepressants.
And I’ve stayed off them ever since.

That was a turning point.
Not just physically, but spiritually.

Everything was lifting, feeling lighter and freer. A voice inside me—once neglected and buried—was growing stronger. And it wasn’t just saying “I want more.” It was reminding me: “You’re safe now."

Unlearning habits and behaviours that had been passed down through generations takes time. Takes presence, and it's facing the hard truths.

And the truth is, it got harder before it got easier.

I was confronted by parts of myself I hadn’t wanted to see. Emotional reactions I didn’t know how to hold. Behaviours I had once justified. I had to face my emotional immaturity, my avoidance, my defensiveness.

But I didn’t run from it—not this time.

Because I finally understood something I’d heard so many times before but never truly believed:
There is light in the darkness.

Unlearning generational patterns is the hardest, most rewarding work I’ve ever done. And with every storm, every uncomfortable truth, every unraveling… something beautiful began to grow in its place.

I wasn’t just healing.
I was becoming.

Early in my healing journey, something happened.
Something I’ve only ever shared with a select few because it felt so personal, so spiritual, I wasn’t sure how to put it into words. 

I was working with a bush flower essence practitioner at the time. She gave me an exercise: write a letter to your younger self.

It took me days to start. The idea of facing her—the version of me who’d been through so much—was terrifying. But eventually, I sat down and let my hands move freely across the page. If you’re familiar with it, it was like free-hand writing. Not overthinking, just allowing what needed to be said to come through.

When I finished, I read it to myself, folded it, and tucked it away somewhere safe.

The very next day, I was outside watering the garden. The girls were playing nearby. My eldest came up to me, and she started to speak—but it wasn’t just conversation.

She began saying the exact words I had written in that letter. Word for word. As if she was reading it back to me. She was 3, and couldn't read. 

I froze. I couldn’t understand what was happening. It felt surreal, unnerving, and incredibly sacred, all at once.

In that moment, I felt something shift that I couldn’t explain.
So I did the only thing I could think to do—I reached out to a woman I’d recently met. A hypnotherapist. Someone a mutual friend had told me, “You just have to meet her.”

Her voice, her presence, her trust in the unseen—all of it grounded me. She spoke with such calm certainty about the spiritual world, about the threads we can’t always see but can definitely feel. I didn’t have to explain everything to her. She just understood on a level I couldn't. 

And the very next morning, I woke up to a different world.

The light outside looked brighter.
My vision was sharper, clearer—as though someone had cleaned the lens through which I viewed the world.
And inside? Inside I felt… joy.

Not the fleeting kind. Not the performative kind. But something overwhelming and all-encompassing. A love so big it felt like my heart could burst—and if it did, there would be glitter everywhere.

Even now, as I write this, I can still feel that moment. That wave of gratitude and love. Not just for the beautiful things—but for all of it. The heartbreak. The grief. The breaking. The rebuilding. It was all part of it.

I know it might sound unbelievable. But that morning, I woke up as someone new.
Like a Rebirth. And I knew, without a doubt, that life was never going to be the same again—in the most beautiful way possible.

Fast forward to now—I'm heading into my second year of teaching yoga, and I often talk about how this practice can change your life. But the truth is, yoga was just the tip of the iceberg for me.

I’ve always been active. Sport has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The only thing I haven’t tried is bodybuilding—and honestly, I’m still young, there’s time! Movement is our bodies natural language. 

Yoga brought it all together. What I've learnt along the way I wish I had known years ago. 

This feeling of deep gratitude—one that lives right in my chest, ready to burst—has completely changed the way I move through the world. I find myself more present, more aware of my habits and how they ripple through my life, more conscious of the way I respond, and more compassionate in the way I understand others.

Yoga was the beginning of that shift. It helped me rebuild and reconnect with my body from the inside out.
But the real transformation didn’t come from doing handstands or touching my toes—it came from learning how to breathe again. Consciously. Gently. Fully.

Your breath is your life force. And learning how to be with it—to use it—has been one of the greatest gifts yoga has given me.

Looking back, I wish I had these tools when I was younger. I’ve always been active, always moved my body, but back then it was all output. Go harder, train longer, move faster. Now I see it so differently. Those experiences were part of my path, yes—but I understand now that transformation doesn’t come from intensity or urgency.

It comes from presence. From practice. From compassion.

This is why I became a yoga teacher. Not just because it keeps me physically strong and healthy, but because it has completely rewired my nervous system and expanded my capacity to navigate life with clarity and calm. I don’t react the way I used to. I no longer live on edge or feel consumed by emotional outbursts and rage I didn’t understand.

In hindsight, I can see how emotionally immature I was—not from lack of effort, but from years of physical and emotional neglect. I didn’t know how to hold knowledge, how to retain it or believe in it, because deep down, I didn’t believe I was worthy of it. I had no real emotional intelligence, no tools to process or express what I was carrying.

But once my body came out of that constant fight-or-flight state, I could finally feel what it meant to be truly present. To be alive in the moment. To feel joy—not as a fleeting spark, but as something that lived in me. Real happiness. Real gratitude.

And now, it’s an experience I want to return to every day for the rest of my life.

We get to start over every day. And if this year has taught me anything, that waking up everyday to start over is the beauty of it.
When I first began practicing yoga, it was simply a way to move my body again. And it still is—because I need to move. Whether it’s yoga, walking, or (recently) Pilates—movement is my medicine.

Because if we don’t move our bodies, we not only lose connection to them, but we stop moving all together.

But what yoga taught me was that movement isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. It’s energetic.
When we move with intention, when we breathe with awareness, we come home to ourselves.

As Louise Hay so beautifully said:
“There is power in the present moment.”

And that’s where everything changes.

The lessons I’ve learned on the mat have rippled out into every corner of my life—more than any other physical activity I’ve ever done.

Last year was the first year in my adult life that I didn't burnout. No hospital visits (Other than an elective surgery). No major illnesses. That is not lost on me.

I was once a woman who had completely lost herself. Who had to break in order to find her way back. And not just find her way—but rebuild it from the ground up. Piece by piece, keeping only what truly belonged to me, and releasing what no longer served.

What I’ve built since then is my foundation. And every day I show up and strengthen it.
It’s a commitment I make to myself—over and over again.

And it all began with one simple decision:
To move. Because moving my body felt good.

My family is my why. They are my reason to keep going. My reason to live fully. They are the anchor that reminds me to keep growing, healing, and showing up.

That moment—when everything shifted—was powerful.

And it became the heartbeat behind what I would go on to create.

A program.
A reclamation.
A rising.

Rise & Shine.

If you’ve read this far—thank you. I’m deeply grateful.
This wasn’t an easy story to write. But writing it made me feel inspired and alive. Grateful to be alive. Grateful for my support networks near and far, and my darling who is with me always in spirit. I breathe your courage everyday. 

Because this—this story—is what birthed Rise & Shine.
A program I wish I had during those hardest years. A space I would have clung to when I was lost in the fog.

Rise & Shine is more than a program—it’s an invitation to return to yourself. It’s been created from five years of personal experience, study, healing, and truth.

It’s for the woman who feels lost.
Who’s forgotten who she is.
Who knows she wants more—but doesn’t know where to begin.
Maybe you’ve tried everything and nothing’s landed.
Maybe this story feels familiar.

If so, maybe Rise & Shine is for you.
Maybe this is the one thing that will finally land—and last.

You can learn more and join the waitlist now.
Be one of the first 10 to sign up and go in the draw to win a space valued at over $700.

Because this isn’t just a program.
It’s a rising.
And it’s time.

https://www.yourise.com.au/RiseandShine