About Me
I’ve been many things in this lifetime from a very early age.
Caretaker. Overachiever. Peacekeeper. The strong, reliable one. As well as the dramatic one. The challenger. The disruptor.
I was born into a big, beautiful, proud, loving, deeply dysfunctional Puerto Rican family — rich in culture, devotion, and fire. Alive with music, storytelling, passion, and reverence for our Matriarch. My lineage has always been my lifeforce. The devotion to my ancestors — especially the women — has carried me through every initiation life has placed at my feet.
As a child I could sense undercurrents before they surfaced. I absorbed the unsaid, carried others’ pain in my body, and found safety in becoming what others needed. I became fluent in survival—responsible daughter, supportive sister, reliable granddaughter, loyal friend. The one that drops everything to come help at a moment’s notice no matter what time of day.
Even in the darkest seasons, there was a knowing — quiet but unwavering — that these experiences did not define me
Abuse. Alcoholism. Loss. Death. Grief. Displacement. Trauma.
These are not abstract concepts in my life, they are lived terrain.
And through all of it, Spirit was the constant.
Even in the darkest seasons, there was a knowing — quiet but unwavering — that these experiences did not define me. That they were not the story my life was meant to continue writing.
It was through the portal of deep grief that I was transformed.
With each death I was present for, each loss that cracked me open, the knowing grew louder. My Godmother killed in a car accident. My Godfather, Abuelo, and Tio lost within 2 months of one another. My cousin tragically killed in a motorcycle accident minutes from my home.
But when I walked my Abuela through her final breaths — holding her hand as she crossed from this world into the next — something ancient unlocked inside of me. The words that came through me as I tended to her. The calm that held me at the threshold between life and death, seen and unseen.
It was a remembering.
I have been here before.
At the veil. At the crossing.
Between the physical and the spiritual realms.
I didn’t fully know it then, but that moment opened a door that could never be closed
A knowing that would not be forgotten again
The loss of my Matriarch and the only place that had ever truly felt like home prepared me for the next initiation: the sudden death of my father and the loss of my corporate career within two weeks of one another.
Everything I had built dissolved overnight.
The whispers had always been there. The invitation to work with Spirit gently tapping my shoulder. I meditated. I read the books. I studied the stars. I pulled cards. I followed the rituals. I journaled the prompts. All while still following the script I had been handed — the one that promised happiness and success through professional achievement and security.
But when my father died and my carefully curated identity vanished suddenly with my fancy job title and salary, I had no choice but to confront the truth.
I was still living from survival.
Still playing roles. Still wearing masks I mistook for my identity.
When the formula stopped working the real work began
The wounds surfaced. The trauma stored in my body demanded to be felt. Old memories rose like smoke. Anger. Resentment. Rage. Fear. Devastation. Grief.
Not to be fought or to be conquered.
But to be witnessed and acknowledged,
To be held with love and compassion.
To be integrated and alchemized.
During this era of deep shadow work, I was scrambling financially — trying to generate even a fraction of the income I once had and I became acutely aware of how inaccessible these sacred tools were.
How healing was gatekept behind paywalls. How there was nowhere to turn for those deconstructing harmful, extractive religious and patriarchal frameworks, seeking wholeness without shame. How isolating it felt to search for Spirit outside the systems we were handed down.
During my darkest seasons when I craved support but the resources I found felt out of reach—financially, emotionally, or energetically. I made myself a promise: If I ever found my way through, I would build the kind of space I needed back then.
That awareness became a vow
8th House Moon is the fulfillment of that vow. It is not a brand, it is a living prayer. A breathing promise.
A sacred offering for those longing to reconnect with the rhythms of the Earth, the wisdom of their bodies, the ebb and flow of the cosmos, and the brilliance of their own becoming. Through ritual, through ceremony, through the ancient remembrance of your earth-based ancestors.
An ally through your journey of deconditioning from the harmful systems that were designed to dysregulate, overstimulate, exhaust, and extract from us so we never access our own power and instead outsource it.
Layer by layer, mask by mask, role by role, I found myself back at the beginning
Not at the beginning of my career.
Not at the beginning of a brand.
But at the beginning of life itself.
On my knees in the dark, fertile soil of the Earth in complete and raw surrender, listening.
I found myself in the rhythm of my breath. In the pull of the Moon on my blood. In the way grief moves like tides — never linear, always cyclical.
I began to feel the intelligence of the seasons soothing my nervous system. The way the stars quietly orchestrate timing. The way the elements shape the body — Earth in my bones, Water in my tears, Fire in my desire, Air in my breath, Ether in the stillness between words.
I stopped trying to transcend my humanity.
And instead, I entered it.
Ritual stopped being something I performed and became something I lived.
Ceremony stopped being reserved for special occasions and became the way I made tea.
The way I tended my altar.
The way I grieved.
The way I raged.
The way I celebrated.
The way I danced.
The way I loved.
And in that return, I understood something clearly: None of this wisdom is mine alone.
I am not self-made.
I am lineage-made.
These skills were never mine alone, they were my mothers’ and grandmothers’ before me
The way I sit at the threshold between worlds was shown to me by my Abuela.
The way I live with my grief was shaped by the women before me who buried their dead and danced alongside with pain instead of running from it.
The way I read the stars comes through teachers who preserved ancient language long before I ever learned to speak it.
I walk this path in right-relation.
I honor my ancestors whose resilience lives in my bloodstream
I honor the Indigenous peoples of this land that I live and work upon, the Lisjan Ohlone, whose stewardship and wisdom existed long before I arrived and continue on despite the systemic erasure.
I honor the teachers who have shaped me — those who have sat with me, challenged me, initiated me, and handed me tools that were once handed to them.
My past and present teachers include:
Lizzie Tilia
Camille Craft
Austin Coppock
Debra Silverman
That Glasgow Witch
Maria Haswell
Christine Olivia
Kathrin Zenkina
Robin Wall Kimmerer
Valerie Inez
Elsa Alegria Perez Dean
Kara Potts
Lisa Rae Freeman
Sophia Martina Lopez
Dra. Rocio Rosales Meza
Deanna Arrivas Jaromay
Gabby Bernstein
Don Miguel Ruiz
whom I have worked with either directly or indirectly through their wisdom teachings
I honor not only their names, but the lineages that stand behind them
The hands that shaped their teachers. The grandmothers who whispered. The mystics who endured persecution. The Earth-based traditions that refused to die.
This work is not owned. It is carried.
And now I carry it forward in my own way — through my body, through ritual, through astrology, through the spaces I hold for others who are remembering.
8th House Moon wasn’t simply built - it was seeded, labored, and birthed
It is something I remembered - breathed into being with each layer that I shed, each mask I removed, and each role I refused to continue playing.
It grew with each teacher I said yes to, each nudge I followed, and time I surrendered, and took its’ first breath when I leaned into deep trust.
And if you are here reading this it is likely because something ancient in you is remembering too.
Healing is not linear. It’s cyclical. It spirals. It returns. And that magic is not something to chase, it's something to notice. Here, in the mundane. In your breath. In your morning tea. In the grief that cracks your heart wide open to joy.
You are not late. You are not broken. You are not behind. 
