Most creatives I know – including myself – are empaths. We’re highly sensitive people who feel the pain of the world acutely, and as a result we often feel like we don’t do enough to help relieve that pain. There’s always more suffering. There’s no end to the things that need our attention and our
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It happened a few weeks into high school. I was thirteen, and I knew by then that others considered me pretty. It had never been a big deal, being pretty was just one of the many things my friends and classmates knew me as. Other things were: Very tall, a fast runner, a quick learner,
Imagine if your body was your business, and yours alone. Imagine if you felt safe to desire. Not dream, not hope, fuck no. DESIRE. Hunger, Like some WILD THING. Imagine following the guy you just met home, because the pull is there, because you feel like exploring, without a single thought about what anyone
What if the thought that you have to be anything other than what you are would never occur to you again? What if the need to prove or even explain yourself simply wasn’t there anymore? If you never adjusted your opinions or choices or looks in order to get their approval. If you couldn’t
I want to share some powerful reading with you today, books that have mattered a lot to me this past year. They’ve nurtured my creativity in different ways, and they’ve also nourished me as a woman. I’ve needed that. Because honestly, things are rough in the world right now. You’ve seen the news, there’s
I was raped as a child. I was raped by my grandfather and later by my stepbrother. This is the first time I write these words publically. I’ve written about being sexually abused before, but I’ve never written “by him and by him” and it still feels like breaking the rules to do so.
Image: Amy Judd I was going to speak to angels. I had never been much interested in that particular branch of the spiritual path – the esoteric, the crystals, the angels and the tarot decks. But something was calling me and I tentatively signed up for Amy Oscar’s Soul Caller Circle. I knew I had
An autumn day, nineteen years ago, I sat watching the old poplars outside my window sway in the wind. I had just turned eighteen. The poplars grew outside the hospital building, outside the psychiatric ward where I was locked up, against my will, because I was considered a danger to myself. A failed suicide
- In search of a simpler life
- Why I ditched a beautiful career
- To Love’s defence – A letter to my racist friend
- Why I write about sexual violence on a blog about creativity
- If you need permission to rest
- Confessions of an unprofitable human being
- How to burn a little brighter. Or, the end of a favourite myth
- The power of words – a letter from the Psych Ward