Perimenopause and menopause aren’t just about hormones — they shake our nervous system, our routines, and sometimes our relationships. I went through years of irritation, overwhelm, and resentment towards my husband, while juggling work, kids, and the household. What helped me most was learning to regulate my nervous system through yoga, asking for help, and letting go of the belief that everything had to be perfect. Shedding old patterns has been messy, humbling, and freeing — and it’s taught me that transformation doesn’t mean losing yourself, it means reclaiming yourself.

My father had a joke he told to anyone who’d listen — about a man stuck on a roof in a flood who kept refusing help because he believed God would save him. A boat came, then a helicopter, but he said no each time. When he died, he asked God why He hadn’t helped. God replied, “I sent you a boat and a helicopter!”

Dad laughed every time he told it, but beneath the humour was a deeper truth — that divine help doesn’t always look the way we expect. We ask for guidance, but often miss the signs right in front of us because they don’t arrive in the form we imagined.

It reminds me of a dream where my grandmother — a spiritual woman and card reader — took the wheel of my car and drove it fearlessly through chaos. The message was clear: trust, let go, and allow the divine to guide the way.

Healing is not about fixing ourselves—it is about creating the right environment for the body, mind, and spirit to return to balance. Just as we tend to a wound on the skin, we must tend to the wounds within by choosing what nourishes us: the food we eat, the voices we listen to, and the spaces we create around us. In doing so, we allow the natural wisdom of our being to restore harmony.

Mediumship isn’t just about connecting with the spirit world — it begins with connecting to yourself. For years, I struggled with self-acceptance, believing my differences made me less capable. But what I discovered is that our uniqueness is our greatest strength. When we embrace who we truly are — flaws, gifts, and all — we open the door for spirit’s love to flow through us. In this post, I share how childhood innocence, unconditional love, and self-acceptance have shaped my journey as a medium, and how these same truths can help all of us find healing and connection in everyday life.

It felt like an eternity before I finally fell pregnant again. Each month brought tears, anger, and prayers whispered into the night. I begged the universe for another child, convinced that the longing in my heart wasn’t something I could ignore.

When I finally saw those two lines, relief came with a strange mix of embarrassment — as though I had cried so hard for this gift that now I didn’t quite know how to hold it. Still, I knew he was meant to be mine.

I was 23 when something extraordinary happened. Deep in my spiritual journey, I sought answers about purpose, life, and connection. One night, meditating on a man named Daniel who had caught my attention, a calm, clear voice spoke behind my ear: “Daniel is a nice name.”

At the time, it confused me. I had been searching for clarity, and all I got was a simple statement about a name. I tucked it away, unaware of its significance.

Life unfolds in its own time, and guidance often comes in whispers, shaping our path in ways we can’t yet see.

It began with a dream — a message from Archangel Gabriel that felt more real than anything. I thought I was being told a child was coming... but what unfolded was something even more powerful. A journey of strength, flexibility, kindness — and the birth of Vital Glow.

I was three years old when the world went quiet. And truthfully, I don’t remember the exact moment it happened. There was no dramatic shift, no clear line between before and after — just a fading, like sound dissolving into air. What I do remember is everything that followed: the stillness, the way I learned to feel rather than hear, and the quiet strength that began to grow inside me. While others moved through the world with ease, I became a silent observer — reading lips, catching shifts in energy, learning to understand people in ways they never had to explain. Over time, I discovered that silence wasn’t a void. It was a space rich with presence, and it taught me how to listen with my whole being.

It wasn’t until I experienced my own losses that I truly understood the weight my parents had carried when I lost my hearing. In their silence, I began to hear the echo of my own pain — the guilt, the helplessness, the quiet grief. Now, I don’t try to fix their sorrow. I simply witness it. And in doing so, I’ve learned how to hold space for others, not with answers, but with presence. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing we can offer is to simply be there — quietly, fully, human.