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There's a particular kind of wisdom that flows when women gather in circle. Even when we explore themes that have been banished into the shadows of our culture—like Death—something ancient recognizes the territory. I may be presenting a story that's new to the women sitting with me, but the wild one in them knows it already. She recognizes the patterns etched into the tale, the rhythms she carries in her bones. Death is no different. Last week, eight of us gathered in Wholly

Starting a new year often brings a desire to pause and reflect on the months behind us and ahead of us. This can be a heavy mental exercise which can create a space of judgment of our past, or anxiety about our future. Either one of these can leave us disconnected from ourselves, which can end up having the opposite effect to how we want to start the new cycle. The mind wants to create a story about the year—did we succeed or fail, grow or stagnate, get it right or wrong. But

Fourteen years ago today, I gave birth to my youngest son at home, in a pool of warm water, to the sound of my own roars. It was an unmedicated birth after a cesarean section, something the medical system told me was too risky, too dangerous, impossible. But I had worked so hard for it. And unknowingly, I had been walking through one of the deepest descents of my life. The First Birth: Where I Lost My Power My first birth happened almost three years earlier. A twin birth via