There are moments in life when something ancient stirs awake inside you—not as a thought, not as a belief, but as a knowing so deep, it feels like it has been humming beneath your skin since before you were born.
This book is the story of that remembering. Not the remembering of facts or dates or places—but the remembering of who I was before the forgetting. And, perhaps, who you are too.
I was not seeking to write a book. I was seeking to survive—to find my way back to something I could not name but had always longed for.
Along the way, life broke me open, through places, through people, through losses and miracles I never could have scripted.
I did not find wholeness by chasing it. I found it by surrendering to what was already true beneath the fractures.
I found it by remembering the garden that was always planted inside me—the garden I thought I had lost, but had only abandoned for a time.
You will not find in these pages a manual for perfection. You will find a path of sacred imperfection—a path of breaking, of returning, of becoming.
You will find a story that is mine. But if you listen closely, you may hear the echoes of your own.
Because wholeness was never a destination. It was never something you had to earn. It was only ever something you had to remember.
Welcome home.
So if you are holding this book, know this:
You are not lost. You are not late. You are not broken beyond repair.
You are standing at the threshold of your own return.
This is not a self-help manual. It is a mirror. A remembrance. A reclamation.
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