Transformation

I have a confession to make.
I’m guilty—guilty of doing the very thing I constantly urge my clients, friends, and loved ones never to do.
I’ve been holding on to the past. Clinging to it. Living in it.
For the last ten years, I have quietly carried the weight of a life I left behind. Since I moved away from Boston, I have been trying—perhaps too hard—to recreate what I once had. I searched for it in Flagstaff. I reached for it in Tucson. I tried to summon it again in Florida. And here in Richmond, I finally stopped trying to recreate my former life. But it wasn’t in triumph that I stopped—it was in surrender. And with that surrender came sadness.
I missed the life I had in Boston. I still do. I missed the woman I was—the one who was constantly moving, teaching belly dance classes, performing, producing shows, hosting events, always chasing the next inspiration. I missed the rhythm and the chaos of it, the flow and fire of being fully immersed in a community and a passion.
It wasn’t until after one of my recent classes with University Magickus (Magick U) that something shifted. I had a quiet, profound realization:
I have transformed.
My past is no longer a place to dwell.
My old life is no longer the only way to define me.
I am still me—but I am not her anymore.
I’m no longer the woman darting from venue to venue, performance to performance. I’m no longer curating events every weekend or working tirelessly to maintain the momentum of a public, high-energy life. Instead, my work has taken on new depth and new intention. I am now fully immersed in my craft—teaching workshops and classes on the subjects I love most, the ones that have always pulsed quietly beneath the surface of everything I’ve ever done.
I am nurturing my shop, Snake and Bone, with the same love and magick I used to pour into choreography and shows. I am creating art, channeling spirit into bone and wire and ash, weaving spells with my hands. I’m writing—pages, books, truths—and giving voice to stories that have long waited to be told.
For a while, I stopped dancing. Partly because of limited space, partly because Richmond hasn’t offered the same kind of performance opportunities I was used to. But it wasn’t just the lack of venues. Something deeper was happening.
And then, when we moved into a larger space, I began to dance again—not for an audience, not to prepare for a show or to impress anyone. I danced for me. I moved my body because I needed to—not to be seen, but to feel. To reconnect with the sacred rhythm of my body. To release tension. To pray with motion. To come home to myself.
And in that moment, I realized:
Dance was never just about performing.
It was about embodiment. Connection. Release.
It was always a sacred act.
Like the serpent I so deeply honor, I have shed my skin. The old version of me, vibrant and full of movement, was not lost—she was a phase in my becoming.
And now, here I am.
Still me—but changed.
Evolved. Transformed.
The past may have shaped me, but it does not own me.
I am no longer trying to recreate what was.
I am building something entirely new.