The first time I smelled ruda, I pulled back.
It’s sharp, commanding scent filled the room as my grandmother brushed the plant over a neighbor’s forehead. I didn’t know why she was doing it, only that the air felt charged; as if something unseen was listening. No one explained what was happening. They didn’t need to. They just knew.
I was born into noise of crying babies, clattering dishes, and street vendors calling out in Guayaquil. Yet I was raised by silence: the quiet hum of my abuelita folding clothes, the soft prayers whispered over boiling herbs, the way plants spoke through their scent and touch.
I didn’t understand these traditions yet, but Spirit understood me long before I could speak.
I come from a lineage of women who endured more than they should have, yet carried strength and quiet resilience. This story is part mine, part theirs, and part something greater that moved through us all. I am a mother, a first-generation immigrant, and a woman who has lived many lives in one. In every season of my life, I have been drawn to guiding others, sometimes by listening, sometimes by helping them uncover truths they already carried.
I never set out to explain spirituality or define it. What shaped me was lived, felt, and remembered. Healing was not something taught in words; it was woven into daily life.
I was born on November 11, 1977, in Guayaquil, Ecuador. A city alive with tropical heat and hidden prayers. Even amid its concrete and chaos, the land hummed with presence. The women in my neighborhood had remedies for everything: tea for heartbreak, a leaf for fever, a whispered prayer for fear. Plants hung on windowsills, candles burned near photographs, and eucalyptus scented the kitchen air.
My grandmother rarely spoke about what she knew. Yet when she hummed as she folded clothes, the room felt different, as if the unseen world leaned closer. Healing wasn’t loud. It was quiet, earthy, feminine, woven into ordinary moments. I didn’t have language for it then, but I absorbed everything: the reverence, the intuition, the deep knowing. Ecuador was the beginning of my remembering.
As the youngest of three, I was called “the baby,” sometimes “spoiled,” often “unexpected.” Though my family saw me as a gift, I often felt set apart. I felt deeply, noticed everything, and carried an awareness that made it hard to simply be a child.
My sensitivity was never a weakness. It was a key.
I could walk into a room and feel the energy before anyone spoke. I heard what went unsaid. I sensed a presence beyond the visible world; one that whispered through dreams, sudden knowing, and quiet intuition. Still, I longed for connection. Something deeper than small talk. I wanted to understand people’s hidden stories – their laughter, their heartbreak, and the parts they kept tucked away.
Some nights, I sat by the window watching streetlights shimmer below, wondering who else was awake, searching, aching, and listening like I was. My abuelita’s soft humming drifted through the house, a reminder that even in silence, I was not alone.
Childhood was not easy. My mother worked tirelessly, carrying her pain quietly while keeping us afloat. My father’s absence lingered, and our home often felt heavy with unspoken tension. We moved to New Jersey when I was age nine and everything shifted. I learned quickly how to adapt, how to blend in, how to quiet parts of myself to survive.
For a time, the spiritual whispers faded. But my path was never meant for disappearance. In my teenage years, the sensations returned: visions, dreams, a restlessness I couldn’t explain. I resisted at first, pushing against the parts of me that felt too much, too sensitive, too different. Yet beneath the noise of rebellion and confusion, a familiar voice remained steady: Don’t forget who you are.
That voice became my compass.
I have lived many lives within one lifetime: daughter, sister, mother, seeker, healer, and warrior. Each role carried lessons in resilience, forgiveness, and the courage to remain open even when things fell apart. With time, I learned that what I once tried to silence was not meant to be erased; it was meant to be honored.
Now, in midlife, I embrace the parts of myself I once hid: my emotions, my sensitivity, my spiritual awareness. They were never flaws. They were doorways opening me back to myself and allowing me to walk beside others as they find their way home.
What raised me was not noise or explanation, but silence, listening, observing, and remembering. In that quiet, I learned that becoming is not about fixing what is broken, but reclaiming what was always sacred.
