I come from women who survived by shrinking. I tried that too—made my life neat, made my voice polite, made my longing a private hobby. It didn’t hold. I was raised by an alcoholic Lakota runaway and discipled by a cult that told me holiness was obedience. My body knew better. It kept humming: there is a wilder, kinder way. These days I practice a daily liturgy of listening—intuitive, erotic, embarrassingly tender. I mother four bright beings and the girl inside me who wanted to be free. I teach self-worth as sacrament, boundaries as mercy, and desire as a compass you can trust. My God is love. My work is remembering. My offering is a rebel’s theology of transformation—usable, embodied, just dangerous enough to set you honest.

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