Stories in the Bones
Some wounds aren’t ours—but we carry them anyway.
We inherit them through gestures, through silence, through patterns that feel like personality but are actually survival.
We inherit them in our postures, our nervous systems, in the parts of us that feel older than we are.
These are lineage parts—formed not only by our own lived experiences, but by the unprocessed grief, fear, and disconnection of those who came before us.
Sometimes they whisper.
Sometimes they scream.
But they all hold a sacred story.
One of the deepest lineage wounds I carry is through my father.
He is an addict. An alcoholic.
But more than that—he is a man shaped by pain.
Pain that was never given a name, let alone a place to rest.
Four years before I was born, he lost his older brother to addiction.
And long before that, addiction was already present in our family line—an echo of despair and coping passed down like an heirloom no one wanted, but everyone held.
My dad was around when I was growing up—but only in cycles.
He would appear, then vanish for months or years.
Long enough to remind me of my longing.
Long enough to remind me I wasn’t enough to make him stay.
That absence became a shape in my nervous system.
💔 The Wounds It Left Me With:
A fear of abandonment so thick it wrapped around my heart like fog.
A need to stay small, quiet, and good in hopes I might win his presence.
Financial instability that I’m still untangling—because chaos teaches you not to trust abundance.
An aversion to commitment—not because I didn’t want to stay, but because I didn’t know how.
A nervous system shaped by waiting… for the next goodbye.
And underneath it all, a longing that never got to speak.
🌿 How Those Wounds Became Parts
In the body, that kind of hurt doesn’t stay abstract.
It becomes parts of us.
🌀 A part that doesn’t finish things, because what’s the point?
🌀 A part that people-pleases, hoping approval will mean safety.
🌀 A part that dissociates when it feels too intimate.
🌀 A part that hustles to prove worth.
🌀 A part that still listens for footsteps that never come.
I didn’t meet these parts through logic. I met them through embodiment—through breath and presence and stillness. Through curiosity. Through the trembling work of staying.
✨ Why I Do This Work
This is why Embodied Parts Weaving was born.
Because I needed a map back to myself.
Because traditional talk therapy couldn’t reach the parts that lived in my stomach, my chest, my spine.
Because some wounds aren’t meant to be analyzed—they’re meant to be witnessed, with the body’s full permission.
Embodied Parts Weaving is the most sacred, potent work I offer.
It’s a space to:
Name the parts within you—without shame
Trace their origins—often across generations
Give them choice, new roles, and space to breathe
Reweave your internal system in a way that actually feels safe
This work has helped me become the one who stays.
The one who shows up to parenting, partnership, purpose—with more devotion than fear.
And when fear does come, I now know how to sit with it.
Not exorcise it. Not bypass it.
Just sit with it.
Like I wish someone had done for my dad.
A Somatic Invitation for You
If you’re reading this and feel something stir, here’s a practice to try:
Find a quiet space.
Place one hand on your heart, one on your belly.
Take three slow breaths.
Ask softly: “Is there a part of me that still waits for someone to come back?”
Listen—not for words, but for sensation.
A flicker. A pulse. A heaviness. A story.
Let that be enough.