The Week I Became More

I came to Scotland for a firewalking training that never happened. The event was canceled. But the fire came anyway.

I didn’t know exactly why I was coming—just that I had to. There was a tug deeper than logic, something pulling me across the ocean with a whisper: Go alone. Go now. Not to perform. Not to accompany anyone. Not even to heal, exactly. Just to become.

What I didn’t expect was that the wildest, most sacred part of the journey would be solitude.

I drove myself—on the opposite side of the car, on the opposite side of the road, in a foreign country—through cities, forests, and mountains. Every curve demanded presence. Every decision was mine alone. There was no one else to navigate, no one else to soften the edges. I was in it, fully. Awake. A little terrified. And completely alive.

I thought I came for fire.

Instead, I found air—vastness, breath, space.

I found earth, under my feet and under my fingernails.

And I found spirit, threaded through everything I touched.

What I Did

I wandered sacred lands. I whispered to stones and sat with ancient trees. I lay down on healing tables and let people I’d just met see right through me. I carried feathers, mushrooms, and tears across fields. I returned offerings to the earth. I released sacred items I loved because the law—and spirit—told me they weren’t mine to carry.

I drove through winding hills and slept under foreign skies. I trusted strangers. I met versions of myself I’d forgotten existed.

And somewhere in the midst of it, I became more.

What I Learned

Solitude is sacred. When no one else is there, you find the rawest version of you. Not the curated self, not the role—you. And she is wise. She is wild.

Nature is not scenery. It’s a mirror. The white birds, the feathers, the aching in my wing—they weren’t signs. They were reminders. That I belong to something older. That I’ve always known how to listen.

You don’t need to prove your magic. You need to trust it. The more I stopped questioning what was real, the more everything became sacred. Magic doesn’t need to be justified—it needs to be lived.

Letting go is a rite. I cried as I left feathers by trees, as I offered stones back to the places that birthed them. Not because I was losing something—but because I finally understood that reverence means release.

I am the altar. Every breath, every moment of stillness, every instinct followed—I don’t need incense to be holy. My presence is the ceremony.

What I’m Taking Home

I’m not bringing back souvenirs.

I’m bringing back clarity, sovereignty, and space.

I’m not returning to who I was.

I’m bringing home the one who walked into the woods and remembered her name.

I’ll do more solo trips. I need to. This is just the beginning. I was never meant to disappear into others. I was meant to walk alongside them—whole, wild, and awake.

I didn’t go to Scotland to escape.

I went to resurrect.

And I became more.