Sometimes it’s tough to sit down and write.

There are days when everything in me would rather do something else.

» Check my email.

» Reach out to a client.

» Take the dog for a walk.

» Open my text messages.

» Empty the dishwasher.

» Make my morning hot chocolate with spices and reishi and MCT oil.

And did I mention check my email?

I am not immune to the dopamine-inducing pings of the modern smartphone, nor to the ancient force of procrastination.

Lately, I’ve even had what feels like a legitimate excuse. Life has its pressures ~ the real kind, the ones that don’t go away. And a voice inside me has grown louder:

You need to work harder.

You don’t have time for distractions.

You need to be responsible.

On the surface, that sounds reasonable.

Underneath, it touches something much older.

I learned to read at three.

My mother taught me how to hold a pencil, how to form the letters of my name. I memorized Hop on Pop. By six, I was reading chapter books ~ The Boxcar Children and anything else I could get my hands on.

My parents and grandparents praised me for being good at things. Smart. Capable.

So I became very good at being good.

I worked hard. I over-achieved.

Yes, I genuinely loved intellectual challenge and still do. That part is true.

But sometimes I wonder, at what cost?

Would I have benefited from a little more play? More time outside with friends? More downtime? The long-longed-for dog?

Even now, “I need to be a responsible coach,” can be a socially acceptable disguise for something else.

Because if I’m busy planning programs and reaching out to clients, I don’t have to sit still and ask the deeper question:

What if I really have nothing to say?

What if there’s no “there” there?

What if what was true yesterday ~ that women loved my work, that three thousand bought Moon Salutations, that podcast hosts say I’m a great guest ~ what if today all that’s gone?

It’s an irrational fear. The evidence contradicts it.

And yet, there is that quiet, persistent doubt.

This morning I woke up with a toothache. A bad toothache that had made it hard to sleep.

By 9am, I was sitting in a dentist’s chair being told I needed antibiotics and possibly a root canal. I was shocked.

I came home with a referral on a little piece of paper to an endodontist. I’ve never been referred to an endodontist in my life. I’ve been oddly proud of having all my teeth, even my wisdom teeth. Is this the moment that changes?

My husband, ever the holistic thinker, is not enthusiastic about root canals. I knew he would not be happy to hear this news.

Frankly, I wasn’t happy either. I am a woman with a sensitive nervous system and I don’t enjoy the dentist’s chair. When I receive sudden difficult medical news, I don’t power through. I let myself feel it.

Once home, I knelt beside my dog, folded into child’s pose, and let the tears come.

Underneath the tooth was something else: This is what aging feels like.

As the Buddha said, we all grow ill. We all die. Intellectually, I’ve known that for decades.

But suddenly it’s not abstract. It’s my tooth. My body. A reminder of husband’s stroke four years ago. The slow, undeniable shift from “young and healthy” to “mortal and tender.”

I was unsettled by the dentist’s diagnosis, making it all the harder to get back either to my “work,” or to writing.

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So I did what I know to do. I decided to question the first opinion and call another dentist for a second opinion.

Phone call to a second dentist made, and decision to hold off on antibiotics for at least today made, I went outside for a walk.

Walking is key for me. It steadies and grounds me, sort of like a friend talking me out of my upsets. I have a history of depression, especially when I was younger. Even when depression isn’t present, I respect what I need to do to keep it at bay.

Walking toward the red rocks with my dog in tow, something in me softened.

The birds were loud and sweet. The red rocks glowed. Joy snuck in sideways ~ despite the pain and worry about my tooth, despite the lack of sleep from the toothache, despite aging and mortality.

By the time I returned home, I felt another notch bit better. And I had a choice.

More distraction.

Or writing.

I chose to write, even though I still didn’t “feel” like it.

» I opened my document.

» Left my phone in another room.

» Set my computer to Do Not Disturb.

» Turned on my writing soundtrack.

» Set a timer for 15 minutes.

» And began.

Something miraculous (but at the same time not that miraculous) happened.

I wrote steady and clear. And when the timer rang, I checked the word count. 673 words. Not brilliant. Not polished. Not ready for show time.

But honest to me.

And as I wrote, something even deeper had shifted.

I felt more grounded again. Connected to my soul. Less afraid of the tooth. Less preoccupied with “work.” More trusting that whatever unfolds will unfold.

I felt peaceful.

Writing did not fix my life.

It returned me to it.

Each time I keep this small promise ~ 15 minutes, absolute minimum ~ my self-trust grows stronger. The old over-achiever relaxes a little. The little girl who learned to be “good” doesn’t have to perform. The aging woman facing mortality stands a bit more steady.

The dentist may or may not drill into my tooth. Life will certainly continue to surprise me. But today, I did not hide.

And for now, that is enough.

An invitation: If you’re avoiding the page because you’re afraid there’s nothing there:

» Set a timer and just write for 15 minutes. Not to produce something or to prove anything.

But because those 15 minutes are where connection to heart, soul, body, page, and voice begins.

✨ Reflection Question:

Where in your life right now are you “waiting for an invitation” ~ when really, you’re hiding from yourself?

✍️ Writing Prompt:

Write about a moment when your body reminded you that you are mortal ~ an injury, an illness, a gray hair, a birthday, a parent’s face. What did it ask of you?

In this newsletter, I write about sacred authorship ~ the inner life of the writer, the body’s role in unlocking story, and what it means to share difficult truth. A new post arrives in your inbox at least weekly.

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♥ If this resonated, please share it with a woman who has been waiting for permission to return to the page.

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With love,

Laura

If you’ve ever felt called to write your story, you might also have wondered:

=> Am I ready?
=> Is my story too much?
=> Will I get re-traumatized writing it?
=> Will anyone care?

In 2020, I began helping women write their stories as published authors. Since then, dozens of women have published chapters in collaborative best-selling books, 9 have worked toward full-length manuscripts, and I’m currently guiding 18 more as we prepare for the upcoming anthology, Radiant Wisdom.

That’s more than 64 women.

Sixty-four. I love that number. In the goddess tradition of India, 64 represents the divine feminine in her many forms ~ 64 yoginis, a circle of 64 statues facing into the middle of the Divine Feminine (Chausath Yogini) temples, the full spectrum of embodied wisdom.

It feels right that it’s also the number of women I’ve had the honor of accompanying on their journey to authorship.

These stories span the full range of human experience:

💫 Spiritual awakening and kundalini rising.

💫 Pregnancy, birth, and the complexities of motherhood.

💫 Healing from cancer and physical injury.

💫 Healing from sexual trauma and incest.

💫 Grief, loss, and the death of a beloved.

💫 Experiencing international adoption.

💫 Reclaiming voice after years of silence.

💫 Leaving and finding faith, and finding it again in a new form.

💫 Owning one’s full creative, sexual, and spiritual power.

I couldn’t be more proud of the work these women have done. And it has taught me something I didn’t fully grasp before I began:

Writing a healing story is no small undertaking.

It’s not just creative expression, and not just putting words on a page. It is a full-body, full-soul experience.

Here are 10 lessons I’ve learned from walking alongside these women.

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1. Starting small can lead to something much bigger

Michelle Collins wrote a single chapter about the death of her husband by suicide. Later, she wrote two full books on the same topic.

I’ve seen this pattern multiple times. A chapter becomes a path to something bigger.

I did this myself. I wrote first about incest as a short piece, and later expanded and integrated it into my full length book Moon Salutations.

Writing something smaller first can make the larger work possible. So if you want to start with a chapter or blog post first, that can be a great step towards your full book.

If you long to write a book but it feels too big, don’t wait. Write a journal entry. A blog post. A chapter in a collaborative book. Allow yourself to take manageable bites, and move towards the full platter later.

2. Humor can be a powerful doorway into difficult truth

One of my authors, Jen Antill, wrote about her abortion using wry humor.

“I peer down at the white stick on the sink. It’s a plus sign. Apparently, that means I’m pregnant.”

The tone was almost disbelieving, shocked, and surprisingly funny for a chapter on that tough topic.

When she had her pregnancy confirmed at a clinic, a nurse happily handed her a purple balloon. That little moment of painful irony also became part of the story.

Her humor didn’t take away from the depth of what she experienced. It allowed us to stay with her as we processed her journey as the reader.

Humor can create just enough space for truth to be fully received.

3. Some stories don’t get easier with time

We often believe that time heals everything. But I’ve seen something more nuanced. Some wounds take a long time to heal, or even when they feel fully healed, new layers may continue to emerge with time.

One author, Shari Caradonna, was literally hit by a bus and later had her leg amputated. She kept a journal of how this incredibly difficult experience led to her spiritual awakening. She even spoke before Congress advocating for prosthetic funding.

Shari is incredibly strong. And yet, even years later, she can still cry when writing about it.

Many women do. I sometimes do, depending on what I’m writing about.

Another client, Isha Julka, who is writing a story about her fertility journey for my upcoming book Radiant Wisdom, was so touched when we spoke about her story, that tears of joy came to her eyes. Hers is a “positive” story in that she successfully became pregnant after many difficult years of infertility. And yet, even in these stories where the desired outcome has been reached, the experience of gratitude and love for one’s life can be a lot to integrate.

So if you become emotional when writing your story, you are not doing it wrong. You are touching something real.

Feel free to take breaks and keep your writing sessions short if this is happening. Take a walk, stretch, or get up and do some yoga poses. Nervous system regulation is key, and will allow you to stay with the project long term, rather than becoming overwhelmed and quitting altogether.

4. Writing in third person can create the distance you need

Sometimes the story is too close, too personal for comfort.

Writing it first in third person, such as… “she walked in,” “she sat down,” can create the breathing room you need.

Some women also shift details such as changing other characters in their story, or the date or place, or begin with fictionalized versions. Some women choose to write their story as fiction, and plan to publish it that way.

This can be a bridge for those who need it. If there are people alive in your story who you do not wish to embarrass or call out publicly, this can be a helpful strategy as well.

5. Writing your story brings clarity ~ and gives you your voice

When a story lives only inside you, it can feel tangled, confusing, or just blank. It is still shapeless.

Writing gives it form. Order. Clarity. In order to write it down, you not only get a little space from it, you also find its structure. In the process of writing, you come to see the meaning and purpose this event had in your life.

If the experience was difficult or even traumatic, you come to see its hidden blessings. If it was positive, you fully receive and own those positive gifts.

I’ve heard many women say, “I carried this for 20 years ~ and in writing it, I finally understood it for the first time.”

I’ve seen this again and again, and I’ve experienced it myself. When I wrote about the Civil War and its legacy in my own lineage, something clicked into place. I began to understand why this desire to bridge divides lives so deeply in me.

Writing helped me see the through-line. And once you see it, you can speak it.

Several women I’ve worked with have gone on to speak publicly: on stages, in workshops, and in fundraisers. Angie Merritt is one of them. Cindi Buenzli Gertz is another.

Because when you’ve written your story, you understand it.

And when you understand it, you don’t have to search for the words anymore. You speak from something that has already been integrated. Your voice becomes steadier, more grounded, more true.

Because the story is no longer swirling inside you. It has been written, witnessed, and understood. Once you fully understand your story, you can share it so much more readily.

In this way, writing becomes not just a private act of reflection, but the process that gives you your voice. And from that place, speaking becomes that natural extension of your writing.

Want to read some of these authors’ stories? Check out these anthologies.

Check out these books

6. Some stories are meant to be told because they bring needed awareness to light

In one anthology, Angie Merritt wrote about being raped by her brother. Angie told me she had never spoken about the rape before she wrote it down for this collaborative book.

Before I published her chapter, I had never seen this written about either, nor had I had any friends I knew of who had experienced this.

When I researched it, I learned that sibling rape is one of the most common (and least disclosed) forms of childhood sexual abuse. I’m sure I know many people to whom this has happened, but they may have never spoken about it to anyone.

Angie’s story was not just personal. It was a contribution.

Stories like this help others who may have gone through a similar experience feel less alone, and help the world see what has been hidden. The more we understand about childhood sexual abuse, the better we will be able to prevent it, and move towards the world with less sexual distortion and violence.

I could say the same for all of the stories my authors have written. Through shedding light in hidden areas by telling a story, we bring consciousness and awareness to our human experience, helping all of us become wiser and more caring.

7. Even highly educated women often need to unlearn “bad” writing habits

Many of my clients are highly educated. Some have master’s degrees in counseling or social work. They might be PTs, PhDs, doctors, or other professionals.

And still, writing a healing story asks something different.

I’ll put myself in this category. To write Moon Salutations, I had to move out of the academic voice I had learned in grad school and into something more personal, more embodied.

We cannot write deeply healing, memoire-type stories from the head alone. We can’t think our way into a piece with heart, a piece that moves us as much as it moves our reader.

We have to write from the body. We have to call on our guides, our better angels, to write with and through us. We have to let go of getting it “right,” (for our teachers or any outside judge) and instead tune into the quiet, but everpresent voice of the soul.

We have to get it “right” for God, Goddess, Higher Power, and that takes unlearning what we were taught in school.

8. Finishing a book is much harder than starting one

Many women come to me with drafts already begun, pages filled with truth, sometimes years in the making. Others come with a vision and deep desire, and we move from there.

The beginning is fueled by inspiration.

But the ending? That’s something else entirely.

The final stretch often feels like climbing a steep cliff after a long journey. You’re already tired. You can see the end in sight, but somehow that doesn’t help. Getting to the finish line demands more of you than you expected.

I’ve seen this again and again: when a woman thinks she is 80% done, she may be only halfway there.

Not because she hasn’t worked hard, but because the deepest clarity, the most powerful meaning-making, lives in the final revisions.

In my experience you have to become a new person to actually finish your book. You become someone you’ve never met before. I found this myself while finishing my own book, Moon Salutations.

A friend said to me at the time, “It’s like you have to step up to a new level, a new you!” And she was 100% correct.

And becoming that new me was totally worth it. Finishing that book changes something in you. It is incredibly meaningful.

9. Writing in community makes the process less lonely, and also more powerful

Even experienced authors choose to write in collaboration. Not because they can’t do it alone, but because they don’t want to.

I’ve had several women who had written their own full-length, solo books choose to later come into a collaboration. Shuna Morelli and Vajra Ma from Unleashing the Courageous Feminine come to mind, as well as Betty Powell from the upcoming Radiant Wisdom book.

Seeing this phenomenon surprised me at first, but I learned from these women that they had several motivations: they wanted to experience the camaraderie of the group in the writing, editing, and publishing process; to receive professional mentoring and witnessing; and they didn’t want to go it alone in the book marketing process any more.

There is something powerful about writing alongside others. Being seen in a group. Sharing the journey.

Women learn, grow, and deepen their voice simply by being in that shared space.

10. Not all stories are ready to be shared, especially not yet

Timing matters. I’ve worked with women in active legal battles, or still inside the very situations they wanted to write about.

In some cases, we chose different stories. Two of my clients had a story they wanted to write, but realized it was too legally precarious. One was writing about her ex-fiance, the other in a legal battle with the father of her children. Both of these women weren’t ready to write that story until the legal proceedings were far clear.

And if you are still in the emotional storm, it may not be time to publish. You can begin with journaling everything you are going through, but wait till a calmer time to go public via publishing or speaking.

There is wisdom in waiting. Later you will have more space to see the bigger picture of what this has meant for you.

Bonus Learning (#11): You know you’re ready when something inside you says: it’s time

This is the one that cannot be taught. You may have wanted to write a book or share your story for years. But actually being ready feels different.

It feels like: “I can’t wait to share this. I’m excited to share this. I know that it’s my time. It still feels scary, but I know I’m ready.”

Trust that knowing when it comes. I’ve seen over and over that when women feel they’re ready, they actually are.

Want to talk with me about writing YOUR story?

>> Explore whether your next best step might be a chapter, a book, or something else.

>> Determine what support you need to bring your creative vision to life.

Schedule HERE 👇

Complimentary Book Clarity Call

Writing a healing story asks a great deal of you: courage, truth, and a willingness to dig deep and commit to paper exactly what you feel.

But it also gives so much back: clarity, integration, and very often, freedom.

If you feel that quiet, persistent pull to tell your story…you don’t have to rush, but you don’t have to ignore it either.

Next week, I’ll share how to begin writing your story in a way that feels safe and supportive.

I can’t wait to share it with you.

Please subscribe so you don’t miss it. 🙏❤️

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With love,
Laura

✨ Reflection Question
Which of these 12 lessons stayed with you the most?

✍️ Writing Prompt
Write the title of a story you’ve been carrying. Just the title. Then pause. Notice what happens in your body.

We live in a time when more and more people have a platform, and yet we live in a sea of loneliness.

You may feel that you don’t have a voice and that you’re not being heard. Or maybe you’re just overwhelmed with it all and want to throw in the towel before you even start writing.

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At this moment in time, more content is produced every day than any human could read in a lifetime. AI tools can write your blog post, your caption, your newsletter, your book proposal…

But hold on a minute…

Your body knows the difference between something generated by a machine and something real.

You feel it when you read something true. Something written from a place of hard-won knowing. It lands differently, not just in your mind, but in your body and soul. Something in you moves, loosens. You feel, for a moment, less alone in the condition we call being human.

→ You feel your heart and soul resonate with what has been said.
→ You know there is truth in what has been spoken.
→ You receive wisdom from what has been shared.
→ You are better for having heard it.
→ Your being relaxes, and you know that you too have something real to say.

That is what I mean when I say: story is medicine.

I want to be clear…

Story as medicine is not the same as content marketing, or personal essays written to establish authority, or vulnerability used strategically to grow an audience.

I believe in being vulnerable, and I teach my clients to trust their own vulnerability.
I write personal essays to share what I know that can be of use to others.
And I believe in sharing great content.

Those things are not wrong. But they are not what I am talking about.

Medicine is something we take that helps us heal. Become more whole. More of who we truly long to become. Medicine is what opens our hearts to beauty.

And story medicine is what happens when humans share their humanity with others, whether around an actual campfire, in a women’s circle, between two friends over tea, or through words written and published with dedication.

When a woman has done her healing work, often for decades, there comes a point when she is ready to face her own story and write it down. And in that writing, she comes to understand herself more deeply than she ever has before.

The chaos turns to clarity.
The overwhelm to peace.
The turmoil to tenderness.
The anxiety to love.

She comes to understand her story from the inside out, and allows it to become something she can offer with her whole being behind it.

That process ~ the writing itself ~ is medicine for the writer.

And what comes out the other side is medicine for the reader.

I discovered this myself in the process of finishing my book Moon Salutations.

For many years, I carried a story I thought didn’t matter. It was a story about the anxiety and depression I suffered in my 20s, the eating disorder, the chronic fatigue, and my slow and winding journey back to wholeness through yoga and therapy and women’s circles.

This story was deeply personal, but I thought it was “boring,” that it wasn’t dramatic or interesting enough for anyone else to want to read.

My fears were unconscious, but their strength held me back from finishing my book for 19 years. (You can read more about that in my previous post, or watch the video there.)

When I finally wrote it, not from my head, but from my body, from the truth of what actually happened, something shifted.

Publishing that book was massive.

That was the last year I suffered from nightmares.

Because in writing it all down, and having the courage to publish it, I processed some of my deepest fears. Worries about what had happened, about myself, my family, and yes, the worthiness of my story.

The act of shaping my book ~ finding the through-line, choosing what to say and what to leave out, deciding that my experience was worth a reader’s time ~ that was integration. That was, in the truest sense, healing.

And then something else happened, which I did not expect.

People read it and said: “I feel you.” “Thank you.” “You touched my heart.”

I received emails and reviews from people I had never met, people whose lives looked nothing like mine, but who recognized something essential in the journey.

Later, I met people who wanted to become my clients after reading my book.

Story, it turns out, does not require you to have the exact same circumstances as me to create resonance. It requires honesty. It requires the writer to go deep enough into her own specific truth that she reaches the universal gold beneath it.

That is the paradox at the heart of storytelling: the more detailed and specific and true you are, the more people recognize themselves in you.

There is a question I return to before I publish anything. I offer it to every woman I work with. It is the most important question I know for ethical storytelling:

“Does sharing this story serve a greater purpose?”

Some stories are meant to stay private. Perhaps they are never meant to be shared, or perhaps just not yet. Writing that story can still serve the writer as a form of gaining clarity, ownership, and healing distance from pain we no longer need to carry.

But if a story will benefit a community (or even one other person), then it would be a disservice to keep it locked inside.

While I was completing my book, I felt my mother writing with me. I felt her on my shoulder. I heard her whisper in my ear, “Make it useful.”

My mother was my angel, and I believe we all have angels when we write.
Who is your angel?

All the years of living the Moon Salutation, all the classes and women’s circles, all the teachers I studied with, all the books I read, workshops I attended and led. It was time to bring everything together and offer it to the world.

It was time to make it useful.

And so sharing my story as part of that book served a wider purpose. It wasn’t for me alone. It was so that other women would know they could heal, women who had lived through trauma, abuse, or violation.

And in the book, I also shared other women’s stories. I created space for women to share their empowerment through pregnancy, their connection to the Moon Salutation, their spiritual growth. There was space for men as well.

And so as much as my book is a “how-to” guide to a yoga practice, and as much as it offers historical context, it is also a collection of stories.

My book is like that proverbial campfire, where people gather to tell the truth of their lives.

And it is medicine.

Another way to think about this is to ask yourself:

“Am I discharging this story, or metabolizing it?”

Discharging is when we share from the rawness of the wound. Still needing validation. Still seeking confirmation that someone else was wrong.

It may feel honest. It may even be factually accurate. But it comes from the open wound, and it often re-wounds the writer, and sometimes the reader.

Metabolizing is different.

It is when the experience has moved through us enough that we can hold it with spaciousness. When we can see not just what happened, but what it meant. When we can write in a way that serves the reader’s growth, not just our own relief.

When a story is metabolized, it becomes medicine.

This is not about waiting until you are perfectly healed. Wholeness is not a destination; it is a flow, a direction, a movement.

But there is a difference between writing from the middle of the fire, and writing from the warm glow of the embers.

You can feel it.

One wants to burn the house down.
The other wants to light your way.

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The world does not need more content.

It needs more women willing to be real.

This is what I am here to support.

In this space, I will write about sacred authorship ~ the inner life of the writer, the body’s role in unlocking story, what it means to share difficult truths, and the spiritual dimension of putting your voice on the page.

I will write from my own life, as honestly as I can.

About the Civil War in my bloodline.
About the war between men and women that lives in all of us.
About nineteen years of not-writing ~ and what finally broke the spell.
About Quakers and Heartfulness and orgasmic childbirth (stories from my clients), and the man who walked miles with his mule in Mexico selling dirt so his family could eat.

I write about all of it because all of it is medicine when it is integrated, when it is offered from that place of hard-won knowing.

If something in you is stirring, if you have a story you’ve been carrying for a long time, wondering if it’s worth telling, I want you to know:

It is.

Not because it is dramatic.
Not because it is perfectly resolved.
But because it is yours.

And because somewhere out there is someone who needs to read exactly what only you have lived.

That is what this space is for.
I’m so glad you found it.

Big love, Laura

✨ Reflection Question:
What story in your life has been waiting to be told?

✍️ Writing Prompt:
Think of a moment in your life when something shifted.
Write the story of that moment ~ just for yourself.

♥ Please share this post with a woman who has been waiting for permission to tell her story.

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I spoke recently in front of nearly 600 entrepreneurs at Marisa Murgatroyd’s Live Your Message event. And I shared something I don’t take lightly ~ my own story of struggle, silence, and eventually, finding my voice.

If you’re a reader rather than a watcher, I didn’t want you to miss it. So here it is.

I struggled my whole life to find my voice.

It started when I was six years old. We were at a restaurant, and I was happily chatting away to the waiter. You know how little girls can just prattle on? The waiter looked up and said, “I don’t remember putting a nickel in her.” And my whole family burst out laughing.

My grandmother loved to repeat that story over and over, to my great embarrassment.

The message I took away was clear: You’re too happy. Your voice is too much. It’d be safer to be quiet.

And a part of me shut down.

That didn’t work so well when I grew up and wanted to write a book.

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Every year, I wanted to write. And every year, I didn’t.

Deep down, I believed my stories didn’t matter. That no one would want to read them. That I wouldn’t write them well enough.

I remember crying on the cold, hard floor of a coach’s office asking myself: What is wrong with me? Why am I not writing? I know this is the thing I want most in my life.

I thought maybe I needed more information, so I bought books and courses on writing and publishing.

They didn’t help.

I thought maybe I was too busy, so I took myself on a nine-month sabbatical to write my book. Nine months later, I had made almost no progress.

I was getting scared. I said to my husband: Maybe I’m not cut out for this. What if I really can’t write a book?

Eventually, I found a mentor who helped me write from my heart. It felt amazing. But there was still one key piece missing, and it would turn out to be the cornerstone of everything I now teach as Story Medicine.

Here’s how I discovered it.

I took myself on a three-day writing retreat. No distractions, just me and the page. But on day two, I got stuck. A memory came up of being molested by my uncle. I knew it needed to be in the book. But I had zero idea how to write it. It felt so big. Unbearable. Indescribable. So much anger and grief in my body, and zero words.

So I did what I know how to do. I got up and I started to move through the yoga poses. I flowed through crescent moon, temple, goddess squat, and the tears flowed with me.

And in that moment, I discovered something that changed everything:

Our bodies hold wisdom we cannot access from our heads.

We cannot write from our heads. We have to write from the body. That is the heart of Story Medicine ~ digging deep into our bodies & hearts to find the wisdom held in every cell. To find the wisdom the Divine Mother wants to channel through us.

Today I help women in Story Medicine circles, where we write and speak truth together. I help women publish just one brave chapter in a collaborative book, or walk the long, incredibly rewarding path of writing a full book.

I struggled. Deeply. And that’s exactly why I’m so passionate about helping you claim your voice.

The world does not need more content.

It needs more women willing to trust their bodies, their soulful wisdom, and to write, speak, and publish truth.

Your story has medicine. You deserve to be heard. And the world is waiting for your medicine.

If you’re ready to begin, I have a free gift for you. Download it at theflowformula.how and in just 20 minutes, you’ll be writing from Embodied Flow.

The Flow Formula

Let’s do this together.

With love, Laura

Women who have done their healing work ~ sometimes for decades ~ and sense that their stories are no longer meant to remain private.

Women who are ready to move from healing their wounds to sharing their wisdom.

Women who are ready to claim their voice as medicine, for themselves and their communities.

Here, writing is not performance.
It is not branding.
It is not content production.

It is sacred authorship.

What You’ll Find Here

This publication is rooted in three core pillars:

1. Story as Medicine

Writing as a healing, initiatory, and world-serving practice.
Becoming an author of your lived experience.
Turning wounds into wisdom.
Publishing from integrity, not urgency.

2. Sacred Embodiment

Women’s embodiment, yoga, rhythm, and voice.
Writing from the body.
Why some stories feel hard to tell.
How movement and presence unlock authentic expression.

3. Healing & Integration

Trauma-informed writing spaces.
Family & Systemic Constellations.
Ethical storytelling.
How to share truth without self-harm or retraumatization.

Much of what I share is memoir-adjacent and reflective.
I write from the body, heart, and soul — and I teach from the same place.

This is not a space to deepen our current social divide.
It is a space for meaning-making, integration, and courageous truth-telling.