I’m writing this reflection while cleansing in my cousin’s bathtub in Calgary. Two coffees and two tokes in, water up to my chest, and the outdoor air quality is thick with smoke. The city is blanketed in smoke from forest fires and there’s even an air quality warning advising us to stay inside. My cousin and I planned to swim in the Bow River today, but instead, I’m soaking and reflecting.

The memorial for my maternal Grandma happened this past weekend, and I feel good about how I showed up. Proud that I organized, co-created, and held space for everyone to come together in commemoration. I wanted to make sure each voice was included in whatever way felt right. The Eulogy was a collaboration with my cousin and I drew in quotes and recognition of every one there. My family said it was beautiful. My parents even said it was perfect, which still warms me.

I know I was able to express gratitude, love, and presence in a way that felt natural, even though it was also deeply challenging to hold this space for the first time in my family. I had to show up bigger than my comfort zone, bigger than myself, really. But I did it. And that amazes me: my capacity to stay present, to delegate, to be both soft and strong.

As I soak here now, I feel more integrated than ever. My masculine and feminine; inner child; my elder self; all parts of me gathered. In a strange but comforting way, I feel my Grandmother is more supportive now in spirit than she ever could be in this physical realm. She left with dignity, in her own time, how she wanted and that brings me peace. Her ashes may be underground, but her presence feels stronger, more complete, even guiding.

And so, I grieve in the tub. Alone, I can release what I’ve been holding while being strong for others. This has always been my pattern: hold courage and light for others when they need it, then later, when the space is quiet, I let myself soften, release, ritualize the grief. That’s the magic of having a Leo sun, a fixed fire element: to show up, blaze bright, then tend to the ashes with care.

How do you sit with and make space for your grief?

Fire, Spirit, and the Erotic

For me, fire represents life force, courage, and spiritual connection. It shows up in grief rituals, in erotic practice, and in everyday embodiment. Fire can burn away what no longer serves, light what has been hidden in the shadows, and guide us toward our higher selves and the unseen.

This is the same fire I access when I guide intentional erotic embodied practices. Whether grieving or desiring, fire supports transformation by burning what’s stuck, blocked or rotting on the inside, turning heaviness into something alive, sacred, and whole.

As soon as I discovered my grandmother went into hospice, I lit a candle for her daily, praying for ease in her transition home.

Ancestral Repair

My work in this lifetime includes ancestral repair. My lineage carried wounds and armour around authentic sexuality, shaped by silence, shame, and fear of what was “not allowed.” In my own life, much of the criticism I received came directly from my grandmother. Her devotion to Christianity and its purity culture shaped a worldview that left little room for pleasure, queerness, or authenticity.

Claiming my own voice, practicing embodiment rituals, and sharing my experiences are ways I begin to repair this lineage. My erotic embodiment work is about embracing our wholeness; welcoming grief, desire, spirit, and play as inseparable.

When I tell my stories, raw and alive, it creates permission for others to tell theirs. When I model erotic embodiment, I extend a hand back to the ancestors who couldn’t, and forward to those who are ready.

In the midst of all the movement, embodiment has been my tether. Through daily practice; breath, pleasure, nature, presence. I tend my own inner garden. Watering (nourishing with good food, water, connecting with the sun, trees and the sea), weeding (breathing into the body with intention), making space for growth. These practices allow me to recollect the parts of myself that were left behind, to come home again and again in body, mind, and spirit. While on the road, finding time for myself to hydrate my spine, place my hands on my heart and pelvis to recharge with breath. I journal and record my thoughts. I make time to be in the elements. The sun, forest, fields and waters.

Erotic embodiment is like this too: a spiralling homecoming, where grief, joy, and desire are welcomed equally, where nothing needs to be hidden, and where the body is trusted as guide and teacher.

Moving Forward

As I move into fall, I will bring the memories of my grandmother’s courage and faith with me; as support, and a companion in spirit. I’m excited to keep teaching erotic embodiment, holding space for transformation, and guiding others to meet what needs to be released.

And I encourage you, too, to find your practice. Something daily, something weekly. A ritual that grounds you, whether alone or with others. It doesn’t have to be grand, just mindful and intentional. That’s how we honour grief, joy, desire, and the endless becoming of who we are.

Here’s to tending the fire. Here’s to release. Here’s to family & community.