In the silence of the aftermath, two seemingly distinct survivals echo the same profound truth.

One is a moment of violent fracture, the other a slow, grinding siege. Yet both are defined by the same quality of unyielding spirit.

The Descent and the Defiance

The first survival begins with the terrifying geometry of an accident. Black ice, unseen and absolute, steals friction.

The vehicle is no longer a tool; it is a weight, surrendering to gravity over a two-hundred-foot drop. In that seconds-long violent tumble down the cliffside, the brain registers only a catastrophic chaos. The air is split by the groan of metal twisting against stone.

When movement stops, it is replaced by an unnatural stillness. The car is wreckage, a crumpled testimony to the impossible forces it has absorbed. Yet, amidst the debris and the freezing dark, something stirs. To survive that fall is not a matter of luck; it is a matter of profound internal resilience. It is the body, broken but determined, sending out the faint, persistent command:

Breathe.

The sheer, kinetic grit required to endure the obliteration and claw upward toward the light is the same energy that defiance is made of.

The Other Front

The second survival occurs not against rock, but against policy.

The initial strike is a knock at the door, but its intent is just as total—to uproot, to detain, to delete a life.

When the system known as ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) descends upon a home or a community, it aims to create its own chaotic erasure.

Detention is a cliff edge, and a deportation notice is the sudden, terrifying slide.

And yet, in this terrain, resilience looks like community. It is the neighbor who hides a family, the lawyer who argues until dawn, the tireless organizing in church basements, and the daily commitment advocating for basic human rights, equity & belonging. It is the child who picks up a sign that says "Resist ICE," learning at a young age that their identity is a battleground, but one they will occupy.

This resilience is the refusal to be deleted, the organized counter-friction against a system trying to slide you into nothingness.

The Common Ground

What is the force that links the figure crawling out of the crushed truck to the mother marching with a banner that reads "Families Belong Together"?

It is the same fundamental power:

Resilience.

It is not just the ability to absorb a shock, but the audacity to recover from it. It is the deep-tissue instinct to persist when logic dictates you should vanish. The broken body and the threatened community share this truth: they are forged in the very fires that were supposed to destroy them.

Resilience is the single word that unites them—a declaration of being, uttered in the face of annihilation.

Yours truly, Amy; survivor & fighter- XXX

Dancing with the Edge: A Second Chance at the Summit

They say life can change in a heartbeat, but I learned March 7th, my dad's 75th birthday; that it can also change in the split second it takes for tires to meet black ice.

That Saturday morning started as a "bluebird" Colorado dream. The sun was out, the San Juan Mountains were draped in fresh snow, and I was buzzing with the kind of excitement that only a road trip through the mountains for a mosaic workshop can bring. I was headed to Mancos to create a mosaic horse—a project that felt so aligned with my life at the funny farm—before spending the weekend with one of my best friends Lauren in Durango afterwards.

I’ve driven these mountain passes for 25+ years driving through snowstorms over mountain passes, no problemo. I felt prepared in my trusty 4×4 2003 Toyota aka "The Princess Palace", even though a tiny voice of hesitancy whispered in the back of my mind after a storm passed through the mountains the past 2 days before departing. A friend in Ridgway called the night before warning me the roads were icy and they had gotten a lot of snow. I brushed it off and got up at the crack of dawn to get chores and snuggles in so that I could leave early and take it slow.

I wrapped up chores and finished organizing my hefty stead for the trip and set off for a weekend of creativity & connection. Little did I know my life would be flipped upside down that day I drove out of the funny farm.

Everything I owned was tucked into the back of that truck; it wasn't just a vehicle, it was my mobile sanctuary. I live in a built out van on the farm so my storage unit was my trusty Toyota.

Before I left, I spent the night singing to Friday (Emmy's foster mom struggling with some health issues) and giving massages to her and baby Emmy, making sure they felt loved before my short trip away. (Horses on the farm)

I second guessed myself after the snow and ice report thinking maybe I should stay and hunker down to be around for Friday and Emmy.

"It’s okay," I told myself. "Go do the workshop and have a much needed adventure. You’ll be back to the farm Sunday for more snuggles." Advocacy work has been heavy and I needed some levity and fun.

The drive through Ridgway was breathtaking. I was cruisin along, soaking in the jagged peaks and the wide-open sky. I even remember thinking right after Telluride Mt Resort, “Hot damn, the roads are actually great!”

Minutes later, just before the turnoff to the town of Ames & Illium Road before the summit of Lizard Head Pass, the world slipped away.

The Slide into Silence

The fishtail happened in slow motion. First sliding toward oncoming traffic, then a correction toward the embankment—a 200-foot drop with no guard rail. I tried to pull it back, but the ice had made the decision for me. As I blazed toward the edge, I shut my eyes and heard the words: "This is it."

Everything went black.

The truck rolled at least three or four times—the most violent seconds I have ever endured—until I plowed into a stand of trees. When I opened my eyes, the silence was deafening. I slowly looked around at my belongings scattered in the snow and realized with a jolt of shock: I guess this isn’t it; Let’s fucking go.

Adrenaline is a strange miracle. Despite a broken scapula, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a serious concussion, I pulled myself out of the wreckage "Dukes of Hazard" style. I was in my slippers, no hat, no gloves, standing 200 feet down a cliff in the freezing mountain air.

The only thing I knew was to survive.

Angels and Prayer Flags

As I scrambled back up the embankment, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks: the mosaic bear skull I had spent weeks creating to submit to an art exhibition in Idaho. It was sitting there, completely undamaged amidst the chaos. I grabbed it, clutched it to my chest and kept climbing towards the highway above; my hope for help.

At the top, I met my first angel: Ginger, a nurse who stopped her car and stayed by my side. She helped me breathe when it felt impossible. She was a compassionate witness and lifesaving support, calling 911 and helping me find my phone down by the site of destruction where I almost lost my life.

I was in shock, not thinking straight and hiked back down to help her look for my wallet. My brain was firing in every direction paniked and thinking, "How will I get all of my things back, how will I get back to Montrose for work Monday, and how will I make it to Denver next weekend for Latino Advocacy Day and how the hell am I going to call dad today, his birthday to share this news." Amongst the whirlwind of thoughts rushing through my scrambled brain I heard Gingers voice;

"NO- do NOT come back down here," but it was too late, I was half way down. Still full of adrenaline guarding me from the pain that would soon sneak up and make the second hike up excruciatingly painful and hard.

The firefighters arrived and worked the scene, looking down at the "yard sale" of my life scattered on the hillside making sure we were ok. They came down to assist and we all cracked a few jokes about the shitshow of my belongings scattered from top to bottom of the embankment with items hanging in trees and swaying in the wind.

Three beautiful handwoven garments of clothing I brought back from Oaxaca were snagged in the branches of a tree above the wreck—hanging there like colorful prayer flags and reminding me of my dream.

In that moment, I heard a whisper: "Your dream is coming. Your project will happen in Oaxaca. Slow down, child, and trust you are meant to be here.”

I've been busting my butt to save up to build a tiny house off of the coast of Oaxaca since 2021 after buying a lot off the Pacific coast near Mazunte. I have a dream to help rescue animals, grow my own food and have an art studio and space to create and to write; to live simply and out of the rat race while being in a place that makes my heart dance and soul shine.

The Heart of a Latina

The journey from the mountain to the Telluride Med Center was a blur. When the EMS guy asked me to sign off permission to be taken by ambulance, I told him I needed a minute to call my best friend Ximena who lived on Illium road to see if she could give me a ride to the Med Center; I was terrified of the cost to go by ambulance. He looked at me sideways, not recommending that but letting me try. Thankfully she didn’t answer; likely she would have and at the time I didn't know the severity of my injuries. Little did I know, Ximena and her daughter drove by the scene, not knowing it was me being rescued, on their way to ski that bluebird beautiful day.

Being rolled into the Telluride Med Center felt surreal and like slow motion. I offered a slight smile and wave to the staff as they pushed me by into the Emergency Room.

One of the first questions I was asked upon arrival was if I had a will. That’s when the tinge of fear crept in and the seriousness of the situation carved through the layers of adrenaline and shock that had me in denial prior. Up til then all I could think was how I'd be able to get all my things and be able to get to work by Monday.

The Medical team was incredible from what I remember; a mix of shock and heavy duty pain meds leaves things a bit blurry. Telluride Med Center was a quick stop for a thorough assessment, CAT scan and diagnosis. The nurse helped me contact my dad, a message no father wants to receive much less on his 75th birthday. After the cat scan I called him; my throat tight, heart racing and pounding with fear and a heaviness looming over me, barely getting my words out when I heard his voice. The tears ran down my cheeks when he answered and I sobbed telling him the news.

It was a miracle I was alive and I knew it despite the shock and pain meds impairing my cognitive functioning. Everything in my brain was slow and fast at the same time; I watched the lips of the ER doc and heard the words blurring together when the sounds rolled out, "You have a broken scapula, 3 broken ribs, a pneumothorax (punctured lung) and serious concussion. We're sending you to Montrose Hospital by ambulance." In that moment I surrendered and stopped trying to fight the reality I had entered. I couldn't help but fear what the cost of all this would be despite having insurance and hoped it would be a quick stay at the hospital.

The ride up to Montrose was a blur of incredible medics and the passing view of blueskies and snowcapped mountain backdrops out the ambulance window.

Flashbacks of the truck reaching the edge of the cliff played every time I closed my eyes, replaying the scene for the next 36 hours.

One of the paramedics offered me some soothing words of wisdom that this experience had a silver lining to it that would be revealed with time. After her pep talk she grabbed my arm and told me how badass I was to have gotten myself out of the truck and up the embankment for help. I remember her blonde hair and the shape of her face and hope I can find her someday soon to hug her; those words meant the world in that moment.

Sixty six miles later arriving to the ER in Montrose. Another entrance with a half smile, teary eyes and little wave to the staff as I entered, helpless on the stretcher. Another series of xrays and catscans to check the status of the punctured lung. Laying frozen in the room waiting, the ER doc entered and informed me the pnemothroax (punctured lung) grew and my lung was collapsing so they needed to do a surgical procedure to insert a chest tube.

That's when I got scared.

Tears came to my eyes. I wanted someone or something familiar by my side. My toughness was fading and I was overwhelmed with fear. I was still in a daze not entirely grasping the fact that my life was at risk. He told me the procedure was painful but they would give me a small dose of sedative as they had to get my left arm over my head for the procedure (my left scapula broken).

As the sedative wore off during the surgery, the pain was excruciating. They were doing the final "push" to breakthrough the lung wall and I felt everything. I couldn't hold back the tears and the sounds that helped soothe the pain that came out uncontrollably. The anethesialigists assistant coached my through encouraging me to breath; I thought of all the times I facilitated breathwork and was on the other side; I trusted him and knew firsthand the power of breath so I stayed with him.

Finally the tube broke through the chest wall and the procedure ended.

The room fell silent and everyone gathered around the bed. A voice cut through the silence, one of the nurses asking if I was bilingual because, in my most vulnerable state, I was speaking only in Spanish.

As my friend Ximena later told me: "Girl, your heart beats Latina." It’s true. Even when broken, my heart knows where its home is.

The Message in the Metal

Lying in the hospital bed for the last four days, replaying that flash of darkness over the cliff, the message has become crystal clear; I touched the edge of death and danced with her down a mountainside in a carcass of metal that should have killed me.

There is no more "fucking around."

Life is fragile.

It is precious, it is short, and it can be reclaimed by the earth in a split second.

What's ahead isn’t just a new chapter; it’s a second chance to recreate my life in total alignment with the dreams I’ve been holding onto for too long; shadowed with the paralysis of the fear of failing, overdue on my time playing small in this world.

I am still here for a reason and I believe there is something around this corner for me; uncertain how it will look. But I am trusting that the sweet spot of discovering it is not in gripping "the wheel" but rather, learning to surrender and let go of control and let "life" work it's miracle through me just like it did March 7th when I danced with the edge; I am certain the path will unfold towards this new second summit ahead.

Passion fueled and fired up

My mosaic work with Tierra Azul, my writings, supporting animal rescue work, my time in Oaxaca—it’s all part of a path I am now running wild towards with everything I have; arms wide open (ok, I'm visualizing the arms open wide until I can open them!)

Thank you for being on this journey with me and for witnessing my story.

Life is a miracle. Don't wait for a cliff to start living it.

Up and onward ya'll; vamos.

Yours truly, Amy- XXX

The Grit of the Human Spirit: From Colombia to the Western Slope

They told me not to go....

Before I moved to Colombia, South América to teach at an International School, my family tried to wrap me in a blanket of fear woven from US news headlines. They saw a caricature of a country; I saw the reality.

Those years offered me an unforgettable experience witnessing the most beautiful people, traditions, and cultures that didn’t just open my eyes—they shattered the "programming" of my upbringing.

Travel is the ultimate disruptor.

If we stay in the comfort zone of our societal conditioning, we miss the heartbeat of the world.

Colombia changed my DNA.

It turned my world upside down and pointed my compass South forever.

The Awakening:

From Tacos to "La Bestia"

Returning to the US felt like wearing clothes two sizes too small. I moved to Durango, Colorado, taking a teaching job while moonlighting as a waitress at Tacos Nayarit and volunteering at Compañeros. I was desperate to keep the Spanish I had fought to learn through immersion.

During those late nights, I started watching documentaries like La Bestia. I watched, rattled to my core, as families and unaccompanied children; risked everything to hop atop freight trains—exposed to the rain, the cold, the cartels, and the constant threat of violence.

People that embark on this type of journey don’t leave their homes because they "feel like a change."

Their survival demands it. Whether it's fleeing political violence in Venezuela or the harrowing trek through the Darién Gap—the most dangerous route on earth—these journeys are fueled by a grit most of us will never have to summon.

The Front Lines: Oaxaca

A year later, I was on the ground in Oaxaca, Mexico. My days (that first winter) were spent in a migrant shelter and teaching art at the Oaxaca Street Children Center—

At COMI; the shelter, I assisted as a cook, cleaned, and held space for people seeking asylum.

I saw families arrive with literally nothing. They had walked for months through the mountains of Central America.

No shoes.

No food.

No water.

Just the sheer resilience of the human spirit.

I remember an aunt who fled Honduras in the middle of the night with her nephew because a gang had threatened to kill his entire family if he didn't join them.

This is the reality the comfortable world ignores.

Javier: The Boy Who Stayed

Ten years later, I found myself back in a Colorado public school, teaching ESL. That’s where I met Javier.

Javier had recently arrived from Colombia, mid-year, carrying trauma that was visible in the way he breathed.

His second day at school, he collapsed in the hallway in a pool of tears, unable to step into the classroom.

I approached him, speaking Spanish with a spark of excitement. I told him how excited I was he was here and said, get this, "I lived in Colombia,"

The shift was instant. His eyes lit up; his body softened. We formed a bond built on shared songs and mutual respect.

He eventually shared stories of crossing the Darién Gap—horrors no child should know.

But we also shared a love for Reggaeton.

On his last day of school, he cried again, fearing he’d lose the teacher who truly saw him...

Javier, with his "gangster/feral" style and unbreakable spirit, reminded me why I do this.

In a society that demands we suppress our edges and stay in line, his raw survival was a masterpiece.

Advocacy: The Fuerza of the Spirit

Today, my days are spent on the Western Slope of Colorado, working for an immigrant rights organization. I sit across from men and women who have ridden La Bestia and walked through mountains to get here.

I recently listened to a man from Honduras share his journey. As I looked into his soft, humble eyes, I felt a familiar mix of emotions: Anger that the world is built in a way that forces such hardship on some while others live in total ignorance, and Awe at the absolute fuerza (strength) of those who endure it.

My work isn't just about paperwork or appointments; it’s about witnessing. It’s about honoring the resilience of those who leave everything behind for the simple, radical hope of a new life.

The Mirror: Finding Healing in the Reflection

We’ve all been there: a sharp comment from a partner, a perceived slight from a friend, or a recurring family dynamic that sends our nervous system into a tailspin. In those moments of dysregulation, our instinct is to point the finger. We build a case for why 'they' are wrong, why we are the victim, and why our righteousness is justified.

Contrary to what I thought early on in my life, healing doesn't start by "fixing" others. It started with the mirror.

The Pillar of the Mosaic

In my work at Tierra Azul Designs, mosaic mirrors are more than just a product—they are a pillar of my creative practice. I am drawn to them for the very reason that they demand we look at ourselves.

Just like a mosaic, our lives are composed of broken pieces—shards of joy, grief, and mistakes—rearranged into something whole and beautiful. To look into a mosaic mirror is to see yourself reflected through the lens of transformation. It is a physical metaphor for the "shadow work" that changed my life.

From Projection to Accountability

For a long time, I projected my unhealed wounds onto everyone around me. The turning point—the absolute gamechanger—was the painful, humbling moment I stopped being the victim and took full responsibility for my own toxic patterns and unconscious biases.

I stopped asking, "Why are they doing this to me?" and started asking, "What is this bringing up aka; triggering, in me?"

The "Three Fingers" Rule

Now, when I feel that heat rise in my chest or that judgmental voice start to sharpen its claws, I use a simple visualization. When I point my finger at someone else’s behavior, I look down and see three fingers pointing right back at me.

It’s a signal to pause and ask the hard question:

"Where have I shown up that way? Where do I carry that same shadow?"

The Nature of Shared Humanity

Nature is the ultimate teacher of this reflection. Like a forest floor where decay feeds new growth, our "shadow" side—our ego and our wounds—is the mulch for our evolution. When I identify that I, too, have been judgmental, controling, defensive, or manipulative; something miraculous happens:

* The judgment softens.

* The righteousness dissolves.

* The "other" becomes human again.

In that space, we find our shared humanity. That "sweet humble pie" might be hard to swallow at first, but it’s the only thing that truly feeds the soul. By owning our wounds, we stop letting them drive the bus. We move from reactive to reflective.

To look into one of my mirrors is to acknowledge the beauty in the breakage. It is a reminder to look within, stay humble, and remember that we are all just pieces of a larger, beautiful whole.

Yours truly- Amy; XXX

The only absolute guarantee in this life is that we will, eventually, leave it. It is the one certain reality of the human experience, yet we treat it like a dirty secret. We bury it under small talk and distractions. We treat death like sex or money—taboo, hushed, and hidden behind closed doors.

But I’ve found that when you stop hiding from the end, you finally start beginning.

In my 20s, I spent my life in a tiny plastic boat at the mercy of the most volatile forces of nature. I spent years sifting through river books, obsessing over details, and training to grow the cojones necessary to stare down Class 5 rapids. I remember hauling my boat on my back down sketchy-as-hell trails to the put-ins, suiting up with trembling hands, and stretching the skirt over the cockpit. I’d pray to whatever higher power was listening, seal-launch into the cold mountain snow runoff waters, and then: Game on.

Adrenaline high. Eyes wide. Breath steady as a bull. Knowing one fuck-up could cost me everything. That wasn't just kayaking—that was legit living.

The Bridge to Bridge

The pinnacle of this dance happened in the middle of nowhere—paradise—outside of Futaleufú, Chile. I was standing in a candlelit yurt with my friends Sara and Aaron. The air shifted. The tone got heavy. They looked me dead in the eyes and said, "If you come out of your boat tomorrow, it’s over. You’ll die my friend."

I took a breath, Paused. And these words fell outta my mouth, "I want to do it."

For years, the "Bridge to Bridge" section of the Futaleufú had been on my vision board. I had spent an entire summer in Colorado paddling the gnar just to prepare for this moment. I was committed to the dream, and my life depended on my ability to navigate 20,000 cfs of raging whitewater. To put that in perspective, the guiding companies had shut down; the water was dangerously high. The biggest volume I’d ever touched was 5,000 cfs. This was a different beast entirely.

The Best Damn Day

To this day, that run on the "Fu" remains the best damn day of my life. Hands down.

Everything was heightened. The turquoise blue of the glacial runoff was more vivid than any color I’d seen before. The roar of the rapids wasn't just sound; it was a physical vibration in my chest. I paddled my ass off to stay on the green tongue of the entrance, tucked tight behind Aaron with Sara on my tail. I fought through the current, bracing against the rage of the river, dodging massive recirculating holes that would have swallowed me whole if I’d flipped.

It’s a miracle I made it. When we hit the take-out, it was a blur of tears, hugs, and fist pumps. I had pressed my chest against the edge, danced with death, and won. It ignited an aliveness in me that I haven't touched since.

The Humbling

Living half my life in mountain towns throughout the Rockies, I’ve seen the other side of the dance. I’ve known too many people claimed by the river, by avalanches, by bikes, and by cancer. In 2020, I lost one of my dearest friends, Dan Escalante, to an avalanche. That loss changed me.

I’m not cocky anymore. I don’t think I’m invincible. I have a bone-deep respect for the elements because the force of nature is the ultimate humbler.

But I refuse to live in the "safe" shadows. If we spend our whole lives avoiding the end, we end up avoiding the life that’s happening right now. Death is coming for us all, but until she arrives, I intend to stay on the dance floor.

My hope is that whenever death finally knocks at my door, she finds me mid-stride—breathless, wide-eyed, and fully, unapologetically alive.

Yours truly, Amy - XXX

Let’s stop pussyfooting around the rot. For too long, the United States has operated on a playbook of "quiet" evil—secret files, destabilized borders, and a history of theft hidden behind a "heroic" veneer. But the mask is off. We are living in an era where the highest office has given a green light to blatant racism, where cruelty isn't just a byproduct; it's the point.

The Scapegoat Strategy: A Stolen Legacy

This country wasn't "discovered"; it was looted. We talk about "law and order" while standing on 1.9 billion acres of land systematically stripped from Indigenous nations. By 1900, the Native population had been slashed from an estimated 5–10 million to a mere 237,000. That is the original blueprint: Steal the land, criminalize the victim, and whitewash the history until the thief looks like the hero.

We see the same "sabiduría" (fake wisdom) stance today with immigration. The US spends decades playing God in sovereign nations—funding coups, destabilizing economies, and fueling the very violence people are now fleeing.

The Irony of the "Gang" Narrative:

They talk about the "threat" of gangs like MS-13 to justify dehumanization. But let’s check the receipts: MS-13 didn't start in Central America. It was born in the streets of Los Angeles in the 1980s, a direct product of the US environment. We exported that culture through mass deportations in the 90s, and now we act shocked that the fire we started is at the doorstep.

The "Worst of the Worst" and the Glass House

When the current administration barks about going after the "worst of the worst," it’s time to hold up a mirror.

While hardworking families are racially profiled and thrown into detention centers—where the population has surged by over 75% since early 2025—the real predators are walking free. We are witnessing the horror of the Epstein files—tranches of documents (over 3.5 million pages) detailing the most horrific, systematic abuse of women and girls.

Where is the "law and order" there? Where is the accountability for the powerful?

The Reality of Detention: As an advocate at the Hispanic Affairs Project, I see the faces of this "justice." We aren't seeing "monsters." We are seeing beautiful, dignified people whose only "crime" is trying to survive a system designed to exploit their labor and then discard them.

The Numbers Don't Lie: In the push for mass deportations, the share of detainees with no criminal record has skyrocketed by over 2,400%. This isn't about safety; it’s about a "no release" system designed to break the human spirit.

Enough of the Bullshit

The US playbook is tired. It relies on us staying quiet while they sweep the bodies under the rug. It relies on us accepting a version of "capitalism" that thrives on exploitation and a "patriarchy" that protects pedophiles while caging children.

The "immigration crisis" is a manufactured distraction from the fact that the people in power are often the very criminals they claim to be hunting.

We see you. We see the dehumanization. We see the lack of consequences for the elite. And at Tierra Azul, we aren't sweeping a damn thing under the rug.

Fuck the patriarchy. Fuck the exploitation. Fuck ICE. Justice for the survivors, and dignity for the displaced.

Yours truly, Amy (edgy & raw). XXX

The world seems to like us women small. It likes us polished, quiet, and—above all—preserved.

Like a piece of fruit under plastic wrap, we’re told our only value is in how well we can mimic the girls we were at twenty-two.

Well, I’ve got news for the boardrooms, the baños and the boys who still think they run the show: **Fuck that shit.**

The Death of the "Good Girl"

I spent my 20s and 30s as a hot mess; not knowing who the FUCK I was, wearing masks I didn’t choose, to "fit in", competing for the gaze of men who didn’t see me, and trying to win a game that was rigged from the start. I was/am exhausted from the performance of "pretty." Barf P.S…

But 48?

Forty-eight is where the magic happens.

This is the age where the mask doesn’t just slip—it gets thrown into the dumpster fire and set ablaze.

**We are dropping the people-pleasing.

**We are resigning from the competition.

**We are finally realizing that the patriarchal fear of a midlife woman is rooted in one simple truth:

You cannot control a woman who no longer cares if you find her "agreeable."

Grit, Grace, and Sun Spots

They try to sell us serums to erase the evidence of our existence.

They want us to be ashamed of the silver in our hair and the lines around our eyes.

They call it "anti-aging." I call it a goddamn erasure of my history and the wisdom that comes with a wild & adventurous life..

* Those lines?

Those are the maps of every time I laughed until I couldn't breathe and almost peed my pants; aka LIVING.

* Those sun spots?

Those are the receipts from exotic beaches and the glare of the sun off mountaintops as I carved through powder on my skis or bombed down singletrack on my mountainbike; aka LIVING.

* The gray?

That’s the ash from the bridges I’ve burned & hearts I’ve broke to stay true to myself; aka LIVING.

I don’t want to look like I’ve been sitting in a dark room preserving myself so I don't "age" waiting for life to happen. Another barf PS…

I want the dirt under my fingernails. I want the story of a life lived hard, worked hard, and loved even harder.

The New Standard of "Pretty"

We’re told a "pretty dress" is how you signal your femininity. It’s supposed to be soft, delicate, and submissive.

I say a “cowboy hat” is a “pretty dress.” Because a cowboy hat doesn’t ask for a seat at the table; it claims the whole damn range.

It’s a statement of sovereignty. Standing next to a wild mustang—untamed, powerful, and utterly indifferent to your opinion—that is the "feminine" I am reclaiming.

It’s grounded. It’s embodied. It’s the wildness that they’ve tried to domesticate out of us for centuries.

To the Women in the Wild

To my amigas in their 40s, 50s, and beyond:

Stop wasting your gold on the lie that you are "less than" because you are no longer "new."

You are a masterpiece of scars, wisdom & sacred sensuality;

The white-knuckle grip of the patriarchy is slipping because we aren't buying the bull-shit they're selling anymore.

We’re too busy riding horses, skiing, biking, traveling, creating Art, dancing, fucking, and LIVING OUTLOUD.

We are the wild mustangs they’re terrified of.

So, keep your "age-defying" creams.

I’ll keep my wide-open spaces, my grit, and my cowboy hat.

I’m finally 48 years young, and I’ve never been more in my power and authentic beauty; that emanates from the inside out.

The rest fades ya'll; and PS it will happen to you too. Remember who the fuck you are and don't forget your cowboy hat.

Yours truly; Amy- XXX

Sitting in my lil van studio at Tierra Azul Designs, I stare at a pile of broken glass, and honestly; It feels like a mirror of the world outside.

It’s hard to talk about "art" and "light" without sounding like I’m full of shit.

Let’s be real: we are navigating a landscape that is straight-up predatory. We’re watching an administration lean into blatant racism and systemic oppression, protecting the white, the wealthy, and the powerful while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces. 

Between that and the stomach-turning reality of the Epstein files, the "brokenness" isn't a metaphor—it’s a goddamn wrecking ball.

The "Both/And" isn't a peaceful place to be. It’s a combat zone.

It’s acknowledging the horrific shit happening to real people right now AND refusing to let that darkness have the last word. It’s the grit under my fingernails and the sharp edge of a tile that draws blood.

• The Both: The rage, the exhaustion, and the absolute disgust at the people running this show.

• The And: The stubborn, defiant act of still trying to piece something together.

I know I’m not the only one white-knuckling it and flailing through this. 

I know many of you are struggling to find a reason to create, or even just a reason to exist with hope, when the systems above us feel designed to crush anything that isn't "them."

But here’s the thing about a mosaic: you can’t make one without the break. The light only has a place to go because of the cracks.

We are living in the cracks right now. If you’re feeling the weight of it, if you’re angry, if you’re grieving—you’re doing it right. Don't let them gaslight you into thinking this is normal. We hold the pain, and we keep piecing the light back together because that’s the only way we don't get swallowed whole.

Stay gritty. Stay loud. 

Don't stop living, loving, laughing and creating. That is a form of resistance necesarry to keep fueling the fires to burn all this shit down.

In acknowledment of the both, and...

Yours truly, Amy - XXX

I am 48 years old, and I am finally becoming the living, breathing art piece I was always meant to be.

For decades, I’ve moved through the world like a nomad of the soul. I have hauled nets in the cold waters of Alaska, steered rafts through the roar of Colorado rapids, nurtured spirits in the classrooms of Colombia, South America, led women on bikes through the Zapotec lands of Oaxaca and the Incan beauty of Peru. I have been a teacher, a snowmaker, a gardener, and a guide.

Today, I am an Advocate for Immigrant Rights, a Somatic Breathwork Facilitator, and a mosaic artist living in a van on an animal rescue farm, mucking stalls in exchange for a place to park my home.

I am a Highly Sensitive Woman. I am an artist. I am a spinster by choice and a rebel by necessity.

Why "Writings Unleashed"?

This is just the beginning; with a memoir in the works; there are stories inside of me that my soul longs to share. Universal lessons that may be healing and validating for others, women in their midlife years in particular moving through their own storm.

For too long, we have been leashed.

Leashed by a system that HARMS, violates and profits from us; perpetuating old ideologies, oppression against us + people of color & LGBTQ and vulnerable populations; capitalizing on our exhaustion and fight.

Leashed by a "programming" that tells women our value is tied to marriage, motherhood and caretaking; an endless well of giving. 

Leashed by a society that fears our raw, authentic power—especially when that power belongs to those they seek to oppress: women, children, BIPOC, and the LGBTQ+ community.

I am here to cut the leash.

In this space of writings unleashed, I do not perform. I reveal; and support others on their journey of awakening by speaking, writing, creating and expressing.

I talk about the "Fucked Up System": The one that robs our souls and demands we "just survive" instead of truly living while turning a blind eye to the injustices happening around every corner.

No. I will not  

Here I embrace the Taboo: I speak openly about the things society whispers about—the grief of the unlived life, the rage against the machine, and the beauty of being "alone" but never lonely.

I continue to "Unlearn and learn again": I peel back the layers of conditioning that told us to be small, quiet, and compliant and to NOT speak up and out against the cruel injustices; our own and those of others around us.

Here; I/you/we learn to Dance with the Storm: We don’t wait for the calm. We find our rhythm in the middle of the chaos, using our breath, our bodies, and our voices to reclaim our magic.

This is my wild expression  

This blog is not a polished portfolio; it is the dirt under my fingernails, the salt of the Alaskan sea, the sand of the Caribbean & Pacific, the aches and pains whispering in my body from years of working and playing hard throughout the Rocky Mountains and the somatic release of a thousand suppressed screams. 

It is Tierra Azul Designs in its truest form: Creative. Raw. Unapologetic.

If you are tired of surviving and ready to start unleashing—if you are a seeker, a misfit, or a storm-dancer—then you are home.

Let’s get wild.

XXX ~ Amy

February 14th | Written from the Funny Farm

Today is Valentine’s Day. A day meticulously manufactured by a capitalistic machine to tell women that their value is a derivative of a man’s attention. A day that insists we need to be pampered, pursued, and "chosen" to be whole.

To that, I say: Absolutely fuck off.

I’m 48 years old. I’m a spinster gypsy soul. I live in a van on a rescue farm called the Funny Farm, surrounded by horses and donkeys who have been discarded, mistreated, and broken by the same world that tried to break me.

As I stand here with a pitchfork in my hand, mucking stalls in the quiet chill of midlife, I realize I’m not just cleaning up after animals. I’m shoveling out the last of the patriarchal horseshit I was fed for four decades.

The Weight of the Silent Observer

My mission with my mosaic art at Tierra Azul Designs is to piece together light in a broken world. But you can’t find the light until you acknowledge the dark.

I grew up a highly sensitive person, a deep feeler trapped in a rigid, militaristic, and strictly Catholic environment. I was a silent observer of intergenerational trauma. As a young girl, I endured sexual violation; (NOT within my family system but rather, “trusted neighbors”). In college, I survived assault. I carried the heavy, suffocating weight of attachment trauma—not because my parents didn't love me, but because the system we were born into is designed to suppress the wild, the feminine, and the authentic.

Trauma isn't just what happens to us. It’s the frozen explosion that happens inside of us. For years, I didn't know how to process that internal debris.

The Numbing and the Crash

When you aren’t given permission to express your truth, you find ways to exit your body.

In my 20s, it was the holy trinity of numbing: alcohol, drugs, and sex. Then it was extreme sports, pushing my life to the jagged edge just to feel a rush loud enough to drown out the pain.

Then came the toxic relationships—the repetitive, exhausting dance of codependency, trying to heal wounds I didn't even know were there.

It all eventually became a glorious, necessary dumpster fire. It brought me to my knees. It forced me to admit: I need help.

Dismantling the Programming

Healing wasn't a straight line; it was a demolition project.

The Emily Program: Six months in Minneapolis unlearning the lie that my worth was tied to the size of my body. Fuck a culture that tells women we need to be small and thin to be significant.

The Meadows: Digging into the roots of addictive tendencies and the brainwashing that convinced me my happiness was something to be found "out there."

The real "game changer" came through the somatic: Hypnotic breathwork, dance, and art therapy. I had to stop talking and start moving. I had to give myself the one thing I was always denied: Expression.

Thanks to the influence of guides like Gwen Payne at Inspired Sedona, I finally stopped being a victim of my history and became the architect of my future.

The Whole Enchilada

So here I am at the Funny Farm. Every scoop of the pitchfork is a deposit into my "Oaxaca Dream"—a tiny house and art studio on the coast, where I will grow my own food and fully opt out of the corrupt matrix.

Living with these rescued animals is the perfect metaphor. They are getting a second chance, and so am I. As I approach half a century, I am more liberated than I have ever been.

To my sisters in the eye of the storm:

On this "holiday" of roses and romance, remember this: Buy your own damn flowers. Acknowledge the breathtaking beauty of the woman in the mirror.

Love isn't something you wait for; it’s a job that starts on the inside. If a man comes along and adds value to your life, wonderful—that’s confetti.

But never, ever mistake the confetti for the party.

You are the whole enchilada. With or without the sprinkles on top.

Hold your pitchfork high. Let go of the "damsel in distress" bullshit. You are a powerful, raw, unleashed Pitchfork Princess.

Own that shit.

Yours truly, Amy; The Pitchfork Princess-

XXX