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