Hey Love,
I’m Christina, but please—call me Flower. That name chose me as much as I chose it. It’s the part of me that bloomed after surviving the dark soil, the storms, the unraveling. It holds the softness I reclaimed after years of holding everything together. It speaks to the part of me that still believes in beauty, even when the world forgets. This space, like me, is a living altar—a reflection of the sacred, messy, transformative journey I’ve walked. I didn’t grow up calling myself a healer or intuitive. But I was always something more than this world could name. As a child, I felt the shimmer of the unseen. I spoke to angels before I had the language. I knew God before spirituality could reach me. I remember sitting in the woods behind my childhood home, a quiet hill cloaked in trees, where I felt the clearest sense of knowing: I am not alone. I am protected. I am guided. 

I was a hypersensitive little girl—overwhelmed by sound, light, emotion, truth. My nervous system caught everything the world tried to hide. I could feel what others wouldn’t say, hear what lived in the silence. But like so many of us, I was taught to shut it down. My parents didn’t know what to do with that kind of sensitivity. They called it imagination. So I learned to mute myself to survive.

My path back to remembrance began in early adulthood, after a work injury ended my career as an autism support worker. That loss left me spinning—and I spiralled for a while. I made choices from pain, from disconnection, from grief I didn’t yet have words for. But somewhere in the unraveling, I was found again. I met yoga; at first through movement, but eventually through breath, through stillness, through surrender. I didn’t just find asana. I found Shiva.

Or maybe... Shiva found me. There was no burning bush, no thunder in the sky. But something in me woke up, slowly, then all at once. A remembering. A return.

And from there, the work began. The real work.

Healing didn’t look graceful. It looked like sleepless nights. Panic attacks. Disassociation. It looked like surviving myself. I’ve been to the edge. I’ve held the weight of not wanting to live. I’ve felt the body shut down in protest. I’ve brushed close to death, more than once. And yet, I am still here. Still breathing. Still blossoming. The body has been my greatest teacher. Through it, I’ve learned how trauma stores itself in posture, in breath, in fascia and fatigue. I’ve studied how energy stagnates in us, how ancestral grief clogs our flow, how we inherit what we don’t heal. And I've witnessed what happens when we finally listen—when we reclaim our right to feel, to grieve, to root, to rise.

My offerings are born from this lived experience. They are not a performance. They are a practice.
A prayer. A promise.

Whether through reiki, ancestral lineage healing, yoga, breathwork, intuitive energy work, or land work: I’m here to midwife transformation. To hold space for what is sacred, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. This work is not about fixing, it’s about remembering.
Remembering that we belong.
That we carry ancient wisdom in our bones.
That healing is possible when we return to the earth, the body, the breath.

The land where I live—Mi’kma’ki, in Pleasantville, Nova Scotia—shapes everything I do. I walk barefoot on this earth. I listen to its trees, its wind, its silence. It reminds me daily that we are not separate. That spirit lives in soil, in birdsong, in breath. That healing is a cycle, like seasons.

This is my invitation to you:
To meet yourself in the mirror of my story.
To feel seen in the places you thought were too tender.
To know that you are not broken—you are becoming.

Let’s walk the path of remembering together.