I have sat with the dying. I do. I will.
It is the most honorable gift I have ever been given — to be allowed that close to the unraveling. To sit at the place where the veil grows thin. Where there is no performance. Where the body knows what to do and the soul begins its crossing.
That room changed me. It made certain things impossible to unsee.
I brought what I learned in that room into the work I do with the living — because I discovered that emotional death and physical death ask for the same things. Presence. Witness. Someone who isn’t afraid of what’s happening and doesn’t need it to be otherwise.
I created La Loba Soul Support for people in the middle of their own crossing — not toward physical death, but through the death of who they were.
I am not afraid of your unraveling. I consider it an honor to witness it.
I know this work from the inside.
What they called breakdown, I called initiation. When the remedy was offered, something in me refused — a soft voice, not loud, but persistent. It would not let me seal it over. Would not let me manage my way back to a life that had already ended.
Because what I was experiencing wasn’t illness. It was a spiritual crisis. And in a spiritual crisis, “who am I” and “why am I here” stop being questions. They become prayers.
I stayed in that fire. I learned to extract the medicine from the wound. I discovered that what had broken me was also forging me — and that transformation fully lived is not the same as recovery. Recovery returns you to the shore. Transformation deposits you on an entirely different continent.
That is what I now offer others. Not a way back. A way through.
This is a story of resurrection and the coming home to yourself.
The personal journey of transformation.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés wrote of an old woman who lives in the desert.
She has many names — La Loba, the Wolf Woman, the Bone Woman. She spends her days wandering the arroyos and dry washes, collecting what has been abandoned, what culture has declared finished, what has been forgotten or left for dead. Bones, mostly. The bones of wolves.
When she has gathered enough — when the skeleton is complete — she kneels over her assembled bones and begins to sing. She sings over them the way the earth sings over seeds in winter. And slowly, as the song deepens, something begins to happen. Fur appears. Flesh. Breath. And what was scattered and dead rises and runs free into the desert night.
This is the oldest story of transformation I know. And it is the story of this work.
Not fixing. Not returning anyone to who they were. But gathering what has been scattered by loss, by devastation, by the deaths we survive — and singing it back into a life that is wilder, truer, and more fully inhabited than the one that broke.
La Loba knows that nothing is truly lost. Only scattered. Only waiting to be gathered by someone who knows the difference between what is dead and what is dormant.
I have been finding my way to this work my entire life.
I woke one morning with her name on my lips. Not as metaphor. Not as branding. As recognition — the kind that arrives before you’re fully awake and settles into your bones before your mind can argue with it.
I am La Loba. And I have been waiting for your bones.
Marion Woodman
When a life falls apart, pieces of you scatter. Not just the life you knew — but parts of yourself. The knowing you stopped trusting. The rage that went underground. The grief that never had a witness. The wildness that got domesticated. The voice that learned to stay quiet. These are your bones. And I go back for all of them — especially the ones that hurt to touch. We gather them piece by piece until the skeleton of who you actually are begins to reassemble. Not who you were supposed to be. Who you are beneath all of it. What song shall we sing over yours?
This is not talk therapy. It is not coaching. It does not follow a protocol.
What happens between us is deep, embodied dialogue — the kind that moves through the body as much as the mind. We follow what’s alive in the room. Dreams. Sensations. What the grief is carrying. What the rage is protecting. What the soul is pressing toward beneath all of it.
I work with Jungian depth psychology, shamanic practice, and energy healing — not as separate tools but as a single language.
Sessions can be tender. They can be fierce. There are tears. There is sometimes unexpected laughter. It is a birth — and birth canals are not comfortable.
What emerges on the other side is real in a way that nothing managed or coped with ever is.
But my real training has been sitting in the liminal space with people who are falling apart—learning to hold space for transformation without rushing it, fixing it, or looking away from the devastation.
I know the terror of not recognizing yourself anymore.
I know the grief of who you used to be.
I know the vertigo of not knowing what’s next.
I know the shame of feeling like you should have it together by now.
I know the silence that descends when the old prayers stop working.
And I know this — the one thing I would have given anything to hear when I was standing where you are now:
This is not the end of you. This is the most important passage of your life. And you do not have to cross it alone.