Hello wondrous Souls,
I have been revisiting an early chapter of my life lately — one I thought had already dissolved into understanding. When I was four years old, I had to leave my father. The circumstances were painful, shaped by elements of abuse toward my mother and me. I won’t go into the details, but what matters is the shift that happened inside me from that moment on. Something rose in me, a self-protective vigilance, and I stepped into a version of adulthood no child should ever have to carry.
My father never supported me in my life after that, not financially and not emotionally. And almost without knowing it, I took up the role of provider and protector. I became the one who must make ends meet, who must stay alert, who must keep the emotional sky from falling. Even now, I can feel the echo of that child who believed she had to be the one to hold her own world together.

It’s astonishing how these early imprints continue to ripple through our lives, even decades later. I am nearly 67, and I’ve forged an extraordinary story of dignity, strength and hope. And have accomplished many wonderful things in my life, including creating an amazing transformational tool, guiding others through profound transitions, and writing three books on healing yourself, owning your story, and embracing your spiritual evolution. I have lived as both student and teacher of transformation. And yet, here I am, arriving at a place I never knew was still waiting in the landscape of my own story. It has been nudging me gently, yet it has taken me by surprise.












Even with all my tools, wisdom, and lived experience, something tender has been rising, the old feeling of needing to be an adult too soon, resurfacing like a forgotten song.
You see, forgiving my father came long ago, as did compassion. But some stories lodge themselves in the body, not the mind, and they wait for the right moment to be rewritten. I am beginning to understand that this moment of healing is connected to my art, with me finally and fully claiming myself as an Artist.
Because drawing and painting were the one thing my little self truly loved. It was my sanctuary. My joy. My untouched realm of innocence and wonder. As I open myself to this identity wholeheartedly, it feels as though I am stepping back into the place where I once felt totally free and at ease in the world.
This form of creative expression is awakening a part of me that never had the true luxury of childhood. With every creation I embrace, I can feel her coming closer. In every choice of colour, I sense her presence again. It is as though she trusts me now and trusts that I can hold what she could not.
This season of my life feels like a gentle rite of passage.












Not into adulthood because like U said I did that a long time ago. But into an inner holiday, a newfound gentleness, and an inner homecoming, all coming together as one sweet sigh of deep gratitude.
I am learning to speak to that four-year-old with the voice of the elder she never had. I am letting her know that the danger is long gone.
I am letting her know she doesn’t have to make ends meet, emotionally or spiritually, ever again. I am letting her know she is allowed to play, to create, to be messy, to explore and to have, at last, the childhood she lost.
Perhaps this is the true gift of growing older: a ripening into softness, a return to what was once abandoned, a liberation from the roles we had no choice but to inhabit.
I am ready to let the little girl play. And I am prepared to hold her with tenderness. I am ready to paint her back into wholeness.
And in doing so, I am allowing a new story to take shape, the one where survival no longer leads the way, and the Artist within me finally steps into the light she always carried.
Heart to Heart, Elizabeth


















