Embrace the Space Between

I didn't know what this painting would be until the strawberries went in.
But the ground came first.

We had driven up to Grand Marais. North Shore. The rocks, the water, the particular quality of light on Lake Superior. I am from the South. My husband is from here. After the flood took everything in Asheville, we chose Minnesota. We chose this ground.

That choosing lives underneath the painting. Literally. The North Shore rocks and water are the first layer — the foundation nobody sees when they stand in front of her. The way the work you do on yourself is there, even when it doesn't show.

Then: a gold sofa. That image arrived before I touched the canvas. Lush. Sumptuous. Sensual without apology. Not performing. Not waiting to be chosen. Simply being, fully, in her own space.

When the strawberries layered over her, something became clear. She grew from this. The vines, the leaves, the strawberries in outline — rugged, raw, not yet finished into something the world would recognize. They are the inner work made visible. She is reclining within her own ground. Held by what she did to become herself.

The Hetaira is the only horizontal painting in the series. She reclines. Not reaching. Not ascending. Present, occupying the full width of the space she is given.
The jagged marks at her center remain. I didn't soften them. A garden holds difficulty naturally. Thorns are not damage. Part of what makes the beauty true.

What I misunderstood about this archetype for a long time: her power begins inside herself. From that ground, she can truly orient toward another. Not before.

https://embracethespacebetween.substack.com/p/we-chose-this-ground

This activity is made possible through a grant from the Central Minnesota Arts Board, thanks to funds provided by the McKnight Foundation.

After separation, there is the possibility of return.

Not to what was — but to something that couldn't exist before.

In Toni Wolff's framework, the Hetaira represents conscious relationship. Not care — that's the Mother. Not independence — that's the Amazon. But presence with another. The capacity to meet, to see, and to be seen.

She does not dissolve into the other. She meets them.

This requires a backbone. A root system strong enough in self to make room for another. Being with — but not of.

But in shadow, connection becomes dependency. Being seen replaces knowing oneself. Sometimes it looks like needing them present to feel safe. Donning whatever mask makes you likeable enough to be kept.

And here is where the shadows converge — the Hetaira shadow and the Amazon shadow are not so different underneath. Both reach for something outside the self. Both use a mask.

I grew up on Disney films and romance novels. Me and you against the world. And when reality didn't match the dream — the Amazon stepped in. I'll just do it myself. Not because I was strong. But because I didn't know how to be a healthy Hetaira.

So I swung between two shadows. Neither one whole.

For most of our marriage, I brought the Amazon to our relationship — providing, leading, holding the financial weight. But underneath was the other shadow too. The needing Sean to be there. The codependency that lived alongside the armor.

A woman who equated softness with weakness. Who met tenderness with contempt.

He stayed. Through all of it. The corporate years, the travel, the armor, the cancer, the hurricane, the flood, the basement in Minnesota.

And then — after the flood, after another rejection letter — I was crying. He held me.

He said: "You don't have to. Go, do what you love. Paint. Make a go of it here. I've got you. I've got us. And we will be okay."

I didn't know how to receive that.

I still don't, fully. But I am learning.

That is the Hetaira arriving — in the hardest possible form. In total dependence. In letting him.
I used to look at the Hetaira with contempt. I am still grappling with that.

But I have not dissolved. I have not lost my edge.

I am learning a different kind of loving. Kind words. Small gestures. Listening to his dreams without remarking on them. Accepting who he is — just him. He gets to be himself. And so do I.

This is not the love I grew up believing counted. But this quiet, present, unglamorous showing up — this is the love that actually holds.

And it surprised me how far I've come.

The painting that emerged from this is not about union or distance. It is about the space between.

More soon.
Read the full piece here:
https://embracethespacebetween.substack.com/p/hetaira-the-art-of-being-met

Two days.

If you've been following the Becoming Whole series — this is your chance to see the paintings in person and meet the woman who made them.

Artist Reception
Paramount Center for the Arts, St. Cloud, MN
Thursday, May 14 | 4–6 PM
Free and open to all

Come as you are. I would love to see you there.
https://www.embracethespacebetween.com/becomingwhole

This activity is made possible through a grant from the Central Minnesota Arts Board, thanks to funds provided by the McKnight Foundation.

Happy Mother's Day.

To the ones who held everything — and forgot to hold themselves.
To the ones who gave from abundance.
And the ones who gave until there was nothing left.
To the ones still learning the difference.

In the Becoming Whole series, the Mother archetype carries this question at her center:
What would it feel like to hold the people you love — loosely?

Not letting go. Not withdrawing.
Just — loosely. With open hands. From fullness rather than longing.

If that question lands somewhere real for you — the full poem is on Substack. It's called Mother: The Long Gift.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you — whatever season of mothering you're in.
https://embracethespacebetween.substack.com/p/mother-the-long-gift

It's here.

Becoming Whole is on the walls at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Today.

Five paintings. Five archetypes. Nine years of living the story they tell.

Come see them.
📍 Paramount Theater, St. Cloud, MN 🎨 On view through July 1

Artist Reception: May 14, 4–6 PM — open to all

https://www.embracethespacebetween.com/becomingwhole

This activity is made possible through a grant from the Central Minnesota Arts Board, thanks to funds provided by the McKnight Foundation.

Tomorrow.

After nine years of living this story — and six months of painting it — Becoming Whole goes on the walls at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud.

I've been sharing the archetypes, the poems, the paintings one by one. Tomorrow you can stand in front of them.

I'll be honest — I don't quite have words for what this feels like. So I'll just say: come see it.

📍 Paramount Theater, St. Cloud, MN 🗓 Opens tomorrow — May 8, 2026 🎨 On view through July 1 🥂 Artist Reception: May 14, 4–6 PM — open to all

https://www.embracethespacebetween.com/becomingwhole

This activity is made possible through a grant from the Central Minnesota Arts Board, thanks to funds provided by the McKnight Foundation.

Five paintings. Nine years of living the story they tell.

Becoming Whole opens Thursday, May 8 at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud, Minnesota — and I would love to see you there.

If you've been following along — these are the paintings behind the stories.

The series explores four feminine archetypes through the framework of Jungian analyst Toni Wolff — Mother, Amazon, Hetaira, and Medial Woman — plus a fifth of my own: the Individuated Woman. The one who holds all of them.

This work began with a cancer diagnosis in 2016. It ends with a woman standing in her studio in Minnesota, finally knowing who she is.

Come see it in person. The paintings are large. The story is real.

📍 Paramount Theater, St. Cloud, MN
🗓 Opens May 8, 2026
🎨 On view through July 1
🥂 Artist Reception: May 14, 4–6 PM — open to all

https://www.embracethespacebetween.com/becomingwhole

This activity is made possible through a grant from the Central Minnesota Arts Board, thanks to funds provided by the McKnight Foundation.

The Amazon: What I Carried Alone
A Poem: On armor, masks, and the crash of taking them off

I was eight years old
the first time I understood
that being loved
was not something
I could count on.

My favorite restaurant.
A filet mignon — just for me.
I look up. I call out. Our eyes meet.
He turns and leaves.

That's when I know:
I am not enough.
If I could be different, perhaps,
would I be loved?

—

I decide, somewhere in that moment,
that I will never need anyone again.

I call it strength.

Safety, for me, means this:
not needing another
so I can never be hurt...by anyone.
Ever again.

I build armor
the way you build anything
you plan to live inside of —
carefully, piece by piece,
convinced it will keep you safe.

It does.
Your life confirms it.

—

I learn early that donning a mask is the key.
It's knowing which mask to put on
that becomes the art.

You listen. You discern. You decide.
You peruse your closet of masks,
searching for the most appropriate one.
You tie it behind your hair.
Turn and face the room.

You say yes to them
and no to the ones you love.
You cross all the red lines
because you have never drawn one yourself.
You comfort yourself with a bottle.

In those rooms,
it's about having all the answers.
Never being unsure.
Reading what is under the conversation —
the nuance, the story behind the story.

You become a master of disguise.

The Fixer. The Gardener.
Never the architect.

And you are never —
ever —
allowed to be yourself.

But that's okay.
You stopped learning who you were
when you were eight.

Because who are you anyway,
if not the knight?

—

The review comes.

They would follow me into battle.

I set the pages down.
Read it again.

But they don't like me.

I really thought
that it didn't matter.

Would a man care
if his people didn't like him?

—

I take pride in the not needing —
the way you're proud
of a thing you built with your own hands.

It's ugly. It's toxic.
But it's mine.

I don't see what it's keeping out.

—

After cancer,
my daughter tells me
she's never seen me cry.

Imagine that.

I do cry, I protest. But alone.

Is this what life is meant to be?

I was the one to keep them safe.
But now their battle leader is sick.

Who will lead the charge?

It's time to disassemble.

—

The armor doesn't come off all at once.

But it makes a hell of a crash.

A wolf let loose on the ones she loves.
Fear in their eyes as I transform.

It's not pretty.
But it is wildly necessary.

Have you ever tried to take off armor?
It rests solidly on my bones.

I'm addicted to anger. To the power. To the fight.
And now it's gone.

And I quiet down.
Like a baby who has found its mother.

I don't know.
I need help.
I am desperately lonely.

—

I was eight years old
when I first learned
to make myself other.

Now I paint.

I tell the truth
on a canvas
8 feet tall.

I share my story
with the world.

And I am not
performing
anything.

She broke through the wall.

The rubble is at her feet — the remains of every battle it took to get here. The darkness is behind her. The light is what she is stepping into.

She is wearing a dress because you don’t wear a dress like that to a fight.

The fight is over.

Calm. Centered. Present.

This is not about physical strength anymore. This is about something deeper — the embodiment of truth. Of Self. Of a rising that comes not from force but from knowing exactly who you are.

—

She is in red. Full, unapologetic red.

When I worked in corporate, I wore black. Always black. I was advised against wearing colors — told it would draw attention. Too much. Too bold. Too visible. So I pushed the color down, the way I pushed everything else down that felt too much like myself.

Her gaze is direct. Calm. Not defiant. Not proving anything.

Just present.

She stands in her own authority. Her own wisdom. Her own power. She will not make herself small. She is done hiding, bending, changing to make others comfortable.

She is embracing the joy of “being too much” because she is exactly perfect.

—

When I stood in front of her, I recognized the truth of her. And I felt proud. I felt large. I felt strong. Solid. Not needing anything — and knowing that if everything were swept away from me, I would still be okay.

Because nothing — nothing — can take away the wisdom of my Self. The journey. My roots so deep and full, grown from all of the work it took to get here.

I can stand without my armor because I am my armor.

I saw myself there. All of the years, all of the cost — coming together into this one perfect moment of standing in the light. In my authenticity. Not apologizing for being soft and strong.

Nor for wearing red.

I spent most of my Amazon years being someone else. No longer.

She is not small.

She is not sorry.

—

I thought I was painting strength. What I painted was peace.

—

This is what it looks like when the Amazon has done the work.

No longer striving. No longer frantically searching. No longer alone.

She has arrived.

She has come through the darkness. She is standing in the light. She is dressed for it.

And she is not going back.

More soon.

Day 1. Done.

I'm documenting my journey through Tracy Verdugo's 30 Days to Creative Freedom — 30 days of painting on the same canvas, every single day. No rules. Just showing up.

I'll be honest — I procrastinated. Felt frantic. Kept finding reasons not to start.
It's just paint, I told myself. And also — what if it doesn't look good?

But here's the thing about this challenge: every layer gets painted over. Nothing has to be precious. Nothing has to last.

That changed everything.

Because I realized — for the first time — I was painting with no stakes at all. Not preparing a body of work. Not asking myself if this is something I can sell. Not performing for anyone.

I've tried to give myself this permission before. It never worked.
The drumbeat was always there: can this sell? can this sell?

But something is different now. I had to arrive here first — to this new home studio, to this season of my work, to this version of myself — before I could finally let that question go.

At least for 30 days.

First marks. New studio. Here we go.

Where the Mother holds, the Amazon separates.

In Toni Wolff's framework, the Amazon represents autonomy — self-definition, action, and the capacity to move independently. She claims space. She acts. She doesn't wait for permission.

At her fullest, she is capable, decisive, trustworthy, and resilient. People follow her because they know she delivers. Because when she says she will do something, she does it. There is real integrity in that — real power.

For me, it was never a choice. It was a necessity.

The Navy. Corporate leadership. Global Vice President. Sole provider for a family of five. These environments rewarded capability and endurance. So I kept moving. And I was good at it.

But right before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I received a 360-degree review. The people who worked for me said they would follow me into battle.

But they didn't like me.

I had no idea. I thought I was kind. I believed I was doing good work — and in many ways, I was. But for the company. Not for the people. Not for the relationships.

Shortly after — cancer. And what I notice now: the year before, I had already lost my uterus to a hysterectomy. My children had come through IVF. The hidden parts, the internal parts, the parts built for nurturing and creating life — removed piece by piece. And then the breasts. The visible part. The external expression of the physical feminine.

My body was losing its femininity at the same rate I was refusing to live from it.

In shadow, strength becomes armor. Independence becomes isolation.

I had learned early never to need anyone. I took pride in not needing. I thought being intimidating was power.

It wasn't. It was just lonely.

After cancer, one of my daughters told me she had never seen me cry.

Imagine that.

In Toni Wolff's model, the Amazon and the Hetaira sit directly opposite each other on the archetypal axis. Which means the archetype I had lived in most fully — for decades — was in direct tension with the one hardest for me to access.

The Hetaira: relational, connective, present to intimacy. Alive to the inner life of another.

I had rejected her almost entirely. I called it weakness. I couldn't see what I was losing.

The strength that protects you can also be the thing that keeps you alone.

The painting that emerged holds both the power and the distance of this energy. More on that next.

Read the full piece on Substack.
https://embracethespacebetween.substack.com/p/amazon-autonomy-strength-and-the