I’m Pausing My Blog to Work On My Web

I’m writing this post to explain what’s going on, what’s next, and what you can expect from me moving forward.

First—The EXCITING News!

Kamilah Joy at the Light House Bulb has invited me to be one of three guest speakers for her series “From Wounds to Worth.” You can find her here. I’ll be speaking on something close to my heart—an idea from my Beyond the Plate series: that we are what we eat, sure, but more truthfully? We are what we consume.

I’m honored and blessed to know such powerful healers, out here building loving and authentic communities. A huge thank you to Kamilah Joy for inviting me along at every step of the way—starting back in October 2024 when she first invited folks to share their DV story for a chance to WIN a free entry in this same series, if I recall correctly.

Now—The News That’s Giving Me Anxiety (That I’m Trying to Reframe as Excitement)

I have more than one creative endeavor brewing—probably amounting to storytelling podcasts of sorts. Or several. I’ll be foreshadowing those a little later. 😉

I’m being intentionally vague because I’ve been swimming in these ideas for months, trying to figure out how to pivot and actually bring them to life. I can’t give you a timeline just yet—I’ve never made a production like the one I’m seeing in my head, and gathering the technical knowledge to pull it off is going to be a journey.

Speaking of Process…

Let’s talk about the mundane—the day-to-day that I’m balancing behind the scenes. I’m rebuilding my practice: yoga, meditation, diet, movement, etc. Along the way, I’ll be sharing tips on how real humans can make small shifts that support healing—physically, spiritually, mentally—without breaking the bank or adding to the chaos that we’re all already living through.

I’m also working toward a certification I’m really excited about—something I’ll be able to integrate into both my personal growth and professional offerings. And I’m working a little job that I love way more than I expected. Even when it’s exhausting, I’m learning so much. The skills, the spiritual muscles I’m building, the people—real, caring humans. It’s beyond a dream. I’m grateful.

FORESHADOWING & POTENTIAL SPOILERS: No TL;DR Here.

I’m embarking on a journey that means I’ll be speaking out—sharing heavy stories, that full disclosure, were told to me by unreliable narrators, and the realities I observed about the people I grew up with and around. These stories don’t paint them in the best light. And I don’t use heavy language unless it’s earned. I know what words weigh. I’m not perfect, but I try to be impeccable with my words. Even the heavy ones.

So before I tell you the stories I carry—the ones passed down to me, sometimes unknowingly—I want to tell you about the good I saw in them.

My Grandmother

My mother’s mother. She was a CNA before I was born, an avid reader, born in 1933 (if I recall correctly), battled colon cancer young, and is still alive today—changing her own colostomy bag. I looked up the spiritual significance of colon cancer and found many of the things that “cause” it are the same chains I’ve had to break myself. Maybe my paranoia that it runs in the family ends with me.

What really stood out: generational patterns like a critical spirit, unforgiveness, self-accusation—all rooted in the evangelical programming I grew up with.
The same woman who taught me how to sew a button and praised my ability to untangle knots once accused me of being observant. Yes, accused—with a tone and body language that little Mia read as annoyed, almost disgusted.
My mother had told me being observant was a good thing. I was confused.
A thread was thrown at me. 🕸🕸

My Grandfather

A gifted storyteller. I’m still enchanted by storytellers because of him. He was funny and color blind. Once, he swore my hair was blue and laughed when I told him I wanted to be a lawyer:

“Women can’t be lawyers.”

A thread was thrown around me that day. I didn’t understand it yet—but I felt it. 🕸🕸

He taught me how to burn paper into the shape of a horse—though I couldn’t tell you how to now.
When he said “I love you, honey” in labored speech, what I heard in my heart was:

“I’m sorry. Please hear me when I say I love you.”
(I sobbed just after I wrote that—not a sad sob. A release.)

My Mother

She made good food. She worked hard in different ways to provide food, clothing, and a roof. She taught me a little about herbs—enough to spark my curiosity. She passed down silly superstitions, which she said were “just silly” but treated almost religiously.

She would praise me in private… and join in my public ridicule among the “feral dog pack.”
The threads she wove around me—we don’t have time to unpack them all here.
From her, I got: a goofy sense of humor, a love of liquor, a deep distrust of men, a working knowledge of old ways—even if she didn’t understand or admit them—and a backbone.
Much to her chagrin.

I am many things, all thanks to my mother. Even if the lessons didn’t land the way she intended. 🕸🕸

Uncle Cantankerous

Another GREAT storyteller. Funny, dramatic, charismatic. He’ll give you the shirt off his back—but grumble about it. He’ll say 10 things that are criminally smart, followed by 10 conspiracy theories if you stay long enough.

For a man who demanded silence, he sure doesn’t allow much of it.

I think he did the right thing once—out of guilt or obligation—before becoming a perpetrator himself.
He once (probably more than once) told me I was asking for it. 🕸🕸

Uncle Pendulum

I didn’t have many positive or overly negative interactions with him. Mostly, I’ve felt pity. That kind of violent emotional swinging is trauma behavior. He won’t feature heavily in what’s to come, but when he does, I’ll paint him with compassion. I think he was one of the more broken actors.

Uncle Comedian

He’ll be spoken of gently. He didn’t deserve the hand he was dealt in the web we all inherited. He’s hilarious, intelligent, wise in ways this family never appreciated.

His only crime was being born into the wrong family.
To me, he’s like a sacrifice of sorts.
I was never around him in his darkest states, but I always felt safe in his presence.

Uncle Stays-In-His-Lane

And he did. I can only recall one time he made me uncomfortable, and in hind-sight - it was much more about something someone else had told me. He seems like a genuine person. His kids still speak to him—seems like he raised them well. Evangelical, sure—but it felt real.
Still, he’s part of a rigid, toxic family.
And the best predators do blend in.

Uncle Road Rash

I almost called him Uncle Cousin Fucker—but that felt too low-bar.

I don’t have anything kind to say.
Not particularly funny, smart, kind, or generous. Not genuine.
I found him scary, creepy and gross—my entire life.

Uncle Possible Cult Leader

He was the baby. Adapted to survive. Needing a toxic family warps a person.
I remember him being funny—but, like, mean funny.
Always a little put off by him, but he’d never done anything to me, so I ignored it.

This is the kindest light I can shine on each of these people. I’ll honor their stories the same way I honor all stories of victims—to the best of my ability. I’m not trying to shame or blame them.

They’re just people. Allegedly doing their best.

It’s just that... for some of them? Their best was more suited to a life of crime and abuse.

So—with compassion, love, and a genuine hope that those who can heal do—I look forward to telling you the stories.

The webs my family weaved.

🕸
Mia Marie

The Hierophant: Spiritual Authority, Questioning, and Reclaiming Your Truth

As I was writing the post about people who do real good but also offer real harm, I kept thinking about the Hierophant. In tarot, the Hierophant is often seen as a teacher of spiritual practices. The word itself has Greek roots, historically referring to priests who decoded scripture. But if you really want to understand the deeper implications of that, you’ll have to explore it on your own time. See, understanding the history of something—especially a spiritual practice—is essential to grasping what you're really signing up for.

When I arrived at a Pentecostal church with my uncle in my early 20s, I was desperate to reclaim what I thought I knew as community: Jesus, family, and stories steeped in trauma. Pentecostal, Assemblies of God, Non-Denominational—these denominations, and likely many others I’m not even aware of, have a very strict set of rules for their female parishioners. This was the kind of structure my childhood had left me craving. Knowing my expected role helped me perform Christianity, wifehood, (step)motherhood, and familial relations.

In these faiths, we are taught a few contradictory things: You are made perfect in God’s image, yet you are fully unworthy of redemption. It is through Jesus alone that you obtain salvation, but don’t smoke, drink, do drugs, engage in promiscuity or premarital cohabitation, wear makeup, or alter your appearance. Additionally, don’t rely on status symbols or wealth. I would later learn that Pentecostals are statistically the poorest and least educated among Christians. This factoid shaped my already-tense relationship with the church, which was activating my nervous system—though I had no language for that yet.
It’s designed to activate your nervous system. Let me let you in on a little secret: These high-control groups are also high-energy, high-emotion. For folks who were spoon-fed dysfunction, but still have an innate and unshakeable connection to spirituality, these spaces feel like home. They feel safe—despite the fact that they are often run by people pushing an agenda. The agenda?

Read Project 2025.

I left my husband and my church at the same time. I had already been considering leaving the church. My uncle had given me a Strong’s Concordance. I had already read the Bible from cover to cover. But I desired a deeper understanding of women and their place in the church. What I found was that the Apostle Paul hated women. That realization got me questioning everything—things I’d been told to shut up about as a child.

The questions started at: if we are not to alter our appearance in accordance to God’s will, why does Sister Assistant Pastor’s Wife dye her hair? (I never spoke that question out loud, but that same week Sister APW announced God had put it on her heart to stop dying her hair.) If I am to wear skirts that don’t show my knees, why does Brother Assistant Pastor wear shorts? Again, I never spoke this question, but God had put it on Brother AP’s heart to stop wearing shorts.

It was things like that that made leaving my faith a little harder - to me, it was undeniable that the spirit moved in that church. Just like I knew the spirit moved in my grandparents’ home growing up. It took me many many years to reconcile my spiritual connection with my understanding that the Church, God’s people, were not living his word, even if he was moving in these spaces.

(As a side note, the same spirit that I felt in those churches is the same spirit that I’ve felt walking in the woods amongst the trees, birds, and bees.)

Once I started questioning these things (and many others), the carefully crafted facade started to crack. When I was raising concerns about our church with my husband and his father one day, something in my husband shifted. He decided to start drinking again, something we hadn’t done for about 2 years by that point. It was one such night that he threatened to kill me and I made my escape - from him, and the church.

I was disheartened and disillusioned with faith, relationships, with power games, with everything but my family. Not that my family is some sanctuary, more that they are duty bound. Fully captured by the “Blood is thicker than water” quote and the understanding that the appearance of a family that sticks together will hide all sorts of sins. But I digress.

I can almost hear some of you already: “Mia. What does all of that have to do with the Hierophant? Let alone what’s going on in this country.”

Calm ya tit (just one, you can keep your other one wild). I’m getting there, our TikTok attention spans are killing the art of storytelling. Or maybe it’s just strengthening our oral storytelling, IDK, I’m still just a person.

The Hierophant represents spiritual leadership, a strong tie to tradition, and the gatekeepers that ‘protect’ those things. Now, these gatekeepers, they aren’t just hanging out in churches with their fancy robes, or in the places we’ve been taught to revere as ‘holy.’ They exist everywhere—especially in the places we’re told to trust without question. Family, government, society. These are the modern-day Hierophants. The ones who hold the keys to ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ to ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ to ‘us’ and ‘them.’ But here’s the kicker—just like in the church, the rules don’t apply equally to everyone. You’ve got your elite few at the top who get to play by a different set of rules, while the rest of us are told to fall in line. To obey. To follow blindly.

This country, right now, is full of those so-called gatekeepers. The same ones that are pushing ‘tradition’ and ‘purity’ and acting like they’re the only ones who know how to protect us. And it’s not just about religion anymore—it’s about control. Political power. Social manipulation. The fear of not being ‘right,’ of being cast out for questioning those in charge. The agenda behind Project 2025? You can bet your ass it’s using the same playbook. They tell you what you can and can’t do, what you should believe, and if you ask too many questions? Well, you’re a ‘threat.’
Deconstructing religion, toxic relationship patterns, community and culture - or lack thereof - is crucial for recognizing when the energy of the Hierophant is self-serving instead of collective focused.
Something I struggled with, heavily, after leaving my church and my husband, and in short order - my whole extended family - was realizing that I was drawn to these spaces because I lacked a strong sense of community and culture. Without that proper grounding, I didn’t know where to turn.

When I told a friend of mine that I felt kind of like a sculptor that spent so long on a masterpiece only to decide when it was finished that I hated my work - I felt devastated. My friend, an author, quilter, community mother, and artist, told me that when she decided to scrap a project, all she felt was relief. This small conversation, this small perspective shift changed everything for me. Now, I got to begin again with the lessons I learned, with the understanding that I will never again allow someone else to shape my masterpiece.

From there on out, I didn’t know it at the time, but I would become my own Hierophant. I consumed as much information as I could about as many different modalities as I could. I absorbed what felt right, and left what didn’t. I gave myself grace when I would be corrected and told to do more research in an area. I gave myself space to carve a practice, all eclectic, while still honoring the traditions it came from. I practice Reiki, I have a deep appreciation for how that system of energy work came to us. I am studying yoga, and I am deeply committed to honoring its roots while practicing and maybe someday, teaching.

You, too, can and should be your own spiritual authority. You can and should question everything you’ve been spoon-fed. You can and should learn to identify the Hierophant, standing tall and alone with a lantern in the dark vs. a Hierophant that hides their light in order to further the illusions of the moon.

That’s the kicker, right? So many of us are fed illusions in the name of ‘tradition,’ ‘purity,’ or ‘truth.’ But if we’re being real here—if we’re honest about the larger picture—we’re often just serving someone else’s agenda. Someone else’s power.

This is how you reclaim your own truth: You question. You step back. You look at the system that’s been feeding you these narratives and decide—does it serve you? Does it serve the collective? Or does it serve the few at the top who’ve been pulling the strings all along?

I had to get brutally honest with myself about what I was walking away from. It wasn’t just the church, my marriage, or the family dynamics that had kept me stuck in a pattern of blind loyalty and obedience—it was a system of control. And those control mechanisms? They didn’t just exist in my faith community. They existed in my family, in my culture, in the broader society. I had been conditioned to think that everything had a ‘place’ and that I had to conform to it. But when I let myself step outside those boxes, I found that the whole damn world was a lot bigger than I had ever imagined.

The beauty of this work—the work of shedding illusions and breaking free from those who pretend to hold the keys—is that it’s an act of liberation. I became my own Hierophant, embracing what resonates deeply with me, and honoring traditions without clinging to them out of fear. It’s the work of creating a practice that aligns with your own values, your own truth, and your own rhythm. This is where your spiritual authority lies.

I’m here to walk with you in this. I can help you find your path, one that’s in harmony with yourself, nature, and the natural cycle of life. One that doesn’t require you to apologize for your truth. Where you don’t have to bend or break to fit into someone else’s idea of what’s ‘right.’ Where you question what’s been handed down to you and get to choose how you move forward—without shame, without guilt, without fear of being cast out.

Because the truth is this: The Hierophant can either lead you to your own liberation—or they can keep you trapped in a cage of illusions. You get to choose which one you’ll follow.

Standing under the light of the lamp,
Mia Marie

Beyond the Plate: Nature’s Timing

Whew. Another week has come and gone over here. I am nothing if not consistently inconsistent. It’s Thursday as I’m writing this, and truth be told, I almost missed a blog post altogether. I was actually writing this for my friends on Facebook to let them know what I’ve been up to this week—a “Hey, I’m alive” kind of thing. So, breaking from the recently established pattern of anecdote-tarot posts, this week, let’s look Beyond the Plate.

If you’re new here, the Beyond the Plate series explores how we are more than what we eat—we are the sum total of what we consume and how we consume. “Anything in excess is poison.” While I’ve often referenced this quote, I’ve found it attributed to many sources, and I most likely encountered it in the context of Buddhism. It’s a mindset I’ve carried with me as I’ve learned to interact mindfully with the natural world around me, especially with my trees.

When I moved into this house and realized the beautiful, tall pine shading my backyard was an Eastern White Pine—whose needles are some of the best-tasting medicine in the country—I knew I’d need to be a responsible friend to the trees. But what did that mean?

For me, it meant not overharvesting her (or her sister) in my overzealousness. It meant waiting for the right time, a lesson I learned a few years ago when I lived off-grid and had access to an abundance of witch hazel. By the time I finally thought to harvest it, I realized I was too late. You can harvest tree parts whenever, but it’s best to wait until early spring when the sap and terpenes—aromatic oils—are flowing. This is when the best medicines and flavors emerge. The problem for me back then was that I was working full-time and living off-grid, so I wasn’t set up to properly harvest and use the witch hazel. So, when we arrived here last summer, I knew it would be a while before I could taste my new pine friend’s tea.

The pines on the property had already been limbed, so the remaining branches were pretty high up. Now, I’m a fan of facing my fears, but climbing a ladder to harvest needles for tea, vinegar, or natural pine soda wasn’t high on my list. I figured I’d spread out the projects over two years: pine soda this year, pine vinegar the next, and just enough tea for a couple of times. Tea can be made with dried needles, so I collected some from a small twig that had fallen earlier this winter. It was earthy, much lighter than I expected, and I couldn’t WAIT for the pine soda this year.

Then life happened. I started a class, got a little job, and was still trying to keep up with my blog commitments. I was studying when my pine friend began shedding her limbs, when my neighbor’s pines were dropping limbs onto their roofs, and when the lights went out. It became a stressful week for more than 700,000 people in Michigan and Canada. Sadly, at least six people didn’t make it, as of today.

As the storm raged on, with branches shedding and the cold dampening everything, I worried. Worried that the wind would pick up the branches and damage our home, worried that our stove wouldn’t keep the cats warm enough, and worried that our neighbors and friends were facing worse. During a break in the storm, we went outside to assess the situation and decided the immediate risk of falling branches was low. After that, it was about staying warm and planning my harvest.

Needles degrade the fastest, so I knew I needed to be quick. As soon as the weather broke, I needed to get the needles for the soda. The pine soda relies on the natural yeast of the pine needle to lightly ferment the drink, giving it the carbonated quality. Tea and vinegar can use less-than-perfectly fresh needles, but the soda had to be fresh. This meant that I had to PAUSE my studies, the power had just come back on, and I was itching to get back to my studies - but I needed to move quickly. Yeast traditionally hates me, so I couldn’t take any chances. Thankfully, I learned that if you rinse the pine needles in water that is too warm, you will release the terpenes that you need for the flavor when I made the tea earlier this winter.

It meant that by the time I looked at the recipe again, I hadn’t already made a dire mistake of over-rinsing my needles. Still, I had decided to chop my needles, and I was terrified that I had made a huge mistake. Maybe I killed too much yeast? I wasn’t sure, so I pressed on. I filled my bottles with my sticky little needles, sugar and my purified water. I sealed them up and sat them in the window. I sent pictures to my gal pals and my brother and laughed about the yeast. Then I went to work the next day and almost forgot all about it.

I woke up this morning and decided I needed to look at the bottles. I wasn’t expecting anything. Again, I kill yeast. I was ecstatic to find bubbles on the needles in the bottles. So I took a little video of my excitement to share with a few friends who knew I was making the soda to let them know it was working.(Because they are getting some.) Had nature not dropped ice on us, thus dropping a full quarter of our tree, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to try so many things this year. The pine soda is only the most exciting; I’m also excited for the opportunity to look for resin, for salve, and to harvest some inner bark to dry for a thickening agent.

As I harvested from the fallen limbs, I sang to the tree and asked its permission. I explained where her needles were going and that we appreciated the shade she provided, and now we will appreciate the drinks, cleaners, and wood she has provided. I told her she was still beautiful and I felt silly the whole time. I don’t know how I feel about the concept of land spirits, but I do believe that cultivating a mutually respectful relationship with nature is important. We are nothing without her, and without us, she will keep doing what she is doing. We are guests here on this planet, and some of us have zero house training. But it’s never too late to start cultivating that relationship with the natural world around us.

With love,
Mia Marie.