I’ve spent most of my life thinking I had to choose. Be academic or intuitive. Be spiritual or smart. Be a woman who knew how to hold a man accountable or a woman who could sit by the fire and laugh with the boys.

But what if those parts of me were never actually at odds?

What if knowing the land, listening to trees, feeling the pull of animals and water and weather — what if that’s not mystical, but simply human? What if it’s what we were, before capitalism told us there was one right way to be useful, before patriarchy flattened women’s wisdom into wives’ tales?

I didn’t set out to build a media house.

I just needed somewhere to put the fire.

There was a season — recent enough that I still feel its pulse in my chest — where everything that could go wrong, did. Where my life became a battlefield of paperwork and pressure. Where I was still tethered to a man I’d already left, fighting for every inch of freedom while he poured chaos into every crack.