Andrea Walks the Labyrinth

In the midst of life’s unraveling, one woman takes a single slow step toward herself—through a guided meditation, memory, and the quiet presence of an Ancestor.

---

Andrea didn’t know what she was doing there.
Not really.

She’d registered for the online retreat on a whim—a whisper of a decision late one night, the glow of her laptop softening the corners of her shadowed room. The invitation had said something about rest as resistance, and her stomach had clenched at the word.
Rest had never come easy.

She had driven out to the retreat center’s grounds early, even though the session was on Zoom. Something about the stillness of the gardens helped settle her. Andrea sat on a bench, phone in hand, earbuds ready. The screen flickered to life, and the facilitator’s voice wrapped around her like a warm shawl.

“Close your eyes if you like,” the voice said. “Let the breath find you.”

She did. And it did.

---

The Garden & the Gate

The moment she softened her eyes, something inside her softened too.
A slow breath pulled her inward, and she saw herself in a garden—not imagined, but remembered. Somewhere between childhood and longing. She walked among tall flowers and whispering trees until a hedge rose before her in a half-moon arc.

A part of her hesitated.

Another whispered, Just walk.

And there, by the opening in the hedge, stood a figure—an Ancestor.
She didn’t recognize them exactly, but something in her sternum stirred—a grandmother’s hum, a father’s coat, the warm scent of cedar.
“You don’t have to walk alone,” the Ancestor said.

Andrea’s knees trembled slightly as she stepped forward.

---

First Circle – Compassion

The path was narrow and woven. With each step, a new breath.
The Ancestor walked beside her, silent until they said: “Compassion.”

A rush of images flooded her—sitting up all night with her feverish son, whispering I love you to her ex-husband even after the fight, holding a stranger’s hand in a hospital waiting room. And then—her own face in the mirror, after crying so hard she couldn’t speak. She had pressed a cold cloth to her eyes and whispered, You’re still here.
A lump rose in her throat. She hadn’t remembered that in years.

---

Second Circle – Creativity

The circle turned, and the Ancestor smiled. “Creativity.”

She saw paint-stained fingers from her college art studio, the way she once braided stories into bedtime tales, the spreadsheet she built at work that made someone cry—not because of the numbers, but because of the way she saw the people in them.

A part of her stirred—one that used to doodle in the margins of meeting notes.
I’m still here too, it said.
Andrea blinked against the sudden sting behind her eyes.

---

Third Circle – Calm

Her feet slowed.
The Ancestor said, “Calm.”

She resisted. Her breath grew tight. “I don’t have that,” she muttered.
But then came flashes: the way she’d once held her friend’s hand through chemo, the way her voice softened when speaking to dogs and babies, how she’d wrapped her arms around herself after the divorce and said nothing for hours, just rocked.

Her chest expanded. One breath, then another.
The tightness loosened, slightly.
A protector part, ever vigilant, took one step back.

---

Fourth Circle – Courage

“Courage,” said the Ancestor.

This one came fast.
She saw herself saying no.
She saw herself saying yes.
She saw herself leaving, staying, starting over.
Each act a roar, even when it looked like a whisper.

The scene that stopped her: quitting the job that paid well but cost her soul.
The night after, shaking in bed, unsure how she’d make rent—but finally, finally able to breathe without armor.

---

Fifth Circle – Curiosity

“Curiosity.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest.
She’d always asked too many questions. As a child, it got her scolded. As a leader, it got her respect.

She saw herself kneeling beside her son after his first heartbreak, asking, “What’s it like inside you right now?”
She remembered how she’d once turned toward a panic attack and asked, “What do you need from me?”

Her parts felt this one deeply.
Curiosity was a bridge she had walked before.

---

Sixth Circle – Confidence

This one felt brittle at first.
She didn’t expect anything to arise.
She had lost confidence somewhere between her fortieth birthday and the final HR email.

But then—her first solo trip.
Her TEDx talk.
The tiny moment she walked into a yoga class alone, heart pounding, and stayed.

Confidence wasn’t loud.
It was a thread—thin, but golden—and it had never broken.

---

Seventh Circle – Clarity

“Clarity,” said the Ancestor, their voice like a bell.

A single moment appeared, like light through fog:
She was in her kitchen, three years ago, watching someone lie to her.
And she knew.
She didn’t say anything then. But she knew.
That knowing had changed everything.

Another image: a letter she wrote and never sent, the clearest expression of love and boundaries she’d ever composed.

Clarity didn’t always lead to action—but it never lied.

---

The Center – Connectedness

They arrived at the center. A bench waited, just as the voice had described.

Andrea sat, bones grateful.
The Ancestor sat too, and gently touched her shoulder. “Connectedness.”

And the wave broke.

Her children.
The women at her grief group.
The tree outside her apartment window.
The smell of her mother’s perfume.
The part of her that wanted to die last winter.
The part of her that didn’t let her.

Tears streamed freely. Not like a release. More like a baptism.
She belonged. She had always belonged.

---

The Return Journey – Gathering Gifts

The Ancestor handed her a small woven basket.

She turned to retrace her steps—and this time, she found tokens along the way:

• A soft shawl for Compassion

• A paintbrush dipped in moonlight for Creativity

• A river stone, smooth and cool, for Calm

• A feather etched with fire for Courage

• A magnifying glass wrapped in twine for Curiosity

• A tiny lion carved from rosewood for Confidence

• A glass vial of rainwater for Clarity

• A braid of wildflowers for Connectedness

Each item pulsed in her palm.
Each one was hers.

---

The Exit

When she stepped back through the hedge, she was not the same.

She would still forget her keys.
Still feel small some mornings.
Still reach for her phone instead of her breath.

But now, when her parts got loud, she’d know where to walk.
She’d know how to listen.
And she’d remember: there’s no getting lost here.

Only coming home.

---

First Retreat: Summer Solstice 2025

Love Heals Trauma is a series of gentle, seasonal online retreats held four times a year on the solstices and equinoxes. Rooted in the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model and supported by somatic and nature-based practices, each 3-hour retreat offers a space to slow down, reconnect with Self, and tend to your inner world with compassion. Through a blend of live Zoom gatherings, guided meditations, and a self-led outdoor experience with journaling prompts, participants are invited to align with the rhythms of nature while exploring personal healing themes. Whether you're new to parts work or deep in your healing journey, these retreats provide a nourishing circle for reflection, connection, and transformation.

Friday, June 20
7:00pm–10:00pm ET 6–9pm CT / 5–8pm MT / 4–7pm PT· Saturday, June 21 · 7–10am SGT / 10am–1pm AEDT / 12–3pm NZDT

Saturday, June 21
9:00am–12:00noon ET 6am–9am PT / 7am–10am MT / 8am–11am CT / 2–5pm BST / 3–6pm CET