Your door closed, music loud, heart lost. Praying somewhere deep inside that you would be found by the one who held you in her womb if only she could see you.

The one who held you in her womb was birthing truth and disappearing while your music played. A truth no one could know or see. A body swollen from choices that would bleed.

All of her disappearing. Her sex, impulses, youth, secrets.

The call to sacred self, to words, for sisters to appear so for now she wouldn’t have to.

When it feels like disappearing turn the music down and pull your face to the sky.

When it feels like disappearing send a blessing on a star.

When if feels like disappearing show me your heart.



40 day adventure 690 FREE

A free 40 day adventure

August 12th – September 20th (my 40th)

A daily scavenger hunt challenge

Follow and connect with all the players of the adventure on Instagram

Gifts (details down below)

A woman’s thirst calls in the waves of movement and risk that are creating her next becoming.

A woman’s thirst is her desire to fill her cells and spirit with joy and lust and beauty.

A woman’s thirst is a visionary’s self forgiveness brought forth by each sip.

A woman’s thirst brings her to the awakening of adventure, held deep in her blood and bones.

A woman’s thirst allows her to water her future self with the love of a wild woman.

The months leading up to turning 39 (#epic39) sent me into a spin inside my Universe.

It was a feeling that came from knowing this was the last time my age would ever start with a number 3. I held a mix of wild excitement, brave confidence and a total crazy fear of letting go that I was not ready to sink into. So I grabbed 39 by both of it’s numbers and I let it roll over me and through me and around me.

I decided that I would celebrate with an abandon of riches, risks and failures.

The night of my birthday I asked 6 friends to join me on a scavenger hunt around the city of Providence, RI. It was the first time I had ever stepped into celebrating myself this fully. My heart was blown open by the amount of love and support and crazy adventure that happened that night and the months to follow.

We had 39 challenges to complete.


Find someone on a first date and ask them how it was going. Check. Give away 7 white balloons. Check (One went to the first date couple.) Perform rap. Check. Get a bartender to let you go behind bar and pour a beer. Check. Get someone to buy you a drink. Check. Have someone show you a hidden tattoo. Check. Make public art. Check. Take picture with skull. Check. Kidnap someone and take them on adventure. Nope. (But this one couple showed up at the dance club we went to from the previous restaurant we were at, and we had tried to kidnap them, so, kind of…)

We didn’t make it through the 39 challenges, maybe 29 of them.By 2am everything was closing and we were ready to fall onto our pillows.

We didn’t need to make it through all of them. We didn’t need to finish, to cross them all off, we just needed to do it, be in it. We even needed to fail big at some of the challenges.

It was a freedom and happiness that still breathes inside of me.

39 has been a year of so much unknowing and expansion and a pace that I have barely found myself able to keep up with.

I have been raw and alive. This can happen at any age. For me it was 39. My awakening. My peeling. My layers. My freedom. My truth.

I let go of the need to know the answers to all the big questions I thought my impending 40th year self should know.

And then…

I got thirsty. Thirsty in my skin, on my lips, inside my soul. My dehydrated female body had a thirst that wouldn’t be quieted.

At first it was a thirst for water. As my cells started to fill with the power of that water I could feel my soul, my spirit start to open, as though I was the ocean, the waves, the current.

hannah hydrated words

In these waves inside of me I wanted to become movement. To sweat. To cycle my waves, my sweat, with the moon that guides me. I craved the wisdom that was buried inside of me that could only release when I started to know and quench my thirst.

And I danced with failure. It is the attempt, the trying that changes our lives. So during this challenge we will fail sometimes because we made the attempt.

This year I invite you to join a group of women all over the world who seek to push their edges at all ages. Who will hydrate and move and risk failure in the doing.

Here is how our 40 day adventure will work ::

  • A daily email with the day’s challenge
  • Challenges will come from me or a special guest (cause I need surprises too)
  • Our instagram hashtag #awomansthirst will hold all of our photos from the adventures
  • Each day go forth on your adventure and take a picture representing the challenge with the hashtag
  • Explore your edges and dance with surprise
  • Learn a whole new layer of who you are
  • Let yourself become fully inside of your thirst
  • Move with a group of women ready for change
  • 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday when I will give away a gift to one of the adventurers
  • One gift, to one amazing woman, will be free enrollment in all of my online programs for a year
  • Maybe other surprises too, you know…

Sample of our adventures ::

  • Mantra bomb your neighborhood/city by leaving little notes on mirrors, sidewalks, the table with your tip, a fence…
  • Create mason jars filled with fruit water (fruit floating in water) and gift them out during the day
  • Hold the gaze of 5 people today, let them be the first to break eye contact
  • Park one mile away from the destination. Walk. Be open to the surprises.
  • Take a photo with someone, who when you see them, lights you up. (Strangers are bonus points)
  • Tell a story (using one of the prompts provided) to someone of your choosing today. Or blog it.
  • Write a word on your body (using prompt provided) and go out into the world with it visible.
  • These are just a quick sample of how we will play, hydrate, move and quite possibly fail…

“There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street

and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,

and be a disgrace.

Close both eyes

to see with the other eye” ~ Rumi



“What you do is take women who don’t even know how to believe in what they already are, don’t know that they should, and you give them hope, give them the tools, introduce them to a way of looking at themselves, the world, each other – that illuminates ILLUMINATES the path that we failed to notice was beneath our feet all along.”

“Hannah walks her talk, follows the path so that it is illuminated for the souls she guides. She has her finger on the pulse of the universe, and embodies the sacred feminine.”

“Hannah is honest, real, a storyteller, authentic, magical, passionate, gentle and tough all at the same time…”

(First photo credit Mara Glatzel)


On moving.

July 2, 2014

Another email, I don’t hit reply and you are important, crazy so.
The kid’s haircuts, forgot. The middle one can’t see past his bangs.
The exit, drove past it, dreaming of fantasies in my belly.
Piles of dishes that would devastate me if you walked in the kitchen and saw.

color story blue

The stuck takes over the impulsive woman who runs her business and family on her desires and whimsy.

You run out of gas but decide not to put any gas in so you can just sit there, in the middle of the open road that stuck took you towards and be the eyes of witnessing.

You watch the other cars drive by and hold the power to join them, but you want only to sit inside of the truck with your windows rolled down, naked and longing and feeling the warm air soothe the bits of you that try to infuse the guilt.

The guilt will flow through and the child who grew into the words that defined her life become a pulse of story that plays on with new words and so she sits and watches.

And this is what we say to her…

Hey sweet love.

It is time now. It is time.

Get out and place your feet on the warm ground.

Feel it, let the heat go from pavement into soles.

Lift your head up to the sky and thank the Goddesses who hold you who know you who become you.

Now without thinking love, start to move.

Dance or run or skip or fly or devour another, but move.


It is time now. It is time.

Don’t worry how. I will show you why.

As soon as you move.


From Thursday morning love letters, dropped like feathers into your inbox before your coffee starts to brew.


Name your vision book.

June 30, 2014

The basics of the vision book are a blank book, scissors, glue stick, magazines and some beautifully carved out time.

I love this Moleskine.

And I named my book fully tonight. So pleased and excited about where this is going.

The On the Eve Prompt.

Join us for the 30 day online course?

name it


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On becoming a runner.

June 26, 2014


On becoming a runner. At 39.

First you must run. It may only be 25 or 30 paces. Then you walk. Catch your breath. Run again.

If you are carrying more weight than your body is used to, you can think of it as a weighted vest that you will be shedding over the months. Weighted vests make you stronger.

You will hear that everyone felt like you when they started, huffing and puffing and mostly walking. You may not believe them. Especially when they tell you now they can run 5 miles rather effortlessly. Yes, that’s when you won’t believe them.

There is a good chance you’ll do a ton of things wrong. Or not. But if you do, it is the way we learn. Watch a little babe learn to walk. They figure it out by trying, failing, going back.

The first time feeling the runner’s high will change your life. This is not an exaggeration.

You will receive a shit ton of advice. Listen to it but don’t take carry it all. Take what you need, excuse the rest. This is your journey.

Find shoes that feel like joy.

Get an app on your phone to track your distance and pace. Let it talk to you each mile and encourage you. (You may still not believe you’ll run a mile or more, but you will. No need to believe me yet.)

Track your progress and workouts with that app so you can find the trends that work for you. A running plan is a guide, find yourself inside of it.

Rest days. Once you’ve felt the high you won’t want them but they change the game.

Things will hurt. This is how they get stronger. Let your body heal and be challenged in safety and love.

Don’t run on the sidewalk, stay in the streets or on the paths. Your knees will thank you.

Buy a few running clothes that make you feel gorgeous. Everything you do can be done gorgeously. Even, especially, sweating.

Running and yoga clothes come with cute little zippered pockets now to hold keys and phones. Those will become your favorite.

Don’t just run. Have a yoga day. Do planks after your runs. Devote one day to core. Lift. Lots of pigeon pose. Rest.

Notice the days when you are running away from yourself. They will hurt. You will feel pain. These are the days that you are pushing.

Notice the days when you find home, which is you, inside of your run. They will feel like joy. These are the days that you are in your body. And this is gratitude.

Drink water. After your run add a little sea salt and lemon and hydrate.

To become a runner you must run. There is no other way.

insta collage2


Since starting to run 6 weeks ago I have become a runner. After 14 days of running extremely little, mostly walking, I was left useless with pain in both knees. I could barely walk down stairs. I waited for my knees to heal and spent the following 3 weeks doing kettle bell swings so I wouldn’t lose my momentum.

I felt like a failure. I kept my patience and let myself heal. Then I began to run again. I followed those bits of advice that I had collected and I have no knee pain.

My longest run is almost 3 miles at about a 12 minute pace.

6 weeks ago I would have laughed if you told me after a few weeks of running I would be able to run 3 miles. I would have said, “But I am not a runner.”

I was just asked to join a half marathon for my 40th year. I just might.

My whole life I longed to be a runner. I watched my father run as though it was his religion. I always felt so jealous, not of his time running, but of the way it made him feel, like it was moving prayer aligning his brain and body. I seem to share a similar brain and yes, it is moving prayer.

I have watched my Instagram feed fill up with women starting to or returning to becoming runners. It overwhelms my heart. To feel my movement become sacred inside of another’s movement feels so good.

When my knees had to stop I had women telling me that they were inspired to run again and that they would run for me while I couldn’t. I believed them. I felt it. I was there too.

I run because it brings me back to me, back into my body.

I am a runner. At 39.


“The tension is here
Between who you are and who you could be
Between how it is and how it should be”

I Dare You to Move, Switchfoot

(Please note this is simply a story about my last few weeks learning to run. It is in no way a running plan or fitness advice. Again, this is my story.)






will bangs change my life

“Who are you writing your newsletter to?”

“To me. I write to myself.”

I hadn’t realized this truth until a crazy smart woman asked me a couple of years ago.

“And it is my favorite thing I write. It’s a love letter. First to myself, then to my circle. It is fully my voice, my heart, my stories.”

Every single week I don’t want to write it. I talk myself out of it. I play games. I make up stories about how I have nothing left to say, I’m dry, barren in the word department.

Every single week I wait all day, all day, then I finally sit down during the kid’s tech time (5-6pm every night, oh yes) and I pour a glass of wine and open my screen.

I pull up a blank newsletter. I sip. All day thoughts about what I will write have been dancing inside of me and they all suck. Because it isn’t about the idea, it’s about the voice of me, sitting down and talking to myself.

It is the texts from friends, my sanity. It is the run or the memory or the way I try to pretend I don’t do that thing, that thing that makes me crazy.

Today it is the stories. The ones I create, based not in reality, if I even wanted to look at reality. It is the ones I create out of false safety based on only the pieces I choose to include and the ones I make up and the ones that have come before (most of those not even mine).

The stories that trap. The stories that hold the heart hostage. The stories that fuck up the path into vulnerability because vulnerability only speaks the language of full truth because of that place where you move through fear.

So I listen. I ask. I cut through the crap of my own exposition and rants and expectations so I can find the questions.

Then I feel my heart flutter like it will fly out of my chest.

I practice hearing the words that I receive without placing my own story on them. Holy shit, I don’t have to create a fantasy?

I can just listen. Hear. Receive the words. Let them have their feelings and observe myself having mine and come clean about all the stories, all the stories that I hold onto because holding them means I don’t have to let go.

I want you to be different. I want this to change. Here, I wrote the script, it’s in my head, could you memorize it please? Could you play this character just a little bit longer so I don’t have to evolve, let go, move on? Please, just one more line, one more pretend story in my head?

Just. One. More. Time.

The addiction of the story, the fantasy.

I don’t want to write my newsletter. I don’t want to hear my voice, which then I give to you.

It is only the promise that it will become your voice that allows the words to find their way to the page.

I sip. I hold. I let go. I hit save. And so it is.


From Thursday morning love letters, dropped like feathers into your inbox before your coffee starts to brew.


hannah moon tattoo

the sand crept up beneath her thigh and between her fingers

she lifted to the sky as though a lover from a past that needed to be inside her to free his head

and she counted the stars that spun around her skin

never having seen an existence filled with milky ways and truth

she wanted the stars to tease her skin, mouth, pussy, goddess spirit

breasts swollen from the moments she had grown into a woman because now she was

and her sex was alive as the ocean sounds traced her body then became the moon she couldn’t see

so she wrapped and the ocean spilled out of her while the moon persuaded her touch

i am wild she mouthed to her universe

i claim this piece of me

stop leaving me over and again

i am wild, she said in vibration with the moon

i am thirsty

i am wild

i am energy bringer

i am becoming

i am my lust

i am characters i play

i am missing you

i am you

i am dust of stars

i am dreams

i am fucking beautiful

i am rebirthed

i am moist

i am magical

i am soul’s message

i am fierce in my wander

i am stories made from living

i am wrapped around the moon

i am wild she showed her universe

her feet never touched the water and her eyes never saw the moon

so she became faith in intuition and cycles and space and the quiet that can bring chaos

lifting her skin now bare with raw truth she is open to receive contracts of the heart that manifest in release

and the fantasy of the penetration as a wild soul’s longing

she whispers once more

i am wild









Their becoming.

June 19, 2014

flower crowns on table

They came with presents that smelled of lavender and chocolate and fresh flowers. It was their weekend, showing up as almost strangers who held an already deep love for each.

They come in threes.

Three is my magic number, for their prompts and their lifting, in all the ways I want them to discover themselves. Three.

sitting on floor

Each came to be lifted, women hearing one another, listening with parts of them that have been surrounded by noise. They came to be seen and in their becoming be witness to the others as they moved into places that opened them while allowing the letting go of stories clung so tightly to, no matter how difficult it seemed. The old stories no longer their safety.

Our time was magazines being ripped and cut to make way for dreams and longings, it was sitting in the white thrown of a chair with the fuzzy brown pillow nestled behind them as they spoke and let a few tears roll down. Our time was about being nurtured, wine poured, soup warmed and served with fresh basil, white crisp sheets to hold the work of the body and the sense that in peacefulness they could both do the beautiful hard work and release all together, as one.

new vision prompt

When they leave I feel my energy shift deep into myself. I take the bits that I have carried with them and of them and I allow the work and the knowings and the flutters of what I can so clearly see coming for them move through my nervous system and integrate. I am a space holder. This means I know when to do very little, just enough or nothing at all. That is my set of three.

I am a guide, they are my anchors.

We listened. We lifted. We circled in the way that only almost strangers full of love can circle together.

flower crowns 3



They still go on.

June 18, 2014


Before the first sip, I am intoxicated by the smell of red clinging to the sides of glass as I tell myself to wait for seconds before the taste.

Before your touch, in my mind I feel the pleasure and the memories and the lives lived before, I am tempted to remain there.

Before the plane my insides are tangled waiting for adventure but longing for the safety of every item to squeeze in the bags and give me promise of belonging.

Before the iteration begins anew I am the Universe as she surrenders in prayer for our name.

Before fresh ink the uncertainty of forever and the illusion that control is a player.

Before I bite into the stew that simmered for hours I am the ritual of love and the promises that nurturing souls desire.

Before the clothes are on there is only naked, searching for the eyes that see what I see and the deception that it can be held in memory.

Before the reach of what is coming I need to move, force my legs to walk from the hold of knowing I loved you before.

“That’s when I realized that certain moments go on forever. Even after they’re over they still go on, even after you’re dead and buried, those moments are lasting still, backward and forward, on into infinity. They are everything and everywhere all at once.They are the meaning.”

~Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall


9In High School I had a shit ton of downs. The lows.

The times when he doesn’t like you, the friend drama, the failures in math class, the people you love moving away (because you went to an overseas school) and because you have no idea you are a highly sensitive who feels the world in ways that are just a bit more dramatic and heightened and a little bit crazy (good crazy but a little bit crazy none the less), it can feel like too much.

I had no tools with which to get through the lows, the times that felt like I was somehow dying from the overwhelm of feelings. So I bought lipstick. Lots of lipstick. I mixed the colors and made new colors. Somehow a new tube of lipstick that I could transform into a hot color on my lips felt magical and a distraction from the reality of the downs that threatened to eat me up. My favorite was a deep red mixed with a brown that made the most scrumptious early 1990′s color.

It was no zoloft, but it became one tool in my tool box. Part creation, part thrill of the new thing, part focus on beauty.

I am talking about lipstick, somewhat unuseful, a memory that floated up to me today. I had some hurts and there in the mirror, I stood mixing.


In Spirits of Joy (join us in July!) we have a prompt around finding your spirit guide. I’ve taken this prompt and expanded it for my Magic Making Circle and one of the prompts we did was to take selfie’s while infusing our Spirit Guide’s essence or mantras into us. You can find pictures to use as posing inspiration or feeling inspiration.

My spirit guide is a four year old girl named Magic. What I know about her is that ‘they call her happy.’ Magic is helping me find the daily moments of happy in my life. So my photo shoot for today’s lipstick post was inspired by Magic. It was fun. I felt happy.

I played. I have been craving play like a thirst. It’s deep. I adore laughing.

Collage 3Collage 1Collage 2


I also crave falling back in love with my blog. Which means getting back to the open place of sharing somewhat unuseful thoughts that can turn into their own magic through story and sharing.

It’s time.