A friend told me recently that my life inspires her. She said she doesn’t know many women who choose to be alone—and not just survive it, but thrive in it.
I think of this bird as a symbol of that choice. Open wings. A heart like spring. Not resigned in weakness, but in strength. Not giving up, but letting go; guided not by despair, but by unconquerable hope.
Surrender Talisman.
Handmade with prehnite and recycled sterling silver.
In this series, I wanted to honor inner rhythm—the pace our body needs to heal, to remember, and to know. Where feeling is not a flaw, but a form of intelligence.
It will be available tomorrow at 6 pm–Mexico City time–in my online shop.
Each ring can be cut to fit sizes 6 to 11, and once adjusted, you'll still be able to open it about half a size if needed.
I love this idea of going underground and then emerging when the time is right. We’ve been told everything must happen fast. That we must adjust quickly—to loss, to change, to new realities. That we should move on, get over it, find new things, better things. But sometimes the body doesn’t want that. It needs stillness. It needs time to re-accommodate inner paradigms. To adapt. To feel safe again.
Being happy again isn’t something I can force. Sitting with change, letting it move through me at its own pace, is not just valuable, it’s necessary and unavoidable.
I’m realizing, at this middle point in my life, that I’m not meant to cover a huge amount of ground. I’m not here to race through experiences. I’m meant to slow down. To take baby steps. To notice the tiny things. Because they are the most precious.
This is the opposite of a conquering heart. It’s an assimilating one. Life has to seep into me. And I must let it. I must pause long enough for it to reach all the parts of me that need tending. Only then can I truly carry it.
Cicada.
Handmade with amethyst and recycled sterling silver.
A piece to honor fertile silence, deep transformation, and the inner timing that can’t be rushed.
The five re-fired Calaveras are now available in my online shop.
Your purchase includes a darkened sterling silver chain and free express shipping (to Mexico, Canada and the US). Prices are in US dollars.
A few years ago, I made a small series of whimsical calavera pendants with smooth, polished surfaces. But something felt unfinished. They were missing a kind of weight, a truth. So I brought them back to the fire.
Now, the flame has left its mark, texturing their surface, softening their perfection, and adding depth where there was once only shine. Some necessary darkness to the light.
They’ve lived a little more now. And it shows.
All five will be available this Thursday at 6 pm (Mexico City time), in my online shop.
In the Mexican tradition, we don’t banish death, we bring her to the table. We give her a face. A calavera. We decorate her and talk to her. We remember her, because the dead are not gone. They live on in memory and also in the shape of who we became because of them. In every person they touched. Every path they opened or closed. In the joy they gave, and the damage too. They are not absent. They are layered into us.
Death reveals the truth of life: nothing lasts, and that’s why it matters. She shows us that meaning isn’t found in clinging, but in continuity. In honoring. In creating something with what was left behind.
Without death, there would be no longing. No poetry. No temples. No art. Death gives depth to life. It sharpens love. It lays the foundation for every truth worth carrying.
And so, we give her a form. A calavera. A face to speak to. Not to fear her, but to remember who we are, and why we’re here.
As the strategies I once used to survive—within my family, my culture, my relationships—begin to loosen their grip, something unexpected happens. After the shame and guilt come and go, after the fear of being alone, of hurting or disappointing others begins to dissolve, I find that what’s left is peace. Not ease, exactly—but clarity. A quiet strength. A sense of alignment—not with what others want from me, but with my own nature, my own truth.
I no longer feel the need to adjust myself to fit. I used to flow around people like water, molding myself to the room, the mood, the unspoken expectations. Now I feel more like a container. Not rigid—but held. Contained. Whole.
It has taken enormous courage not to bend. My palms sweat. My nervous system still lights up in protest. But something in me is steady now. Some inner voice, clear and quiet, says: this is who I am. And I trust it enough to keep going.
The self I’ve returned to isn’t new. She’s been here, waiting, beneath the roles and the fear and the noise. And now, at last, we are back together.
This wasn’t the kind of death anyone else could see. There was no dramatic moment, no funeral, no breaking point. Just a slow, quiet unraveling of the version of me that had held so much for so long—the good one, the loyal one, the one who stayed even when it hurt. I had been the dependable daughter, the accommodating partner. I knew how to give, how to keep the peace, how to disappear just enough to be acceptable. And then, without warning, she began to die.
It didn’t feel like freedom at first. It felt like emptiness. I wasn’t grieving the version of me I’d lost—I was afraid of what would be left without her. Who was I, if not the one who made everything work?
But death came gently. Not as punishment, but as a guide. She said: Let it go. All of it. You don’t need to carry this anymore. And for once, I listened.
What came after wasn’t clarity, it was space. A quieter place inside me, with fewer answers but more truth. I’m still learning who I am without that old armor. But I know this: I’m not lost. I’m just returning to myself.
They leave, and we stay, but not unchanged. At first it can feel like absence, like something essential has been taken. But over time, I realize that what they gave us doesn’t disappear, it becomes the ground beneath what we now grow.
Grief reshapes us. The love, the stories, the silent lessons don’t vanish. They settle into us. And somehow, through us, life keeps unfolding.
I used to think continuity meant holding on. Now I understand it’s more about allowing what was to become part of what is. It’s letting their absence become an opening.
That’s how life goes on. Not by erasing the ones who came before, but by carrying them, quietly, in what we choose to make and tend.
Everything is unraveling.
Democracy falters. Genocide is live-streamed. The climate collapses. Old systems: patriarchy, capitalism, even monogamy, crack open. There’s mass migration, rising waters, no clear way forward. And in the middle of all that, something in me has stopped trying to fix it. I no longer chase the illusion that it’s all supposed to be different.
What remains, what feels honest now, is stillness. Not the kind that comes from detachment or defeat, but the kind that feels like returning to the earth. To silence. To something much older than panic.
I used to think death was the end: dark, fearsome, final. But now I feel it more like a presence. A constant. A quiet voice that says: Look. This is what’s real. Everything else comes and goes.
And in that stillness, I can finally rest. Not because things are okay, but because I’ve stopped pretending I can outrun what is. Death doesn’t frighten me. She steadies me.
This is a spatial eye, the kind that sees from above. Calm, discerning, a little strange. At its center, amber burns like fire. Above it, a silver rainbow flickers with mischief. It looks like a flying saucer, or a head lost in the clouds.
The piece is marked by fire, burnt at the edges, transformed. But like a rainbow after a storm, something clear and luminous emerges. This eye sees what comes after difficulty: the truth only fire can reveal.
On the back, two plaques are stamped with AMOR FATI—the love of fate—the freedom to embrace what comes. A quirky little relic, and a reminder: when life spins fast, meet it with humor, clarity, and a wide, knowing eye.
After the Burn.
Made by hand with recycled sterling silver and amber.
Offered soon in my online shop.
A strand of eyes, guarded by lines of raised silver dots. Medieval, fire-forged, almost punk. Chunky but close to the skin. Like armor. Like pearls. It rests at the throat, where truth waits to be seen and spoken.
This year, my prayer has been simple: I am willing to see the world as it is. It has shaken me and freed me. What remains is this: inner truth is the real freedom.
Forged to See.
Recycled sterling silver.
Coming soon to my online shop.
Texture of the past.
Silence of now.
One shape speaks in history,
the other in essence.
You’re still here.
Lighter.
More you.
The Shape of Time.
Forged with fire and recycled sterling silver.
A darkened silver eye—quiet, alert.
Etched into fire-scarred metal.
It doesn't just look.
It perceives.
We live in a world that rewards doubt,
That trains us to override instinct,
To question what is clearly there.
But your body remembers.
Your perception is sacred.
Now more than ever,
Trust what you see. Know what you know.
Trust What You See.
One of a kind. Hand-forged in recycled sterling silver.
The Liberated Pendant, along with her sculptural silver companions, has landed in my online shop– ready to find new homes and continue the journey.
They say a bird once flew between worlds,
forged in twilight silver,
with a heart of crystal to hold the truth.
It carries no lies, no chains -only peace, freedom, and the courage to be seen.
Sanctum Talisman.
Handmade with recycled sterling silver and transparent quartz.
Constellations remind me that we’re never alone. Every step we take becomes part of a larger pattern –invisible, but deeply felt. We move through this life shaping one another, just by being here.
This piece carries that feeling –of quiet connection, of being part of something vast and meaningful.
Do you ever feel that, too? Like your path is part of a story bigger than you?
Womb of Stars.
Hand-forged with recycled sterling silver.
As singular as a heartbeat.
I’ve been saving this large and luminous labradorite for many years, but I worried it was too big for a pendant. Lately, it had been calling my attention every time I opened my box of gemstones, so I finally listened and brought it out. Here it is, free at last, illuminating the heart of this wild bird.
Liberated Pendant.
Handmade with labradorite and recycled sterling silver.
I made this little fellow, because lately I’ve been contemplating what it means to be human. I am 52 years old and I always thought that one day I’d find inner peace, the kind that feels stable and lasting. Somedays I do, but then there are others where inner turmoil makes me want to escape.
I’ve realized that perhaps what needs to go is the illusion that I will be a calm and equanimous person, without the highs and lows that both delight and afflict me. As someone sensitive, I feel the beauty and the tragedy of this existence, and that two sided coin seems to be my nature. Having to surrender to this condition has humbled me. I belong to the earth, feet on the ground, pain and love in my heart.
Embraced Talisman.
Handmade with amethyst and recycled sterling silver.
I am the daughter of an architect. Growing up, my father would point out the world around us: every staircase, archway, tile and sculpture. He taught me that the size of windows and their location on the façade gave a house its face; that the thickness of the walls made it feel reliable or flimsy; and its color could alter or calm the people who lived there. From him, I learnt that the design of buildings and public spaces shapes our imagination and the quality of our lives.
Today I can't help but observe and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. Perhaps it was his clever plan, because now that my dad is gone, I feel he can still see the world through my eyes.
Environment Necklace.
Handmade with ametrine and recycled sterling silver.
Available this Friday at 5 pm CT in my online shop.
