The first spirit I ever saw was my great grandmother.

She came to me gently, just after she passed — a shimmer in the corner of my room, cloaked in love and familiarity. I was young, but I knew what I saw. What followed were years of quiet whispers and shadowy figures, messages that arrived in dreams and daylight alike. I saw. I heard. I knew — even when I was told not to speak of such things.

So I didn’t. For much of my life, I kept my abilities hidden beneath layers of doubt and silence.

But Spirit has a way of circling back.

It was while caring for an ailing uncle that the veil began to lift once more — not just between worlds, but within my own lineage. I learned then that I come from a long line of seers and healers. Both of my grandfathers were revered shamans in Puerto Rico, and the gift that I had spent years pushing down was, in truth, a birthright.

With this sacred remembering came a flood of clarity, a deep exhale of the soul. I was never lost — only waiting to remember.

Now, I walk this path with reverence. I serve as a bridge between worlds, helping others find healing, closure, and connection through spirit. The work I do is rooted in my ancestry, guided by intuition, and offered in love. Every message I share, every presence I witness, is part of an ancient thread — woven long before me, carried now through my voice and hands.

This is more than a gift.
It is a calling.
A remembrance.
A return.