Have you ever asked a question, and then spent
your whole life trying to find the answer—only to realize, somewhere along the
way, that you forgot the question you started with?
Ever since I was young, I've been fascinated
by the question of what is actually true.
There was an experience in my childhood that
changed the trajectory of my family.
My mom used to say to me, "You don't
remember. You were too young. You don't remember."
And just recently, I realized—
I do remember.
I remember a few years even before the
incident happened. I remember how I actually thought we were living this Leave
It to Beaver kind of life.
And then something happened—or was perceived
to be traumatic—and it changed the whole trajectory of our lives.
And I remember tugging on my father's pant leg
and saying,
"Daddy, shouldn't you do this?"
And his answer never made sense to me.
And I think that's where something began in
me.
Because when I look back, I don't remember
myself as a fearful child.
I remember being fearless.
I remember being curious.
I remember asking questions.
Something happened, or was deemed to be
trauma, but what I experienced as a child was simply this:
I asked a question.
And the answer I received didn't make sense to
me.
And that made me wonder—
Where is the truth in this?
And I've been a truth seeker and a spiritual
scientist my whole life, trying to find the answer to that question.
I also consider myself a nonconformist.
But for me, being a nonconformist doesn't mean
rejecting everything.
It means I'm not willing to believe that one
person, one teaching, one religion, or one system has the only answer.
So I would immerse myself in a particular
teaching because I wanted to understand it.
I'd find answers there.
I'd discover things that were true for me
there.
And then life would present me with another
question—and the answer wouldn't be available within that system.
And eventually I'd notice something that
didn't sit right with me.
So often, it seemed to come back to the idea
that, "This is the way. This is the ONLY way."
And something in me would say,
"No. That doesn't feel right."
So I'd go deeper into something else.
And I'd find more answers there.
And then something else would happen, and I'd
go looking again.
Over time, I realized I wasn't looking for a
system to belong to.
I was looking for the common thread.
What is true across all of these teachings?
What keeps showing up?
What can I actually experience?
What works?
And I began to see spirituality in a much more
all-encompassing way.
Because if God is truly God, how could God be
contained within only one teaching?
Only one religion?
Only one philosophy?
Only one person's understanding?
What I have come to know is that God is in
everything.
Not just one teaching.
Not just one path.
Not just one anything.
In all of it.
And that doesn't mean that everything anyone
teaches is automatically true or that every teaching is equally useful.
It means I'm willing to look for the truth
that may be present within each of them.
That's a big part of why I call myself a
nonconformist.
Because I don't believe the answer is
necessarily in choosing one side and putting blinders on.
In fact, I feel in my heart that some of the
real problems on this planet are caused by the use of power—and the misuse of
it.
It's that horse with the blinders on saying,
"My way is the only way."
That's where the problem lies.
Because the moment I decide that my way is the
only way, I no longer have to listen.
I no longer have to be curious.
I no longer have to look at what might be true
somewhere else.
And that has never been how I've approached my
spiritual journey.
I've explored teachings. I've studied. I've
experimented with different tools and practices.
And whenever I found something that changed
something in me, I wanted to share it with other people.
There was even a point in my journey where I'd
go to buy a book for myself and somehow be guided to buy ten extra copies for
other people.
And over time, I'd just know who those books
were meant for.
Because I wasn't interested in collecting
information.
I wanted to experience it.
And then, if it worked for me, I wanted to
share the possibility with someone else.
Not by saying,
"This is the answer."
But by saying,
"I came across this. I tried it. It
genuinely made a difference for me.
Maybe it can assist you too.
But you won't know until you try."
And that distinction became really important
to me.
Because sometimes I'm very firm about how I
want a particular tool to be used.
And that isn't about controlling somebody.
It's because I've tested it.
I've seen what happens when it's used a
certain way.
I've seen it backfire.
And if I'm sharing it with you, I want your
experience with it to be as positive as possible.
I feel like, in some way, I agreed to take the
long, hard road.
To experiment.
To question.
To test things for myself.
To experience the consequences.
And maybe that's given me the ability to
relate to people at different stages of their journey.
But even with everything I've learned, I don't
think the greatest gift I can give somebody is to tell them what their truth
is.
I think the greatest gift I can give them is
the tested version of what I've discovered—
and then let them decide whether it assists
them as much as it assisted me.
That's actually where the deck of cards came
from.
When I was working at the casino, we had clear
purses, so I'd bring different things with me to work. If I'd bought a new
deck, I'd bring it. I had a favorite fairy deck that I absolutely loved.
It was a very positive deck. The cards made me
happy.
Sometimes I'd do little spreads for myself on
my break, just to lift my energy and keep my vibration up.
But if I was on a break with a coworker, I'd
share the cards with them.
They'd pull one card.
They'd read the message.
And I'd watch them glow.
And I started noticing something.
A lot of my coworkers were interested in these
kinds of things, but they were busy. They didn't feel like they had enough time
to read an entire book and actually absorb the information.
There were times when I'd buy audio programs
and we'd copy them and they'd listen to them. Some people would do it, and it
was great.
But I kept noticing how difficult it was for
people to make the time.
And then I'd watch somebody pull one card on
their break, read one positive message—
and glow for the rest of the day.
And I thought,
"Oh my gosh."
Maybe if I created a spiritual journey in a
deck of cards, it would be easier for people to retain the information.
Maybe they could pull one card, take one idea,
and actually try to apply it to their life.
And I realized—
I want to make that kind of an impact on
people.
Then, in 2002, I attended a five-day intensive
workshop in Laguna Beach, California.
And during that workshop, I heard something —
audibly.
Your purpose is to recognize your divine
nature. And assist others in doing the same.
My first response was honest.
"Is that all?"
As if it were a small ask.
But it isn't small. It's actually enormous.
Because it starts with me. First, recognize it
in myself. And then — and only then — assist others in doing the same.
I came home and kept living my life, kept
immersing myself in my spirituality. But I kept asking — because I could feel
there was something more specific waiting for me. I was sitting within someone
else's mission. What was mine?
And then I was shown.
In a vision, I saw my deck of cards — The
Perfect Rose Deck. The whole thing, in about an hour. I was trying to hold onto
every piece of it as fast as it came.
And I realized —
Oh my God. It's my whole life. Converted into
a deck of cards.
Everything I had dedicated myself to learning
and testing and living — offered in bite-sized pieces that people could
actually apply. Something accessible for the busy ones, the skeptical ones, the
ones who aren't wired like me to immerse themselves completely. I was guided to
go deep. That was my path. But it doesn't have to be theirs.
Because that's really the point.
I can tell you all the beautiful things that
have happened on my spiritual journey.
But it's nothing until it happens to you.
I know what it's like to have these
extraordinary experiences and sometimes not have very many people around you
who understand what you're talking about.
Because sometimes the universe would actually
talk to me.
I remember praying one time and saying,
"Listen, if I'm going in the right
direction, let me know.
If I am, I want a fish to jump out of the
water right around here."
And it did.
A fish jumped out of the water.
And I remember thinking,
"Oh my gosh.
I asked for that."
Those moments were magical for me.
But they could also be lonely, because what do
you do when something extraordinary happens and you don't have people around
you who really understand what you're talking about?
And that's where something else became clear
to me.
I don't want to spend my life telling people
about my fish.
I want to create a space where they can have
their own.
Where they can apply these teachings.
Where they can experiment.
Where they can ask their own questions.
Where they can find their own answers.
Where they can have their own synchronicities,
their own signs, their own magical moments.
Where they can catch their own fish.
And not only experience it—
but have somebody say,
"Oh my gosh! Look what happened to
you!"
And celebrate it with them.
Because maybe that's what I was looking for
all along.
Not somebody to give me the answer.
But a place where I could ask the question,
explore it, experience it, and discover the answer for myself.
And I think that's really where my work—and
this community—comes from.
Not from me having all the answers.
Not from telling you what you have to believe.
But from a little girl who asked a question,
spent a lifetime searching for the truth, and eventually discovered that maybe
the greatest gift isn't giving somebody your answer at all.
Maybe it's sharing what you've tested, what
you've discovered, and what may assist them—
and then giving them the freedom to find out
for themselves.
And maybe, along the way,
they catch their own fish.
https://www.theperfectrose.ca/
