To the Daughter Whose Mother Can't See her


I see you. I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to caretake her energy. To subjugate your emotions and needs for hers, over and over and for a lifetime as little fissures form in your innocent Spirit.

I know what it’s like not to be held, or heard, or spoken to with soft recognition.

I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to break— to be blamed. For everything that went wrong, continues to go wrong. The scapegoat. The way out. I know what it’s like to be made responsible for her pain, her experience, her everything.

When she’s everything, you’re nothing, and when nobody sees it (or understands) — I know what it’s like.

To the daughters whose mothers can’t see them, not because they won’t, but because they can’t — I am thinking of you today. My heart contains yours. I promise, you are not invisible.

I will tell you now that there is triumphant joy in your future. A joy that rises from becoming the Mother of yourself and your Sacred Heart — the Mother Herself, as in Gaia. Sophia. Divine. Her. Oh! The work it entails!

What a worthwhile road to traverse.

What a gift, a blessing, that you can grow and grow and be polished from this angle.

Big Love,


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I Stopped Being a Martyr and Finally Hired a House Cleaner (and It Healed My Most Important Relationship).


I hated the fact that I was always cleaning. Not only was I angry that I was always cleaning (and never getting anywhere with it) but I was constantly micromanaging my partner to get his help with the tasks I didn’t like doing. 

I would say, “Hey, the toilets need to be cleaned” or “Hey, the kitchen floor is super bad” and then he wouldn’t do it within the time frame I wanted it done, so I would end up cleaning it all, while feeling angry that I was the one doing it. 

*Side note: I don’t like when anyone tries to determine what I do with my time and energy, so I don’t blame him, and this actually isn’t about him at all. It’s about me, and my patterns, and my responsibility to address them, for myself, and for my children.*

Eventually the anger I felt about cleaning, turned into resentment. Why was I the one always cleaning? Didn't we all live here? Why is it that he/they can just relax, while I have to clean? When will I get to enjoy that? How can I change this?

I started the process of hiring a house cleaner (more than once) but couldn’t seem to follow through on actually hiring, so I started to examine this dynamic, with even more curiosity.

What was really preventing me from having more ease, more enjoyment, and less on my plate? It was easy for me to say I wanted all those things, but why was it so hard for me to actually let go of the housework?

The strange truth that I discovered: It was much harder for me to let someone else clean the house, than it was for me to actually clean the house. 

Because if I wasn’t getting recognition through cleaning, what did that mean for my self-worth and self-image? Who was I, and how could I measure my value? The hard truth was that I was really comfortable in the role of ‘the one who cleans’ because I unconsciously used that role to secure love and recognition for myself. 

When I finally hired someone to clean our home on a regular basis, I was forced to explore what might happen if I became a version of myself who didn’t clean, and didn’t suffer for acknowledgement. 

The best part about finally letting go, and investing in the support I knew I wanted?

My intimate relationship with my partner improved drastically. Sex is better. Everything is better. Because I no longer need to be seen as someone who ‘does it all’ I’m enjoying life much more. And because I no longer feel overwhelmed by the cleaning, I no longer try to micromanage his time and energy. 

Suffering for love (aka martyrdom) was something I witnessed as a child, and it was something I continued to perpetuate, until I decided not to anymore — until I decided that my worth wasn’t tied to the results I produced in the home, but rather to the essence of the woman I am. 

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a breeze. 


The part of me that only felt worthy, if she was producing some kind of result, did not want to let that source of recognition go. And if I’m being honest, that part of me still exists and seeks acknowledgement in other ways. 

It took a few visits from the new cleaner for my nervous system to adjust, for me to really relax (instead of fret about while she cleaned), and for me to actually feel worthy and deserving of that kind of support. 

Are you actively examining the ways in which you suffer (or over-work) for love, approval, or recognition? Are you aware of the disempowering ways in which you seek acknowledgement from others?

Are you attached to playing a role that you don’t really enjoy, because you think it makes you a more valuable person? 

It’s time to stop that, 'cause you’re worthy, without the suffering. 

Big Love,

Jillian Xx

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True Forgiveness: What My Gallbladder Taught Me About Healing the Mother-Wound


Just a few weeks ago the curtain was pulled back on a pain I didn't know I still carried.

It started at a conference in Philadelphia. I thought I was there to study the authors + speakers. I wanted to know how it worked — the industry. What does it really take to be a speaker? What were their talks like? How'd they open them? Would I have to tell jokes when it was my turn to take the stage? 

I should know by now, that what I think I need is always a thread that leads me to something deeper. Source had other plans for me — healing plans

At one point in Kyle Gray's workshop, he said, "When a client wants to manifest something but isn't seeing the results, I ask them, 'who do you need to forgive?' His words struck me like an arrow to my belly. I still had to forgive her.

I sat in the audience and peacefully thought about my mom — about the pain, followed by the healing, followed by the pain, and about the line in the sand that I had drawn last year to protect myself from getting hurt again. That line, I thought, was a healthy boundary that I required to flourish.

That line, I thought, was my liberation. Because before I drew that line, a part of me was on the fence — waiting to witness her healing miracle.  

I started to live for me, wholeheartedly, after I drew that line. 

I let her know where I stood. Don't call. Don't text. Don't arrive uninvited. I'll be over here, and you'll be over there — separation. 

I didn't want to be one of those women who waited until their mother died to start living. So, I did what any wounded daughter might do and decided the relationship could die now, instead. 

Am I intense? Sure as water over rock with ten million year's time. Am I dramatic? You should see me stub my toe, or drop a cupcake face down on the kitchen floor. 

I'm not new to healing. I've sat in the red tent with Bethany Webster, a thought-leader on healing the mother-wound, and I've heard her say that for some daughters estrangement from an abusive parent is the only way to know true freedom. I've called on every archangel, rested my body on white tables, been beneath healing hands — for Reiki, acupuncture, and maya abdominal massage.

I've journeyed to the center of my personal earth. I've sat with the existential pain, and dawned into it's power. I've traveled to the jungle, and to the health food store. I've googled it. Eaten it. Integrated it. Danced with it, chanted it. I've looked myself in the mirror and witnessed utter beauty and total acceptance. I've married myself, on multiple occasions. I've wept, and screamed, and seen from the Eagle's point of view. 

I've cleared my womb with obsidian. I've sent grace and healing to all the women who have come before me and all those who'll come after. I've taken it all off, prayed with the herbs, and walked into the fire of Kali's eyes. 

I've self-examined like my life depended on it, because it did. 

I thought I had forgiven her for that time at Christmas dinner, when she told the table that I was an ungrateful b*tch, and moaned like the victim of her terrible life — her usual crawl for the love she couldn't feel from within.

Or that time she told me that my newborn son was 'not the messiah,' in response to me being the nurturer she never was.  

I thought I had forgiven her for the shaming, the abuse, the betrayal, and the fault-assigning.

I thought I had forgiven her for manipulating me with her money, for dangling  promises before me, and then for snatching them away as I was upon them. I thought I had forgiven her, untangled from her, cut myself free of her sticky black fingers. 

I thought I had forgiven her and her trespasses — they were trespasses, weren't they? I thought I had done the work on my meditation cushion. I thought that the time I spent surrounding her in healing Light was enough.

I thought I was done. I thought I was free. I thought I saw her as me. 

I decided, if she was a friend of mine, not tied to me by blood, I would have stopped giving her my energy long ago. I would have cut her off, declared her toxic. And so I did — I quickly and quietly disrobed myself of door mat status.

I thought I had forgiven her. But I was mistaken. I thought I had made those boundaries from a place of self-respect, but they were derived of ego and bitterness. They were drawn from the ashes of unspoken anger.

I see now that forgiveness works like this: there is no past. It never happened. None of it.

Love is like that, you know. It sees nothing but now.  

When I arrived home from the conference,  I found myself contorting on the bedroom floor, overtaken by pain like a knife to my stomach and spine. It consumed me as I rolled and twisted to the sound of my son crying nearby.

I called upon my higher self, and demanded to know the reason for this pain, for it wasn't the first time that it had crippled me, though it was by far the worst.

I first pleaded: Why, Why, Why? Recognizing that this plea was not strong enough, I quickly decided to demand answers. What is this pain, I demand to know! Show me how to heal!

After the pain subsided, I stood up — lighter than air, and I knew immediately with crystal clarity that I had just experienced a gall-bladder attack, that it was the result of residual bitterness + pride, and of not fully forgiving my mom. Time to release it all with love. I put on a white dress, and took my son for a walk. It was a holy twenty minute ordeal that revealed to me the next steps on my path. 

Your pain is potent medicine.

Let go. Soften into it. 

For my healing-wisdom seekers:

"If you repress anger, hold it in, and never express it, it will eventually hurt the liver/gallbladder and cause imbalance which will lead to disease." — Emma Suttie D.Ac, AP

In this moment I can remember something sage that Bethany Webster said in her mother-wound workshop. She said,

"Forgiveness is a by-product of your own transformation." 

And So It Is.

In Love + Vulnerability,


Jillian Xx

For more information on the gallbladder's emotional/energetic correlations I recommend the following articles:

Chinese Medicine Living: Healing the Gallbladder with Chinese Medicine

Gallbladder Emotions + Personal Development

Make Space for What Matters: 1x1 Obsidian Womb Clearing Package. Learn More Here.

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If you want to:

+ Help your clients get better results

+ Free up time + energy to strategically create a group program

+ Stop hustling for your next single 1:1 session, or low-end sale

+ learn how to go high-end with your rates, effectively

Then, this is for you. Download it below for instant access.