Kate Read


Monthly Groups



I run the risk of affecting those I love when I write personally.

Risk :: (kinda) accepted.

So when my mom called RE: my latest share about my little brothers wedding, I braced.

She was markedly upset.

Opening w/: ‘your fathers worried about you.’

I knew it wasn’t about dad.

‘What’s really up?’ I asked.

She replied : ‘I’ve watched you disclose nothing but devastation on your blog for years now.  This road you’re going down can’t be a good one + as your mother, I feel helpless.’

I was silent.

And my silence was strong.

Because I knew what was happening.

Her apprehension seeped in sadness.   

This wasn’t about me.

It was her feeling self on the cusp of exposure.

Repression no longer bearable.

A billion bits unraveled through the phone.

I’ve never heard her cry like that.


We chose this mom.

You + I.

To shift the MotherLine.

To disassemble repression by way of meeting our devastation.

Because our consciousness can.

Because we have the capacity to break


Don’t you see?

Your tears are sacred.

The MotherLine has been breaking me down, middle-of-the-nightly, for 7 years.

Restlessness in my legs.

Generations of woman’s frustration wedged in my womb.

Begging for a willing feeler to feel it.

They scream ::

‘Wake the F UP.

Open the F UP.

And don’t you dare fall back asleep until you remember you’re HOLY.’

A pelvis able to fully rotate on its axis is their plead.

One capable of enjoying the ride.

One able to exult in creativity rather than become exhausted or enraged by the generational filter of disappointment it’s sieving through.

The filter of :: we can’t have what we want.



Let this mark the beginning of a new Line.

Simultaneously soothing those that walked before.

And mom, my beautiful mama.

Thank you.

Your tears changed everything.

We’re winning the feeling revolution now. 

XX, Kate


7:30 AM, 7.14.2018.

My little brothers wedding day.

I’m due to the admirals suite in 30 minutes.

For hair + make-up w/ the bride + her bridesmaids.

Speed says ::

Got. To. Get. There.

Today is all about my brother + his wife.

So you bet I get to that suite on time.

Here, I am.

On time, but off.

Does my simulated smile fool you?

It seems to.

Won’t someone see through me?

Please see through to my exhaustion.

I’m dead. Tired.

Of sacrificing my tempo.

For yours.

I want to slow down.

{*we* want to slow down – generations of us martyrs}

But can’t.

Not now.  It’s time for cosmetics.

The make-up artist tells me I’m beautiful.

Whose beautiful?

Surely not me, I’m not here.

Sadness swells on top of the fatigue + face primer.

Surfacing this reality :: I’ve never felt beautiful.

And perhaps won’t until I surrender,

to my

p  a  c  e.  

Maybe than I will see my vibration, reflected.

4:30 PMish.

Mere minutes til the ceremony.

I have no spare adrenaline.

To fuel anymore simulated smiles.

I’m just a body.

Standing lifeless aside an alter.

Fantasizing about lying down.

And collapse I did.

Between ceremony + reception.

In those hours where I disappeared from the wedding party, my subconscious recoded its sacrificial story.

My sacral story.

That I must make love for you.

‘Must’ mitigates choice + leaks my life force.

It’s several days later + I’m still recoding.

You too? I can feel this as joint.

We’re redefining our sacral story together.

So together lets intend to ::

  • commit to our tempo
  • see our beauty, reflected
  • make love for ourselves

That’s why we’re in gravity.

To mark the end of generational martyrdom.

To conclude :: you, first.

We got this my sensitive collective.

On three.

One. 2. 3. Full Moon Eclipse {Manifest ^That}.

Xx, Kate