For over a decade, a tipi stood in my backyard like a sacred heartbeat—quietly pulsing with life, connection, and transformation. It was more than canvas and poles. It was a womb. A circle. A sanctuary for my family and for so many souls who found themselves sitting inside its stillness.

We called the space Live True Sanctuary, and that name meant something. It was a vision I carried in my bones: to create a place where truth could be felt, spoken, and witnessed—a place where others could remember who they really are.

That vision was first planted in me on a trip to Reno, Nevada. I had just finished teaching a dōTERRA class in the backyard of a fellow wellness advocate when she invited us to step inside her tipi. We sat around a small fire, and in that circle, something ancient stirred in me. I had a vision of my own family doing just that—gathering, connecting, remembering. There was something about the circle—how it felt so intimate and elemental—that lit a spark in me.

It stirred something deep. So many cultures across time have gathered in sacred circles to pray, to tell stories, to grieve, to hold one another. Sitting there that day, it felt like a remembering—like I was tapping into something older than me, something my soul had always known. I wanted that for my family.

For four years, I carried that vision. I saved, dreamed, and planned. I even took my family back to the tipi in Reno, hoping they’d catch the vision too. At first, they thought it was a little odd—but once we sat inside together, everything shifted. They felt what I felt. And from that moment on, it became our dream.

Looking back, I know that part of this reverence was seeded long before my dad inspired in me a deep appreciation for Native American culture. He collected sacred artifacts and treasured turquoise jewelry, and he spoke about those things with such honor and curiosity. He passed that respect on to us—and in many ways, the tipi was a living expression of that early influence. A circle of reverence. A space of remembrance.

After much contemplation as a family—deciding where it would land—we chose to place the tipi in our old trampoline hole. It was already a carved space in the earth, a womb-like indentation that had once echoed with the laughter and wild joy of my children bouncing under the sun. That spot held memories of carefree days and belly laughs, of living life to the fullest. I saw it as sacred ground, waiting to become something more.

I rallied the neighborhood kids, and together we dug the hole deeper—barefoot, sweaty, and determined. We hauled out dirt by the wheelbarrow, scraped our knees, and l tried to keep it joyful through it all. I paid them in popsicles for their blood, sweat, and tears—fair trade in the currency of childhood. Then, my husband at the time, laid a wooden floor, installed electricity with my dad, raised the poles skyward, and stretched the canvas with reverence. We held an opening ceremony with family and friends surrounding it, not fully knowing what we were building—only that it felt sacred, destined, and alive.

Right outside the tipi, we built a labyrinth—a walking meditation path that guided many feet into deeper presence. Together, the tipi and labyrinth were the heartbeat of Live True Sanctuary. That name wasn’t just poetic. It was a declaration. A place to live in truth, to return to what matters, and to offer space for others to do the same.

Once it was standing, I gave it wings—blue wings, my favorite color, full of depth and spirit. I had a dear friend help me design them, and together—with the help of a few more kindred souls—we hosted a painting party to bring them to life. The wings stretched wide across the canvas, wrapping around the tipi like angel wings encircling and protecting all who entered. Each wing held 22 feathers, making 44 total—my favorite number, the number that reminds me angels surround you. At the tips of the wings, we painted the colors of the chakras, the colors of the rainbow—symbols of alignment, wholeness, and the full spectrum of life I love so much.

At the center, I painted a heart—not just mine, but Her heart… God’s heart… the heart of love itself. My prayer was that whoever stepped inside would feel it immediately: they were being hugged. Held. Embraced by the sacred as they descended into the her womb.

We also painted a family crest on the back—a radiant sun, where each spire was created by one of our children, painting something meaningful from their heart. At the center rose a single upward flame, symbolic of the kundalini rising—representing the unity and love my ex husband and I carried for our family. It was a collective creation. A canvas of our love, our stories, and our shared soul

Over the years, the tipi held us.

It held drum circles and sound baths, breath-work gatherings, sleepovers and movie nights, marshmallow roasts and moments of deep healing. We held people in grief, in celebration, in prayer, in release. Some entered quietly carrying burdens; others danced or cried or found something inside themselves they’d forgotten. That tipi became a portal. It changed me. It gave me purpose. And in many ways, it gave me an identity.

And—let’s be honest—it also held an impressive number of spiders, dried-up worms after rainstorms, and mysterious bugs I’d rather not name. Before every event, I’d be out there with a broom and a brave face, doing a full sweep of the sanctuary. I had my family out there helping me and believe me it wasn’t our favorite parts. Even with a wood floor and electricity, keeping it clean felt like a heroic effort at times. And I won’t lie, I’m not exactly going to miss that part.

But over the last few years… something began to shift.

My life, as I knew it, began to change. The foundation of what I had built for decades—my marriage, my family unit, my role—began to break apart. Slowly at first, like soft erosion. And then, more clearly. I felt it in my body, my spirit, my sense of direction. The woman I had been was unraveling.

And so was the tipi.

The canvas began to sag. The poles loosened. One by one, the elements took their toll. I tried to hold her up—patch things, tie things, tighten what I could. But it was as if she knew before I did: it was time.

While recently in Costa Rica during an Ayahuasca journey, I had a moment of deep clarity. It was time to let go. Of my attachments to the past. My past life. The version of me that had created all of this. That same night, a pole fell from the tipi. Just like that. Almost as if it too had heard my decision. It began to collapse.

The timing couldn’t have been more aligned.

This sacred space, this beloved structure, mirrored me in every way—strong, soft, worn, wise. Ready to release.

Tonight, I’m holding a closing ceremony.

To honor all that it was. All that it gave. All that it held—for me, for my children, for my community. The tipi inspired others to dream. To build. To hold space. Some even created their own tipis after sitting in mine and feeling something awaken in them. That was always the intention.

And now, I lovingly say goodbye.

Not with regret—but with reverence. With gratitude. With a heart cracked open wide enough to receive the next season.

So I leave you with this…

Where in your life are you still holding on to something that’s already breaking?

What sacred space or purpose are you being called to create next?

What are you ready to release so that you can live—and love—more freely?

Thank you, tipi.

Thank you, circle of friends.

Thank you, old life.

And thank you, sacred new beginnings.

With love,

Raya☀️