The Phoenix Lives Here ;On Writing, Being Misunderstood, and Refusing to Shrink

Well Reader… A lot has happened in our little break from blogging here at Pampered Aesthetics. Somewhere between the spa rebrand, rebuilding our website, reformulating packaging for our Canadian-made skincare line, raising children, running a business in Warkworth, and simply trying to survive life … I wrote a book. A real one. **The Phoenix Lives Here** is officially out in the world. Self-published. Raw. Honest. Imperfect. Available on Amazon and locally through Spenser Books and J & B Books. And before you read it, let me tell you something immediately: This is not a polished story. This memoir was born from one of the hardest seasons of our lives. It’s written honestly, sometimes painfully so. There are mistakes in it. Typos. Sentences that probably could have been cleaner had I gone through a major publishing house with an endless editing budget. But perfection was never the point. Truth was. The beautiful cover image was photographed by Andrea Hunter, and the irony that people discuss the cover almost as much as the story itself is not lost on me. This book was started twenty-one times. Twenty-one beginnings. Only one survived long enough to become a finished manuscript. Writing it felt strangely similar to rebuilding Pampered Aesthetics after the fire ; exhausting, emotional, and deeply healing all at once. Some days the words poured out effortlessly. Other days I would lose my train of thought halfway through writing because suddenly I was crying over something I thought I had already survived. There is something very strange about trying to turn trauma into something people will willingly read. You somehow have to make readers feel safe enough to continue turning pages while quietly walking them through some of the darkest moments of your life. Humour became survival once again. I found myself softening sharp edges with wit so readers would stay with me through the difficult parts. But what came *after* writing the book was something entirely different. In attempts to get the story out into the world, I reached out to local libraries across Northumberland County to see if they would carry it. Our lovely Warkworth Library invited me to do a public reading. The thought terrified me because despite owning a spa, creating online content, and speaking daily with clients during facials and skincare consultations — I am not naturally a public speaker. To my shock, it became one of the most successful readings they had hosted. And in practicing for that reading, I learned something important: I had always rehearsed alone in quiet rooms. I never accounted for hearing other people breathe in reaction to the words I was reading aloud. I read too quickly. Faster than I naturally speak. As if I could outrun my own emotions and get the words out before they caught up to me. The second library invited me afterward, and I thought: *Perfect. I’ve learned. I’ll do better this time.* I could not have been more wrong. The experience was uncomfortable almost immediately. From repeatedly being called the wrong name, to having my reading interrupted mid-sentence so personal opinions about my book cover could be shared very loudly … including suggestions that I should change it entirely. A fascinating critique considering the librarian openly admitted she had not actually read the memoir herself. Nor had the others. Then came the surprise that *I* could write in the voice that I did. Followed by long personal stories entirely unrelated to the book. I never finished the reading. I left upset. Uncomfortable. Honestly… stunned. Not because someone disliked my work. Art is subjective. That part is fine. But because there is something deeply jarring about pouring your soul onto paper only to have someone attempt to make you smaller while standing in the middle of it. A few moments of research would have shown exactly who I am. The dark aesthetic. The witchy branding. The honesty. The edge. The refusal to package myself into something softer simply to make other people comfortable. Pampered Aesthetics has never hidden that. And for a few days afterward, I sat with the experience. Because here’s the thing: Six months ago, that interaction would have absolutely destroyed me. Six months ago I would have cried. Questioned myself. Wondered if perhaps I *should* make myself more digestible. More polished. More acceptable for strangers. But now? Now I understand something I didn’t before. I do not need to become a New York Times bestselling author to validate this story. Had I been able to finish the reading the way I originally intended, I would have ended with this: I didn’t know if anyone would ever read this book. But I knew I needed to write it. I needed to speak my truth. This memoir was written to heal the parts of me that broke during the process. To regain a voice that had been silenced. To stop playing small. To finally crawl out of the boxes people placed me in and admit that I no longer fit there. Only to immediately encounter someone attempting to place me back inside one again. Life has a sense of humour like that. But what this experience taught me is that I am no longer willing to shrink myself to make others comfortable. Not everyone is aligned for me. And that is perfectly okay. If someone judges this book entirely by its cover, they are missing the creativity and art behind it … but they are also likely not my people anyway. And maybe that is the point. The life I rebuilt after everything that happened? It’s for me. Not for strangers who were never going to understand it anyway. At one point during the reading, the librarian told a friend in the audience that “no one will come to a witch.” Which is interesting. Because respectfully… I would argue otherwise. Pampered Aesthetics was built on authenticity. The spa, the skincare line, the writing, the photography, the dark aesthetic … all of it exists because I finally stopped trying to become more palatable for people who were never meant to understand me in the first place. Sometimes there is no point arguing with people committed to misunderstanding you. So this will likely be my last public reading. Not because I am ashamed of the work — quite the opposite. But because what started as a personal growth project should not leave someone feeling angry and hollow afterward. Instead, I’ll stay here in little old Warkworth, Ontario, surrounded by the people who understand my magic without asking me to dilute it. And honestly? That feels enough like success to me. Fun fact: there was once a point in my life where I truly believed I might become an author someday. This book was that dream. And while my mother would have absolutely hated the book cover… she also would have been classy enough not to say it out loud. But she would have been proud of me for writing it. And truthfully? That’s enough for me too.