I'm Amanda. I'm a mother, a Registered Holistic Nutritionist, and a woman who has learned, the hardest way possible, what it means to lose yourself and slowly find your way back.

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Before

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Before March 27, 2023, my life looked like most mothers' lives. Busy, full, ordinary in the best way. I already had my R.H.N., and I already believed deeply in the connection between the body and the heart, that what we carry emotionally doesn't stay separate from what happens in our sleep, our digestion, our nervous system. I just didn't know yet how personally I'd come to understand it.

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That was the day everything changed. My son, 18 years old, was diagnosed, and our family stepped into a world we never asked to enter.

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What those months held

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I won't pretend those months were only hard, though they were that too. There was a remission that felt like sunlight breaking through, prom, graduation, ordinary joyful days we didn't take for granted. And then there was relapse, and a kind of fear that doesn't have a name.

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On what I didn't know would be our last night together, I gave my son a compass. I had it engraved with the words so you can always find your way home. I wanted him to carry something that told him, wherever he went, he could always find his way back to us, to himself, to love.

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He passed away on November 27, 2023, at 9:27 in the morning.

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What grief did to my body

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I thought I understood the body. I had studied it, I had built a career around it. But nothing prepared me for what grief actually feels like from the inside: the exhaustion that sleep doesn't touch, the appetite that disappears, the fog that makes you forget why you walked into a room, the way your whole nervous system braces, waiting for the next blow.

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Everything I knew as an R.H.N., about cortisol, about the vagus nerve, about nourishment and rest, became something I had to live, not just teach. I had to learn how to care for my own body while my heart was in pieces. That is where Pure Heavenly 27 began.

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Why I widened the circle

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As I slowly, unevenly, began to heal, I started noticing something. The women around me carrying other kinds of loss, a divorce, a diagnosis, the strange grief of menopause, an empty house after the kids left, were describing the very same things I felt. The wired exhaustion. The hormones in chaos. The sense of being a stranger in their own life.

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Different loss. Same nervous system. Same body, doing its best to carry something enormous.

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So this space isn't only for women grieving a death, though that will always be close to my heart. It's for any woman standing at the edge of a life she no longer recognizes, asking the same quiet question I asked myself: who am I now?

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What I believe

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I believe you don't have to choose between honouring what you lost and building a life you love. I believe your body isn't broken, it's carrying you through something enormous, and it deserves support, not pressure to "move on." And I believe, even now, that love doesn't end. It just changes shape.

My son's compass still sits where I can see it. It reminds me every day of the promise underneath everything I do here:

 

​So you can always find your way home.

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