This is an excellent book. Highly recommend.

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Sacred Journey - A memoir of Loss, Love and Coming Home to Yourself is not just for the feminine wound it is also for the masculine wound. This book is not only for my mother Mary. This book is also for my father Mario. Two voices. Two silences. One book that honours and speaks for both. The twin mythologies, She died because the world would not let her speak her pain. He died because the world would not let him feel his. Two silences, two mythologies. Two parents and one orphaned girl.

This book wrote me. I thought I was telling my story. I was not. It was the women who spoke through me who could not speak for themselves - Mary my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, my cousin, and the grandmothers further back whose names I will never know. They had been waiting for a daughter who would finally pick up the pen. But this book is not only mine. It belongs to every woman who has ever carried a story she did not know how to tell, a mother's story, a grandmother's story, her own. Every woman who has felt the weight of what was never said and wondered if she might be the one to say it. You are. We are. The women are speaking now. And the first thing they want you to know is this: you were never the only one carrying it.

Four thousand three hundred years ago, a woman stepped out of the chorus of the anonymous and signed her name. Her name was Enheduanna. High priestess of the moon, daughter of an empire, the first human being in all of recorded history to claim authorship of her own words. She pressed her stylus into wet clay and wrote hymns to the goddess Inanna, hymns of longing, of exile, of fierce devotion, and at the end she wrote, I, Enheduanna. The first signature on the first page of human literature belongs to a woman. Of course it does. The goddesses had been holding the pen in the heavens; Enheduanna was the first to hold it on earth. And every woman who has ever signed her name to her own story is writing in her lineage. She has been waiting, all these centuries, for the rest of us to remember. And every woman who picks up a pen and tells the truth is reclaiming something that was always hers. She is not learning to write. She is remembering that she was the first one to hold the pen. This book is not just a memoir. It is a feminine act. It is Isis breathing life into what was given up for dead. It is Mnemosyne releasing the memory that was held in the body for fifty years. It is Seshat recording what happened so that it will not be lost. It is Calliope lending her beautiful voice to a story that was almost silenced forever. And it is Mary. My mother. The woman who never wrote a word of her story. Whose silence I am finally, finally breaking - with a pen, with a page, with words of power that the goddesses of writing have been keeping safe for me since before I was born… Now it is your turn.