There is a theory in past life regression work that a soul’s first incarnation into the physical world is that of a dog. The theory has always made sense to me, because dogs are the closest we come to the experience of unconditional love. It is why, when I lost Lucy, my sixteen-and-a-half-year-old puggle, while reviewing the final manuscript of this book, I knew I had to write this introduction with her in mind. The lessons I have learned over the last twenty years, and the tools I share in these pages, feel more important to me now than ever as I grieve.

The most unexpected part of losing my four-legged bestie has been the shift in identity I experienced. No matter how long I anticipated her passing (anticipatory grief is a real thing), the emptiness that followed, and the sudden reshaping of my role in the world, has been jarring. I no longer go for walks with her first thing in the morning. I no longer rush home every few hours. I no longer plan trips with her in mind.

One morning, in my grief, I cried to my brother Ron, “What am I . . . only a cat mom now?!” I was referring to my incredible jungle cat, Luno, who adopted us in our second year of living in Costa Rica, another unexpected turn in my life path that Lucy influenced. It was because of Lucy that we got “stuck” there during the pandemic in the first place.

Through three decades of my life, she was my co-adventurer in crime. My reminder of true, soul-connected love. Together, we lived in three countries, and traveled through fifty American states and seven Canadian provinces. She watched me switch careers more than a handful of times and have more than a handful of boyfriends. She watched my heart open and break and open again more times than I can count. She watched me love my body, hate my body, and love it again.

Lucy witnessed every reinvention in my multi-passionate path: from a stressed-out gala and fashion show producer in downtown Toronto to uncovering my inner medicine woman. She sat beside me as I devoured hundreds of personal development books. As I fell in love with learning. As I received my clinical hypnotherapist certification “for fun,” only to unexpectedly find myself guiding hundreds through subconscious deep dives during the pandemic, all while I was navigating my own.

And now, as I am now, more in my power and purpose than ever before.

Work-wise, I am the cofounder of an impact advisory firm, House of Impact, using my years in philanthropy to contribute to projects that will ripple across generations. I always wanted to work in impact and philanthropy, but the path there was never linear. The work I do now doesn’t feel like work, it feels like inner purpose manifested in the outer world. But more than the work—even in the midst of grief—I am at peace. I am in full trust. Not because life is predictable, but because I know how to return to myself. I know now that life will continue to twist and turn, that identities will dissolve, and that chapters will close. But whatever comes, “this too shall pass,” and I too will be okay.

I never could have anticipated walking this path in this life. This life wasn’t even on my radar. Every time I thought I knew where it was going, the universe asked me to hold her proverbial beer and redirected me. There were so many forks, sliding doors, and pivots. Lucy witnessed all of them. And even so, in her passing, I was shaken to my core.

So, as always, I return to the lessons and tools I share in this book. I remember. I ride the waves of grief while holding gratitude, knowing that two things can be true. Love, in all its forms, has been the great teacher of my life.

If you are here because something in you is shifting, if you are grieving a person, a dream, a former version of yourself, if you are standing at a fork in the road wondering which voice to trust, know that I wrote this book for you. If you are multi-passionate and evolving, unsure how the pieces of your life fit together, this is an invitation to come home to yourself. And not to become someone new, but to remember who you have always been.

This journey is not about perfect plans or linear paths. It is about self-realization. About learning how to know yourself, trust yourself, express yourself, believe in yourself, and love yourself, especially when life reshapes your identity without warning. By the end of these pages, my hope is not that you follow my path, but that you trust your own.

Because if I told eight-year-old me this is the life she would live, she wouldn’t have believed me. I wish I could tell her, as she moved across the world, immigrated to a new country, and was teased and bullied as she learned English, that one day she would win a book-writing competition by one of the largest personal development publishers in the world.

I wish I could tell twenty-year-old me that missing re-entry into her media program by .05 percent would lead her to switch into art, fall in love with philosophy, and flex her fundraising arm, launching her career as an event producer and eventually foreshadowing her purpose in impact and philanthropy.

I wish I could tell thirty-year-old me to jump headfirst into network marketing, even when others judged her and weren’t supportive. Because through that industry she would discover personal development, devour hundreds of books, mentor thousands, and travel the world helping others build vehicles for their dreams and desires.

I wish I could tell thirty-five-year-old me that even in her darkest night of the soul, in the midst of grief, loss, and desperation, a deeper inner understanding, authenticity, and purpose were being forged. That every experience would cultivate awareness, trust, and discipline. That from it would come self-acceptance and authentic expression. That compassion would deepen, for herself and for others, which ultimately would lead to unshakable self-confidence.

But I couldn’t tell her. She had to live it.

So now, as I find myself at yet another moment of grief, another tide that threatens to hurl me into sadness and darkness, I return to the tools I’ve learned through those big transitions, when identities dissolve and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

One of my favorite tools is something I once called “Dana Camp” and has since become “Lucy’s List.” It’s simple. It’s a list of things that make me love life again. Things I’ve been wanting to do, things I’ve been holding off on, things I’ve been meaning to say yes to but haven’t. It’s my way of returning to aliveness when everything feels uncertain.

The art class, the moonrise surfing, the trip I’ve been waiting to take. Because sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in a season of loss and change is not to contract, but to open and say yes to life anyway. Because saying yes was what set me on this uncertain path in the first place. It was the first domino that had to fall. It was an invitation to something strange, and unheard of, and completely outside the life I thought I was building. And that is where our journey begins.

One afternoon almost twenty years ago now, my friend and psychotherapist, Dr. Park, who was exploring a modality gaining traction at the time, asked, “Can I give you a past life regression session?”

I almost said no, but I didn’t. I had no idea that saying yes would begin the unraveling of who I thought I was—and the remembering of who I truly am.