Thirty-four years ago, I entered earth-side with a hole in my heart.

Literally.

I was born with a heart murmur. At the time, heart murmurs weren't uncommon, and many were known to close on their own. So I was quickly brought home to a loving family filled with the beautiful chaos of six older siblings.

I was so tiny.

My mother took such good care of me. Looking back, she remembers me as a remarkably quiet baby. I rarely cried for food or comfort. She thought I was simply easygoing.

What none of us knew was that I was using every ounce of energy I had just to stay here.

Despite being fed, held, and deeply loved, I continued to lose weight. At doctor's appointments, my mother was questioned.

"Are you feeding your baby?"

Of course she was.

She was doing everything she knew to love me.

By six months old, I was scheduled for open-heart surgery.

Just before the procedure, a compassionate doctor paused and asked my mother a simple question.

"Is there anything at all that she responds to?"

My mother thought for a moment before answering.

"When I play certain melodies for her"—our home was always filled with Chabad nigunim—"she starts moving her hands and feet."

That observation changed everything.

The surgery was postponed.

The doctors decided to give my tiny body more time.

And somehow, in my own timing, my heart healed.

I've returned to this story many times throughout my life.

For years, I believed it was a story about music.

And perhaps it is.

The melodies that awakened my little body all those years ago are still some of the melodies that soften my heart today.

Music has always been one of my medicines.

So has rhythm, stillness. and nature.

They have carried me through seasons of joy, heartbreak, uncertainty, healing, and remembering.

Again and again, they have helped me return home to myself, because they help me listen.

As the years have unfolded, however, another layer of this story has quietly revealed itself.

When I was an infant, I couldn't tell anyone what I needed.

My body had to speak for me.

Thankfully, there was a doctor curious enough to ask a different question.

And there was a mother attentive enough to notice what brought me to life.

Looking back now, I realize what a gift that was.

My mother loved me fiercely.

She watched me carefully.

She noticed the subtle things that others might have missed.

When the doctor asked what I responded to, she had an answer because she had been paying attention.

Her attentiveness may very well have changed the course of my life.

I will always be grateful for that.

As I grew older, I slowly discovered that the kind of presence I had been longing for had a name.

Attunement.

It is the quiet art of entering another person's inner world without trying to fix, control, or rush them.

I experienced that kind of attunement for the first time through my therapist and mentor, Colleen Cavanagh of SoulBodyWisdoms TM.

She listened differently.

She noticed what my nervous system was communicating before I did.

She gently introduced me to the idea that my sweet dog, Lia, had been offering me this kind of presence all along.

Long before I understood the language of nervous system regulation, Lia did.

She would lean into me, place a paw exactly where my body needed grounding, lick away my tears, and remain beside me until my system settled.

Colleen helped me recognize what Lia had been teaching me for years—and, little by little, she taught me how to offer that same attunement to myself.

Then, life offered me another unexpected gift.

I met Steven, the love of my life.

The first man whose presence my body experienced as deeply safe.

His steadiness, gentleness, and protective love created something I had never known before.

Safety.

It was from within that safety that one of my deepest wounds—the wound around my sexuality—could finally begin to heal.

Looking back now, I can see that every important chapter of my life has been guided by people and beings who knew how to remain present.

They didn't rescue me.

They didn't walk the path for me.

They simply stayed with me long enough that I could finally learn to stay with myself.

Each one has taught me something my tiny body already seemed to know.

Healing begins when someone becomes deeply curious.

Curious enough to listen, notice and to stay present with what is alive before trying to change it.

Perhaps that is why these same medicines continue to guide my life today.

Music. Rhythm. Silence. Nature.

Compassionate awareness.

Because rather than rescue me, they help me remember who I am beneath the noise.

As I celebrate another year of life, I feel immense gratitude.

For the tiny baby who stayed.

For the doctor who chose curiosity over certainty.

For the melodies that became my first medicine.

And for my mother.

Thank you, Ma.

Thank you for protecting my little body with everything you had.

Thank you for noticing the songs that brought me to life before I had words to ask for them.

The years that followed would teach me that staying alive and feeling deeply met are two different journeys.

This book is the story of both.

And perhaps that tiny heart, all those years ago, was already trying to teach me the work that would become my life's calling:

To LISTEN deeply and to STAY present.

To help others feel seen, heard, and gently accompanied as they find their own way home.