Finding Wholeness - Cam’s Story

For most of my life, I chased strength. Real, measurable strength. I trained my body to do unthinkable things. I was a professional athlete, a titleholder, a woman constantly testing the limits of what she could endure, accomplish, and master.

And I was good at it—really good at it.

But underneath the discipline and determination, there was something else quietly driving me: the belief that I wasn’t enough. I thought if I achieved enough, pushed hard enough, looked a certain way, performed a certain way, maybe then I would be worthy. Maybe then I’d finally feel safe in myself.

At that time, my body wasn’t home—it was a tool. I trained it, used it, shaped it. I learned how to shut off the signals it sent me so I could push through anything. I let go of how it looked or how it felt. Performance was the only purpose.

Then I became a mother.

Zoe came into this world fighting for her life. Twelve weeks in the NICU. It was like time stood still. I became a machine, shifting into survival mode. Every moment was about doing whatever I could to give my daughter her best shot. I didn’t let myself feel anything outside of that. There wasn’t room for fear or pain. Only function. I had work to do.

But when we finally brought her home, that’s when the real war began—inside me.

Suddenly, there were no nurses, no wires, no daily updates. Just me, her, and the terrifying quiet of “what now?” That’s when the PTSD hit. Night terrors. Anxiety. Depression. I would wake up in panic, unable to catch my breath, unsure if she was okay or if I was. I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I didn’t feel like I had survived—I felt like I was unraveling.

I didn’t truly exhale until Zoe was almost two years old. And even now, some days, it still feels hard to breathe. The weight of that love is beautiful and enormous—and sometimes it presses down so hard, it’s hard to stand up under it.

What shocked me the most was how dark it got. The kind of darkness no one warns you about. The kind that wraps around you quietly until you’re just a shell—performing motherhood but feeling completely lost inside of it.

So I did what I knew. I went back to the gym. But this time, I didn’t go to compete. I went to heal. I started bodybuilding—not for aesthetics, not to perform, but because the structure gave me a reason to move again. It calmed my nervous system in a way nothing else could.

At first, it wasn’t healing. It was survival. It gave me something to hold onto. A plan. A purpose. A chance to feel like I had control over something again. Slowly, it became a place where I could reconnect to myself—not all at once, but in pieces.

Then came the miscarriages.

Three of them.

And a failed IVF cycle.

Each one tore something from me. It wasn’t just the loss of potential life—it was the grief of knowing I was doing everything right, and it still wasn’t enough. I grieved the babies, yes. But I also grieved the version of motherhood I thought I’d have. I grieved the betrayal I felt from my own body. I grieved how invisible the pain felt in a world that moves on so quickly.

That grief was so isolating. I was surrounded by people but felt completely alone. I was still showing up. Still lifting. Still pushing. But inside, I was breaking.

Eventually, I hit a place where nothing I knew could fix the pain. I couldn’t outwork it, out-train it, or out-supplement it. I told a friend—a doctor I trusted—that I felt like there was a ball of steel locked inside of me. No keyhole. No way in.

He introduced me to plant medicine.

I was scared. I was skeptical. I was desperate.

I’d tried microdosing before to help with PTSD and had felt some relief. But this was something else. A full-day journey. MDMA to open, psilocybin to guide. I had no expectations—just a question:

“Show me what I need to see.”

And it did.

I saw the rage I’d buried my whole life. I let it rise. I felt it burn. I was a warrior queen—sword in hand, surrounded by all the warrior women who came before me. I danced with them. I built a life with them. A life rooted in love. With my king. With my daughter. I saw my foundation—strong, deep, whole.

I wept for the babies I lost. For the version of me who never felt worthy of being loved. For the little girl inside me who always thought she had to earn her place.

And then… I felt myself held by the Earth.
By God.
By something bigger than me.

I finally saw myself—truly saw myself—through my husband’s eyes.
Through God’s eyes.
And for the first time in my life… I believed I was lovable.
Not for what I did.
Not for what I achieved.
Just for being me.

That experience didn’t just change me. It brought me home.

Now, I’m in a new chapter. Not one of titles or trophies.
But of truth.
Of wholeness.

I’m no longer interested in performing strength. I want to embody it.
To live a life that’s soft, grounded, powerful, and full of love.
To offer others what I spent years searching for—a place to feel again. To heal. To be held.

And that’s why I created this retreat.

Because I believe wholeness is not something you chase—
It’s something you remember.

And I want to help you remember too.