I’m Alice Magdalene—a dreamer, healer, thinker and feeler.

I was born in Windsor on February 16—a proper Aquarian: curious, a little rebellious, and undeniably weird. From the beginning I was drawn to the edges of things—to the questions people skimmed over, to the borderlands between life and what lies beyond it. While other kids collected stickers, I collected herbs, odd rocks, and ideas about healing. I made remedies from woodchips and weeds, studied how things lived and how they didn’t, and always, always remained fascinated by the architecture of life.

School never quite fit me. Not because I wasn’t bright, but because I experienced the world differently. I felt a porousness between myself and other people—an empathy without a manual, an honesty without filters. That kind of openness can be a gift; it can also mark you as the one who is “too much.” I learned early what it meant to stand apart. For years I wandered that distance, learning to translate my sensitivity into clarity rather than shame.

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By ten I was elbow-deep in philosophy, devouring books that asked the big questions: What is real? Why are we here? How do we heal? Those questions were not academic exercises—they were the scaffolding of a life in formation. Then, at twelve, something fundamental shifted. I began having experiences that took me beyond ordinary reality: spontaneous out-of-body journeys that felt more like expansions of knowing than flights of fancy. I encountered layers of reality I hadn’t been taught to expect. I met teachers in other timelines, walked inside ancient stories, and came home with an inner map that didn’t make sense to the people around me—but made absolute sense to me.

Those early years were an initiation. Alongside awe there were moments of fear, confusion, and feeling profoundly alone. But I learned to translate those encounters into tools: discernment, sovereign belief, practical rituals that protect and strengthen. What felt like being “different” or less than turned out to be training. My sensitivity became data; my visions, curriculum.

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I flirted with a very different life, too. At sixteen I moved out and taught myself as a computer technician—back in the mid-2000s, when tinkering with hardware and code felt like magic. That curiosity took me to work for Blackberry, to work for tech labs across Ontario, and eventually overseas to study engineering. For a while I tried to reconcile the engineer and the mystic: building circuits by day and reading sacred texts by night. The tension between invention and care pulled me gently toward what I was actually meant to do.

Working in a botanical garden in Germany was a turning point. The rhythms of plants, the patient intelligence of soil, and the slow alchemy of seeds taught me something practical about healing: life heals best when you create the right conditions. It wasn’t that engineering was wrong—it just wasn’t the full story. I loved the elegance of systems and the clarity of cause and effect, but I also recognized an insatiable propensity to nurture, to tend, to create beauty and belonging.

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Back in Canada I dove into psychology and philosophy—not to fit a mould, but to interrogate it. I pushed against easy answers and sloppy thinking, not because I wanted to be contrary, but because I wanted truth. That integrity became part of my method: rigorous inquiry plus intuitive knowing. In research roles I was recognized for ethical clarity and the stubbornness to follow evidence where it led, even when it was unpopular.

At the same time, my life taught me about the messy reality of relationships. I experienced partnerships that were not sacred unions but mirrors for work I needed to do: boundaries to set, strength to claim, and the courage to choose myself. Those challenges carved out a readiness inside me—an ability to stand in the fire and not only survive but learn, refine, and transform.

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What finally shifted everything was a decision that felt simple and inevitable: I would stop waiting for permission to be who I was meant to be. I trained. I leaned into practices that worked. I apprenticed with teachers, learned to read energy with precision, and built a protocol that blends embodied psychology, spiritual sovereignty, and practical coaching. I didn’t abandon my rational mind—I married it to my intuition. Engineering taught me systems-thinking; botanical gardens taught me patience; my inner life taught me how to hold the unseen with steadiness. Together they became the method I use with clients today.

There’s a story I love: I once typed “Psychic Medium” into a job search on LinkedIn almost on a dare. One listing came up, I applied, and during the interview I gave an intuitive reading—my very first—right there. The person on the other end told me I was “the real deal.” It was a small moment, but it was the universe telling me: you’re aligned. Doors began to open not because I chased them, but because I cleaned my lens and let my work find its people.

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If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that initiation is different from damage. Initiation is a refining process: it strips away what is unnecessary, tests what is true, and invites you to show up in a new form. My past—the alienation, the nights of questions, the difficult relationships, the encounters with the unknown—was not wasted. It trained me. It refined my sensitivity into skill, my heartbreak into boundary work, my visions into service.

My work is simple in intention and exacting in practice: I help people reclaim their power, align their inner landscape, and call in a life that matches the size of their soul. I teach practical tools for emotional sovereignty, energy hygiene, and manifestation—tools that are usable, measurable, and potent. Clients come to me wanting clarity, safety, and a way to move forward that feels true to them. They leave with confidence, with practices they can trust, and with the experience of being deeply seen and supported.

Faith is not a word I use lightly. For me, faith is a muscle—something you build by matching action with belief. When you stand in your authority and act from it, reality rearranges to meet you. That’s not woo; it’s cause and effect. That’s not arrogance; it’s agency.

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My grandmother, in her last days, gave me one piece of advice I carry like a talisman: “Always be true to yourself.” I take that seriously. Not because it sounds romantic, but because it’s a practice. Every choice I’ve made since—the work I offer, the way I hold clients, the boundaries I insist on—is an act of being true. That means refusing to shrink, insisting on integrity, and delivering the kind of work that actually helps people transform.

I don’t promise quick fixes or empty uplift. I offer a process built from decades of lived experience, study, and disciplined practice. I meet people where they are, hold them accountable to what they know they can be, and give them the tools to step into it.

If my life shows you anything, let it be this: what felt like the very thing that broke you might be the doorway to your greatest contribution. Sensitivity is not weakness. Difference is not a defect. Your unusual wiring—the thing that made you misunderstood as a child—could be the very skillset the world needs now.

Maybe you’re at a point where choosing yourself feels like a rebellion. Good. Rebel with reverence. Step into the practice of your life. Reclaim your story not as a wound but as a qualification.

If any of this speaks to you, maybe this is your calling too. Maybe the initiation you’re in is preparing you for a life of service and beauty you can’t yet imagine. I’d be honoured to help you translate those experiences into power, clarity, and a life aligned with what you deeply know you were made for.

You are not here to survive. You are here to become luminous.