Soul Naked Begins: A Shedding, A Naming, A Fire

A soft unraveling, a sacred naming, and the quiet fire of becoming.

There’s something about this moment—this quiet, almost imperceptible shift—that feels like shedding a skin. Not a full rebirth, not a phoenix moment. Just the soft kind of change that comes when you realize what once fit… no longer does.

So, here we are. Welcome to Soul Naked.

The name of my upcoming book (Summer 2026), and the truest description of how I live, write, and guide. This book tells the story of how I came to this work—not from perfection, but from grit. From getting it wrong. From sitting on meditation cushions and investment boardrooms. From being heartbroken and healed and cracked open again. From searching not for love or enlightenment, but for something deeper: truth. And finally finding it inside my own bones.

The book is my story—bare, honest, tender. It’s also a torch. A call. A love letter to the women walking through fire, and the ones just beginning to feel the heat.

This is a space where your anonymous questions guide us. Where I answer the quiet, painful, brave things you whisper into the void. Where we hold space as a collective of women reclaiming truth, wisdom, and our own inner knowing.

Sometimes I’ll write from that space. Other times, I’ll simply share what’s been moving in my life—because personal transformation is always braided with the collective.

This month—June 16–20—I’ll be speaking at MAPS Psychedelic Science 2025: The Integration in Denver, CO. I’ll be talking about something that’s been moving through me for years now: when to trust a vision.

Vision is such a slippery word. Co-opted by TED talks and startup decks. But in its original form, vision is sacred. It’s the whisper before the path appears. The soul’s GPS. My talk is part inquiry, part irreverent remix. I share stories—from botched ceremonies to ancient oracles channeling through Berliners in Negroni-soaked evenings, to my rabbinical great-grandfather who predicted his own death, and my grandmother who now speaks to me from beyond with equal parts tenderness and critique.

At its core, this talk is a love letter to discernment. Because vision isn’t a message to monetize—it’s a seed. And you are the soil.

A vision needs time. It needs community. It needs practice. It must be earned, like trust. If you’ve ever wondered whether a message you received in a dream, a trip, a heartbreak, was real—this talk is for you.

Until then—thank you for walking with me.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for staying awake, even when it would be easier to sleep.

In Everything We Trust,
Sylvia