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The first person we trust is rarely someone we choose.

They arrive before language, before judgment, before we understand what it means to be safe or unsafe. They are simply there—steady, familiar, woven into our earliest sense of the world. They are the first voice we recognize, the first presence we seek, the first place we return to when something feels wrong.

For many of us, that first person is a parent. Not because they are perfect, but because they are first. They are the first witness to who we are becoming. The first place we learn what care feels like. The first place we learn what it means to be held.

The first heart I ever made was for my mom.

Not as a symbol. Not as a holiday gift. I made it because I needed to put something solid into the world—something shaped slowly, something that could be held—something that said, without explanation, you matter to me in a way that doesn’t expire.

That is where these hearts began.

They weren’t born from romance or tradition or sentimentality. They came from trust. From the recognition that the deepest loves in our lives often don’t follow a script or a calendar. They live quietly in the background, shaping who we become long before we have words for them.

The first person we trust is often our first hero.

Not because they are flawless, but because they are the one we believe will come back. The one we assume will protect us. The one we look for instinctively when we are afraid. Even when we later learn they are human, limited, imperfect—that early trust doesn’t disappear. It becomes foundational.

Those kinds of loves don’t stop mattering when we grow up. They don’t get replaced by romance. They don’t lose value because they aren’t dramatic. They become the framework through which we understand loyalty, devotion, and permanence.

These hearts come from that understanding.

They are not decorations. They are not shorthand for romance. They are not meant to perform meaning. They are made slowly, from multiple pieces of wood, intentionally joined, because that is how real attachment works. We are not formed whole. We are assembled over time. We are shaped by what holds us, what leaves marks, and what chooses to stay.

A heart, as I make it, is not a symbol of perfection.

It is a record of care.

The grain moves in different directions. The seams are visible. Nothing is hidden. And yet, the piece becomes one thing—solid enough to be kept, small enough to be held, quiet enough to exist alongside you without demanding attention.

That is how enduring love behaves.

The loves we want in our lives forever are not always romantic. They are the ones that anchor us. A parent. A grandparent. A child. A friend who stood where others didn’t. Sometimes, they are not human at all.

Sometimes, they are a dog.

Anubis was the first wolf I ever called mine.

Not owned. Not possessed. Chosen.

He wasn’t part of a phase or a chapter. He was presence. He was constancy. He was the kind of love that doesn’t need language to be understood. The kind that watches, waits, stays. The kind that doesn’t ask you to be anything other than what you are in that moment.

He passed in October.

It has taken me this long to honor him with a heart, and that feels right. Some loves cannot be rushed into remembrance. They need time. They need distance. They need space to settle into something that can be touched without breaking open.

The heart I am making for Anubis will be carved from the hardest wood, Ironwood.

Not because difficulty equals virtue, but because commitment does. Because the resistance of the wood mirrors the depth of the bond. Because the time it takes—longer, slower, more demanding—reflects the kind of love that was never casual or convenient.

This heart will take longer to shape. It will require patience. It will ask my hands to stay present when they might want to hurry. And that is exactly the point.

Love like that was never fast.

Anubis was not a moment. He was a constant. He was a forever love, even now. Especially now.

The length of time it takes to make this heart is not a delay. It is a devotion. It is my way of staying with him, of honoring what did not end just because his body did.

This is also part of the lineage of the hearts.

They are for the people—and the beings—who taught us what loyalty looks like before we had words for it. The ones who became our internal reference for safety, courage, or presence. The ones who remain part of us, even when they are no longer physically here.

When someone is drawn to one of these hearts, I don’t think it’s because they want a heart. I think it’s because they recognize someone. A presence. A relationship. A love they do not want to lose track of.

That is why these hearts are not rushed. They are not tied to a single day on the calendar. They are not explained or justified. They wait until the right person recognizes them. Until something quiet inside says, this belongs with me, or this belongs with them.

The first heart went to my mom because she was the first person who ever held my life in her hands.

The heart for Anubis comes later, because some loves ask us to grow into the honoring of them.

Every heart that comes from my hands carries this same intention—not as repetition, but as continuity. A throughline of trust, devotion, and permanence.

These are not just hearts.

They are acknowledgments.

They are records of care.

They are a way of saying, you mattered to me in a way that time does not erase.

And when one finds its way to the right person, it doesn’t feel like a purchase.

It feels like recognition.

For a long time, this dream lived safely inside me.

It was something I carried quietly—shaped by years of reflection, survival, and learning what it actually means to feel safe in the world. In that quiet space, the dream didn’t require timelines or explanations. It didn’t ask me to prove anything. It simply existed as a truth I held close.

And then, slowly, it began asking to be real.

That moment—when a dream crosses from internal to tangible—is both thrilling and unsettling. It’s the moment when hope meets responsibility. When imagination meets structure. When something deeply personal begins to reach outward and touch other lives.

That’s where I am right now with Riveted Hearts Wolf Pack.

As this vision takes shape, I’ve become acutely aware that how it is built matters just as much as why. This isn’t an idea I want to rush into the world because it sounds good or feels inspiring. This work involves people, families, animals, and trust. It deserves to be built carefully, intentionally, and with humility.

I’ve been thinking often about the wooden hearts that are so central to this project. They aren’t rushed. They’re shaped slowly, reinforced where they were once split, and only shared when the structure is sound. The strength is not hidden—it’s integrated. Pressure doesn’t weaken them when they’re built well. It makes them stronger.

That philosophy is guiding every decision I’m making right now.

Taking time does not mean stepping back. It means stepping deeper.

RHWP is meant to serve survivors, but it’s not only for survivors. It’s also for the families who love them—the parents, partners, children, and friends who often want to help but don’t know how. Trauma doesn’t live in isolation, and healing doesn’t either. Creating something that acknowledges that complexity matters to me.

This work is also about honoring the human–animal bond in a way that is respectful and ethical. Animals are not tools for healing. They are living beings with their own needs, boundaries, and dignity. When connection happens, it should be mutual, grounded, and safe for everyone involved.

And there is another layer that feels just as important: challenging the stereotypes that surround both trauma survivors and animals like wolves. Survivors are often misunderstood as fragile, broken, or defined by what they endured. Wolves are often labeled as dangerous, aggressive, or something to fear. In reality, both narratives miss the truth. Strength, sensitivity, loyalty, and resilience are often mistaken for threat when we don’t understand them.

I want RHWP to gently dismantle those assumptions—not through force or argument, but through presence, education, and experience.

Recently, I’ve been spending intentional time with the wolf ambassadors who will one day be part of this work. These moments haven’t been about spectacle or symbolism. They’ve been quiet. Observational. Grounding. Time spent paying attention to their body language, their boundaries, their personalities, and the way trust is built slowly, not demanded.

What’s been reaffirmed for me in those moments is that this work cannot be rushed. Relationship—whether human or animal—requires patience. It requires listening more than acting. It requires restraint. You don’t earn trust by pushing forward. You earn it by showing consistency, respect, and calm presence over time.

That lesson applies just as much to this refuge as it does to the animals themselves.

There’s a particular kind of fear that shows up when something meaningful begins to solidify. Not the fear of failing, but the fear of doing harm by doing too much, too fast. I feel that responsibility deeply. And I’m choosing to honor it rather than override it.

This season may look quiet from the outside. There may be fewer announcements, fewer visible milestones. But underneath, the foundation is being laid. Program structures are being thought through carefully. Values are being clarified. Boundaries are being defined. Sustainability—emotional, ethical, and practical—is being prioritized over speed.

I still want those who are following along to feel included. If you’re here, reading this, supporting this work in any way, you are part of it. Transparency matters to me. Even when the work is happening out of sight, I want you to know it is happening with care.

When RHWP programs open, they will be ready to hold what comes through them. They will be grounded, respectful, and built to last. They will reflect the same principle that lives at the core of everything I build:

Broken does not mean disposable.

Strength grows where care is taken.

And some things are worth taking the time to do right.

Healing was never meant to be solitary. We were meant to find one another, to build safety together, and to remember what it feels like to belong.

But as the work evolved, I began to realize that Riveted Hearts was only part of the truth. Every time I tried to explain what this project really was—what it meant beyond the objects themselves—I found myself circling back to something larger. I wasn’t just carving hearts or restoring furniture or working with wood as a form of healing. I was building a place. A refuge. And at the center of that refuge were two groups who had always been quietly intertwined in my mind: survivors and wolves.

This wasn’t a branding decision so much as a reckoning. The name didn’t change because the mission shifted; it changed because the mission finally had the space to fully reveal itself. Riveted Hearts had always been about survival and repair, but survival in isolation is not the same thing as healing. Healing requires safety, and safety—real safety—is rarely created alone. It is built through relationship, through shared presence, through knowing that you are not the only one watching the edges of the room. It is built in packs.

Wolves have been misunderstood for as long as I can remember. They are framed as dangerous, aggressive, something to fear or eliminate, when in reality they are deeply relational animals who depend on cooperation, communication, and care to survive. Wolves live within families, protect their young and vulnerable, and rely on the strength of the collective rather than dominance or control. A wolf alone is exposed. A wolf in a pack is regulated, purposeful, and grounded. When I learned more about wolves, I couldn’t ignore how closely their reality mirrored the experience of survivors.

Survivors, like wolves, are often judged by narratives written by someone else. We are asked why we stayed, why we didn’t see it sooner, why we didn’t fight harder, why we didn’t leave. We are reduced to moments instead of understood as whole beings shaped by prolonged pressure, manipulation, fear, and love that became something else over time. Abuse isolates by design. It fractures trust, severs community, and teaches the nervous system that being alone is safer than being seen. But isolation is not where healing happens. Healing happens when the body remembers what it feels like to exist without constant vigilance, when safety is experienced rather than explained.

I am a survivor myself. My story is not something I share for shock or sympathy, but because it is inseparable from why this refuge exists at all. I lived for years inside a relationship that taught me to endure rather than feel, to adapt rather than resist, to disappear in small ways in order to keep the peace. I learned how to survive environments that rewarded silence and punished truth, and for a long time I believed that surviving was the same as living. It wasn’t until everything fell apart that I understood how deeply disconnected I had become from my own sense of safety, agency, and belonging.

Woodworking found me during that unraveling. Working with my hands quieted something in my body that words never could. Repairing broken furniture, carving shapes from raw wood, sanding and shaping and joining pieces back together taught me that damage didn’t have to be erased to be meaningful. The wood remembered what it had been through, and somehow that made it stronger, not weaker. Riveted Hearts was born from that realization, but over time it became clear that the work couldn’t stop at objects. The same principles applied to people, to animals, to places that had been harmed and needed care rather than control.

The wolves came into this vision naturally, almost inevitably. Watching wolves interact—how they check in with one another, how they respect boundaries, how they rest without fear when they feel safe—does something profound to the human nervous system. It reminds us of patterns older than trauma, older than language. It shows us that strength does not have to be loud, that protection does not require domination, and that belonging does not require perfection. In the presence of wolves, something in the body softens. Something remembers.

That is why this is a refuge, not a program. A refuge is a place where nothing is demanded of you. It is a space where rest is allowed, where learning happens without evaluation, and where healing is not rushed or measured by productivity. Riveted Hearts Wolf Pack Refuge exists to create that kind of space—for wolves who need sanctuary, and for survivors who need safety without explanation. It is a place where craft, care, education, and connection come together slowly and intentionally, honoring the pace of nervous systems that have learned to survive by staying alert.

The name Riveted Hearts Wolf Pack Refuge holds the full truth of what this work has always been. Riveted Hearts speaks to repair that does not deny history. Wolf Pack speaks to the reality that no one heals alone. Refuge speaks to the commitment to safety, dignity, and presence over performance. This name does not erase the past; it clarifies it. It allows the mission to stand fully in the open, honest about where it came from and where it is going.

If you have ever felt misunderstood, isolated, or forced to become smaller in order to survive, this work is for you. If you have ever been told you were too much, too quiet, too damaged, or too wild, you are not alone. Healing was never meant to be solitary. We were meant to find one another, to build safety together, and to remember what it feels like to belong.

Welcome to the pack

For a long time, I believed Riveted Hearts was the final name. It carried the weight of the work I was doing with my hands—repair, carving, joining, and making something whole again without pretending it had never been broken. Rivets made sense to me because they don’t hide damage; they acknowledge it and strengthen it. The hearts I carved were never about perfection. They were about endurance, about learning how to live with visible joins, about honoring the places where pressure had already been applied and survived. For years, that felt complete.

But as the work evolved, I began to realize that Riveted Hearts was only part of the truth. Every time I tried to explain what this project really was—what it meant beyond the objects themselves—I found myself circling back to something larger. I wasn’t just carving hearts or restoring furniture or working with wood as a form of healing. I was building a place. A refuge. And at the center of that refuge were two groups who had always been quietly intertwined in my mind: survivors and wolves.

This wasn’t a branding decision so much as a reckoning. The name didn’t change because the mission shifted; it changed because the mission finally had the space to fully reveal itself. Riveted Hearts had always been about survival and repair, but survival in isolation is not the same thing as healing. Healing requires safety, and safety—real safety—is rarely created alone. It is built through relationship, through shared presence, through knowing that you are not the only one watching the edges of the room. It is built in packs.

Wolves have been misunderstood for as long as I can remember. They are framed as dangerous, aggressive, something to fear or eliminate, when in reality they are deeply relational animals who depend on cooperation, communication, and care to survive. Wolves live within families, protect their young and vulnerable, and rely on the strength of the collective rather than dominance or control. A wolf alone is exposed. A wolf in a pack is regulated, purposeful, and grounded. When I learned more about wolves, I couldn’t ignore how closely their reality mirrored the experience of survivors.

Survivors, like wolves, are often judged by narratives written by someone else. We are asked why we stayed, why we didn’t see it sooner, why we didn’t fight harder, why we didn’t leave. We are reduced to moments instead of understood as whole beings shaped by prolonged pressure, manipulation, fear, and love that became something else over time. Abuse isolates by design. It fractures trust, severs community, and teaches the nervous system that being alone is safer than being seen. But isolation is not where healing happens. Healing happens when the body remembers what it feels like to exist without constant vigilance, when safety is experienced rather than explained.

I am a survivor myself. My story is not something I share for shock or sympathy, but because it is inseparable from why this refuge exists at all. I lived for years inside a relationship that taught me to endure rather than feel, to adapt rather than resist, to disappear in small ways in order to keep the peace. I learned how to survive environments that rewarded silence and punished truth, and for a long time I believed that surviving was the same as living. It wasn’t until everything fell apart that I understood how deeply disconnected I had become from my own sense of safety, agency, and belonging.

Woodworking found me during that unraveling. Working with my hands quieted something in my body that words never could. Repairing broken furniture, carving shapes from raw wood, sanding and shaping and joining pieces back together taught me that damage didn’t have to be erased to be meaningful. The wood remembered what it had been through, and somehow that made it stronger, not weaker. Riveted Hearts was born from that realization, but over time it became clear that the work couldn’t stop at objects. The same principles applied to people, to animals, to places that had been harmed and needed care rather than control.

The wolves came into this vision naturally, almost inevitably. Watching wolves interact—how they check in with one another, how they respect boundaries, how they rest without fear when they feel safe—does something profound to the human nervous system. It reminds us of patterns older than trauma, older than language. It shows us that strength does not have to be loud, that protection does not require domination, and that belonging does not require perfection. In the presence of wolves, something in the body softens. Something remembers.

That is why this is a refuge, not a program. A refuge is a place where nothing is demanded of you. It is a space where rest is allowed, where learning happens without evaluation, and where healing is not rushed or measured by productivity. Riveted Hearts Wolf Pack Refuge exists to create that kind of space—for wolves who need sanctuary, and for survivors who need safety without explanation. It is a place where craft, care, education, and connection come together slowly and intentionally, honoring the pace of nervous systems that have learned to survive by staying alert.

The name Riveted Hearts Wolf Pack Refuge holds the full truth of what this work has always been. Riveted Hearts speaks to repair that does not deny history. Wolf Pack speaks to the reality that no one heals alone. Refuge speaks to the commitment to safety, dignity, and presence over performance. This name does not erase the past; it clarifies it. It allows the mission to stand fully in the open, honest about where it came from and where it is going.

If you have ever felt misunderstood, isolated, or forced to become smaller in order to survive, this work is for you. If you have ever been told you were too much, too quiet, too damaged, or too wild, you are not alone. Healing was never meant to be solitary. We were meant to find one another, to build safety together, and to remember what it feels like to belong.

Welcome to the pack.

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