The cards were never just paper. They were whispers from the soul, fragments of dreams, invitations home. Each one a mirror, a memory, a door. Not to tell you who you are—but to help you remember. To hold your heart in its tender unraveling. To walk with you through the aching, the asking, the becoming. When I first began crafting oracle decks, I wasn’t trying to create a product. I was trying to speak to the parts of myself that no one else could reach—the quiet ones, the hurt ones, the wildly magical ones who still believed in joy. And I wondered, what if healing could feel like wonder? What if we could find our way back not through force, but through softness? So I followed that thread. I wrote what I needed to hear. I painted what I couldn’t yet say. And slowly, the cards took shape—like fireflies gathering in the dusk, like stories longing to be held. Oracle, after all, means mouth of the divine. And sometimes the divine speaks in starlight. Sometimes it sounds like your own voice, returning to you at last. Sometimes, it feels like a child tugging at your sleeve, asking you to come play. And sometimes, it’s just a single card, drawn in the quiet morning light, reminding you that you are not lost, you are finding your way home. These decks were made for that. For you. For the part of you still listening. For home.

the oracles