About

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Tanya is the author of The She Book.

Tanya Markul’s path is one of the poetess, intuitive and wounded storyteller. An unwanted child, she was raised on barren soil, of shame, guilt and overwhelming self-hatred. From the womb, her inner navigation was tainted from an ancestry of addiction, instability, abuse and fear. Her journey to self-heal, and to become ready to guide others, has taken many arduous paths, risks and harrowing rebirths.

She is a guide to the other side of pain. A key and wisdom keeper. A creative midwife. An enchanting storyteller and quirky rule-breaker. She is a tree lover and fairy spirit. Imagination is her wand, the dreamworld her guide and Nature her map.

Tanya is dedicated to helping others heal by holding sacred space for their stories, and by unlocking the impossibility of shape-shifting their pain into soul-led healing purpose. Her medicine beckons the brave curiosity to look within, brings a sense of humour to cracked surfaces, unveils the beauty of hidden authenticity, and conjures the courage to love and accept oneself in this lifetime.

Tanya creates with words, the unseen world, sensitivity and vulnerability.

. . . k e e p d i v i n g . . .

What you might not know about me…

I come from a low-income family. We used food stamps & collected government cheese & bread. I lived a life of hand-me-downs & borrowing friend’s & my friend’s parent’s money for food & extracurricular activities.

As a child, I went to catechism class almost every Saturday & church on Sunday. I used to lie during confession. In elementary school, I was bulliedbecause my glasses made my eyes “big” & because I wore the same clothes everyday.

I got into college (the first of my family) by the grace of God. I piled up around 50K in government loans. I’ve failed classes. I’ve called off work because I was too hung over. I’ve shoplifted clothes & food.

I’ve had family members die of drug overdoses & liver failure. I’ve driven drunk. I’ve lied about my sexual experiences & my parent’s whereabouts & occupations.

Both my legal guardians died by the time I was 13.

I’ve been sexually harassed & assaulted.

My grandmother had Native American blood coursing through her veins. I used to wake up with my father, slobbering drunk, at the end of my bed.

As a kid, my aunts used to take me to bars during summer vacation. During my childhood & teenage years, I can’t remember my mother ever not being sky high.

I have family members battling alcoholism. I lost my best friend to a cocaine addiction. I have family members in and out of prison. I have family members fighting a losing battle with heroin. In my twenties,

I was stoned out of my mind every day for an entire 4 years.

I’m sharing all of this, because there are those out there who made me believe that my story wasn’t worthy of being told because their story or someone else’s story of pain was worse. And it used to work.

There’s so much repressed wounded-ness in the world, that one person’s bravery to tell their story can become another person’s opportunity to compete, compare, judge, vent and harshly criticise.

We’ve forgotten how to hold space for each other. We forget that holding space for ANYONE who wants to share, listening to hardships, challenges and successes, without judgment or even a response, but with respect, feeds the healthy fire of humanity, that it breeds transformation and change – not just for that person, but for all.