Travel Art Supplies — Tammy Gilley | Story. Wisdom. Soul. Light.

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About

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I’m on a mission to:

Create a space for women like you who are ready to slow down, step back, and give themselves permission to be seen – not as they think they should be, but as they truly are.

You’ve lived a life, full of moments and seasons, and now you may be wondering how to integrate those pieces, how to honor what has been and make room for what is yet to come.

That’s the essence of The Soulful Journey. It isn’t about striving or pushing forward. It’s about allowing.

Allowing yourself to soften into your own becoming.
Allowing your story to reveal itself, layer by layer.
Allowing your creative spirit to lead you, gently, into a deeper relationship with yourself.

Welcome. You’re right on time.

The Train to Varenna

The train pulled away from Milan just as the afternoon light began to soften the city’s hard edges. She sat by the window, fingers wrapped around a small paper cup of espresso gone cold, watching her reflection flicker ove

The Lavender Path

She’d signed up for a month-long artist’s retreat at the edge of a small village, a quiet cluster of shutters and slate roofs perched above the Dordogne. Her room overlooked a garden filled with rosemary, thyme, and sof

Sometimes the most profound shift isn’t something new—
It’s the quiet recognition of what’s always been true.
The breath you didn’t know you were holding,
finally released.
The deep yes beneath your longing.

This week o

The Window on Rue des Martyrs

She arrived in Paris on a drizzly Wednesday, her suitcase wheels clicking over the wet cobblestones like a heartbeat. She had rented a small apartment in Montmartre, just above a florist’s shop where the scent of

Soul Truth: I am being revealed to myself.

Last fall, during a quiet retreat, I wrote this phrase in my journal without fully knowing why.
Not “I’m finding myself” or “I’m becoming someone new.”
But:
I am being re

There comes a moment—quiet and unmistakable—when a woman realizes her story isn't behind her.

It’s unfolding still.
Layer by layer.
Brushstroke by brushstroke.

She begins to see her life not as something to edit or perfect, but as

She almost didn’t open the sketchbook that morning.

There were dishes in the sink, emails in her inbox, and a voice in her head whispering, What’s the point? But something softer stirred too—a quiet tug, a pulse of longing, a tiny

I used to think “becoming” was a forward motion.

Something you moved toward.
An arrival.
A before and after.

But now I think it’s softer than that.

Becoming feels more like circling.
Returning.
Tending.
Letting go and beginning a

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