If we were working together, what you’d hear at the beginning of most interactions is: “Let’s drop in together.” And from there, I’d lead us in a gentle centering practice—what some might call a meditation. But honestly? I don’t really use that word much anymore.
Sure, there are ancient lineages, rich with ritual and rigor, full of meditative practices that deserve respect and can be life-changing. I’ve learned many of them. I still practice some. And I often refer clients out to teachers who specialize in techniques that support breathing, stress regulation, attention training, and non-ordinary states of consciousness.
But in our work together? We’re not chasing transcendence. We’re cultivating intimacy.
If the practice isn’t helping you deepen your relationship with yourself—your body, your breath, your fears, your longings—then what’s the point? I’m not here to help you float above your pain or achieve some kind of spiritual badge. I’m here to help you meet yourself more fully.
In silence. In discomfort. In delight. In presence.
I want you to hear your own heartbeat and not flinch. To sit with the ache in your gut and breathe into it. To be with your joy without needing to post about it. To make friends with your nervous system. To trust yourself again.
Sometimes that looks like stillness. Sometimes it looks like weeping. Sometimes it looks like laughter rising up from the belly. It’s all sacred.
So yeah—meditation, schmeditation. Let’s call it what it really is: coming home to yourself.