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After sleeping for what had to be thirteen hours straight, I woke up, went outside with my pups, and just… breathed for a while. Somewhere between the sunlight, their wagging tails, and the quiet, it hit me: If I can’t find help for myself, I can at least try to do for myself what others couldn’t. I don’t know shit about somatic work, but I’m not afraid to learn. I can read, I can take courses, I can study what it means to heal through my body — even if I have to do it alone.

Why This Project Matters Some days, the world feels unbearably heavy. I scroll through headlines and see one crisis after another — genocide, starvation, governments that seem to forget their humanity — and I feel helpless. It’s hard to make sense of how so many can look away, how comfort and privilege can become blindfolds that keep people from seeing what others are living through. And yet, I keep asking myself what I can actually do. What’s within reach? The Beginning If I

I’m not morally superior to anyone. I’ve made, and continue to make, monumental mistakes. There are moments that stop me in my tracks — those wow, I really fucked up realizations that make your stomach drop. The kind where you have to look at yourself and admit, what I did wasn’t okay. It’s humbling. It’s uncomfortable. But I think that discomfort is what teaches us who we are — and who we want to be next time. What matters to me isn’t perfection. It’s being able to take that

I have therapy tomorrow, and I can already feel my throat closing. There’s this weight covering my head—like fog, like static—and a faint sense of floating somewhere just outside myself. Naming that is progress, I guess. There was a time I couldn’t have even noticed a body sensation, much less written about it. I don’t always have access to this kind of awareness, and even when I do, it slips away fast. Still, that’s not really the point. The point is the frustration that com

The Conflict It’s a strange thing — to want to hold someone accountable for the harm they caused and to feel guilty for it at the same time. It reminds me of when I first started unlayering the abuse I went through — how even then, I felt guilty for looking at it. For seeing it. For calling it what it was. That guilt still lives somewhere deep in my bones. Logically, I know it doesn’t belong to me. I know it’s not mine to carry. But knowing something and feeling it are never

The Quiet It’s not loud all the time. Sometimes it’s eerily quiet — like a room after someone leaves. But even in the quiet, there’s movement. Thoughts don’t rest; they shift, reorganize, replay. I can be sitting perfectly still and still feel like I’m running. The Watcher There’s an ache in the background — not pain exactly, more like the weight of constant awareness. I notice everything. The smallest tone change, the flicker in someone’s eyes, the air in the room when words

Lately, my grief has felt alive again — not distant or faded, but pulsing quietly in my chest. It doesn’t just miss the past; it longs to say hello. It wants to ask, “How has your life been since we last saw each other?” It’s strange how love doesn’t always know where to go when absence takes its place. The part of me that understands boundaries knows we can’t have the same kind of connection anymore, but another part still aches for the version of life where friendship might

I grew up Catholic. Every Sunday morning meant pews, sermons, and ritual. For a long time, I didn’t question it—faith was something you inherited, not something you chose. It was part of who we were, part of what made a “good person.” But as I got older—and as I started realizing who I was—things shifted. Slowly, painfully. When I came out as gay, I wasn’t directly told I didn’t belong. Nobody said the words to my face. Instead, it came in softer daggers—phrases like, “It’s n

A reflection on what it means to be changed by connection. There are some people who enter your life and teach you what a soul actually is — what it feels like to be in the presence of a good one. That’s what that first therapeutic relationship did for me. What Went Well I felt deeply seen and understood in a way words can’t even describe. I was seen in ways I couldn’t yet see myself — like her eyes were a map to my own soul. It’s one thing to feel understood through words, b

I can feel myself shifting. Doubt seeping in. Shame seeping in. The loneliness is so sharp I can feel the depth of the clouds surrounding me. I’m holding onto the roots of the tree for dear life because I don’t want to start floating again. There’s something terrifying about feeling yourself slip — not all at once, but gradually, like sand through tired fingers. I keep wondering what it must feel like to move through the world with an inner steadiness. To know who you are no

Her There’s a steadiness in my life that has a name. She’s been beside me for fourteen years — through every version of who I’ve been....

When I look back on therapy before it ended, I can’t deny there was good. I learned what regulation could feel like — not in theory, but...

Freedom for Whom There’s a heaviness that settles in my body in July. The country fills with talk of freedom — fireworks, flags, words like “liberty” and “independence.” But for many of us, those words don’t land as celebration. They land as reminders — of who that freedom was built for, and who it wasn’t. The Myth of Freedom They call it Independence Day, but independence built on captivity is not freedom. It’s a myth dressed in red, white, and blue — one that asks the oppre

When Trust is Torn There was a time when I thought maybe I was starting to feel tethered to something safe. Not safety itself — I’ve...

Some connections don’t end—they change form and become the quiet proof that something real once existed.

The way things ended — how the shame was written in professional language, how it was done in a way that sounded measured and polite, but...

The kind of ending that doesn’t close a chapter — it rewrites the whole book. The Shock I still remember the way the air changed the moment I saw her name in my inbox. No preparation. No warning. Just a few lines that split me open. There are certain moments that don’t just happen — they rearrange you. Her email did that. One moment I had a tether, and the next, it was gone. I didn’t even know a few sentences could do that — make the room tilt, make your own name sound foreig

Therapy, Power, and the Weight of Systems Therapy is often described as a safe haven — a place where you can finally exhale, where your story is supposed to be held without judgment. But for many of us, especially those living inside marginalized identities, that “safe” space doesn’t always feel safe. Therapy exists inside the same systems that shape the rest of the world. And when those systems are built on inequality, the same harm can quietly echo in the therapy room. This