My work hinges on the specific anxiety of self-loss: the particular pain of being functional, capable, yet somehow absent from your own life.
For more than twenty years, I've unraveled the stories that live in our bodies, watching patterns of adaptation and disconnection show up not just in our posture, but in how we walk through life.
Fifteen years of this were spent in clinical practice, working hands-on with muscles and fascia and nervous systems. I felt the patterns of tension, armoring, and shrinking: the ways a body braces against life.
Horses have been incomparable teachers in this work because of their exquisite sensitivity to presence. They sense and respond to subtle shifts in posture, breath, and timing.
A horse won't believe you're calm when your body is braced. It reads what you're actually doing, underneath what you're telling yourself. The body works the same way, and so does the part of us that lives below language: a wild horse of our own, one that doesn't answer to reason but to sensation, rhythm, movement, touch. It has been waiting to be heard.
This is the territory I write to map, and the place I teach people to find their way back into.