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The Wound Underneath the Fear

People ask what my process is for working through a challenge. Here, in real time, I trace a fear of being seen back to its root at age five — and take one small step through it.

Separate Rooms, Same Root — Why I Built the Terrain Session

Most people think of a wound as a single injury. But a childhood wound is more like a burr — it has hooks. It catches on things. Over time, what started as one injury gathers so much around it that every piece of snagged material looks like its own separate problem. Here's how I discovered the architecture underneath my patterns — and built a session to map yours.

The Wound is Not the Medicine

Every healer carries wounds. The question isn't whether we have them — it's whether we've done the honest work of turning raw material into medicine. Here's what that actually looks like.

The Story I Tell About Myself

You can name the story — I'm too much, I'm not enough, I have to earn my place — and still find yourself living inside it the following Tuesday. That's not a failure of insight. It's what happens when you're working on the surface of the story instead of what the story is protecting.