For more than a decade, I've held individuals, couples, and communities in the rooms where love stops being polite, where shame, grief, eros, and power finally have room to move, and what's ready to die can compost into new life. Most of what I do is permission: to stop performing, and let the hidden thing finally come into the room.
The work asks for range, and I've trained across it: attachment repair, parts and shadow work, somatic experiencing, sacred sexuality, grief tending, and a long apprenticeship to death. People come to me when the polite version of their life has stopped working, when they're done managing the symptoms and ready to meet what's underneath.
When the truth in the room gets hard, I don't look away. You leave more able to stay, in the hard conversation, in your own body, in the love that's actually available to you, in the grief you've been outrunning. Not fixed. More here.
Before any of this, I lived in the other world: a PhD in social psychology, years spent designing large-scale systems for human flourishing, work measured in data and defended in print. The rigor never left me. It turned toward something closer to the bone.
I have often felt lonely as fuck.
So I lead from inside the work, not above it. I've spent real time in the isolation I help others move through, and built a life learning to be a full participant in love rather than the one quietly arranging it for everyone else. When I sit with you, the ground beneath me is ground I've walked.
I am here to steward the death of what wants to die, so what wants to be born finally can.
I remember that I was born, and that I will die. Between those two facts, I'm devoted to helping us live and love as fully as a single life will hold.