There was a time I lived with a group of people who always listened—really listened—when I spoke about my experiences. I started to believe I was special. In hindsight, I wasn’t. But they were. Their attentiveness didn’t mean I had a gift—it meant they did. They gave me the space to speak, and in that space, I began learning how to listen.
That became a through-line in my life. I’ve spent years listening—deeply, intentionally—to people’s stories. Their struggles. Their breakthroughs. And somewhere along the way, that listening gave birth to a quiet but determined mission: to reduce suffering.
So I wandered into the world of healing—energy work, success coaching, hypnotherapy. I even launched a business helping people quit smoking and untangle their phobias. It was a season of experimentation. Of proving to myself that transformation was possible. That maybe I could be the person who made the difference.
But here’s what I saw: two kinds of people.
Those who were ready. They needed a nudge, a mirror, a partner in the work. And then there were others—people who wanted me to “fix” them. Who wanted me to take the wheel of their healing and drive it home while they sat in the backseat.
And I get it. I’ve wanted that too.
But it doesn’t work that way. Healing is cooperative. It’s a dance. And spoiler: it takes two.
I don’t practice anymore. Not in that way. The work taught me something more important than how to guide others—it showed me how quickly “helping” can become a distraction from doing your own work.
Later, I started teaching youth—topics like spirituality, purpose, potential. And again, I saw it: the hunger in some, the disinterest in others. I poured myself into being the spark for those who didn’t know they could burn brighter. And slowly, I began to burn out.
Because here’s the thing: I’d built this beautiful toolbox for saving others… and forgotten to use any of it on myself.
Even with a spiritual practice, my energy was external—outward-facing, performative, savior-oriented. I was trying to light up the whole forest without tending my own fire.
It took a global pandemic to force a pause. In that stillness, I asked the question that changed everything:
What if I gave that same urgency to my own becoming?
I began reclaiming space for myself. Space to heal. To tend to the life I’ve been given. To unlearn the frantic need to save and instead learn how to be well. In my body. In my mind. In my soul.
The truth is: helping people is beautiful. Sacred, even.
But trying to save the world can be a brilliant disguise for avoiding your own becoming.
So now, I move slower. I create space not to convert, but to witness. I offer what I can, when I’m full—not when I’m hollow and hoping to feel useful.
A wise sage once said: If you can’t benefit others, at least do no harm.
Turns out, the first person I had to stop harming… was me.