My body started talking.
I lived in Venice, CA during a stretch when I was deep in every kind of healing modality the city offered: yoga in many forms (I became an aerial yoga teacher along the way), talk therapy, retreats, personal development workshops, ecstatic dance, sound healing. I loved them. I still do. They opened me, taught me, gave me ways to live. But certain things I was carrying weren't moving — and at a certain point, the conditions arrived for those deeper layers to come up.
I grew up with a single mother. I didn't know my father. Some of what I was carrying had been with me from before I could walk — pain that arrived early, and beliefs about myself I'd absorbed before I had language for them. There has been trauma along the way too. A lot of my own work has been untangling what was never mine to begin with, and meeting the rest with compassion, including a younger version of me who carried a lot. Those parts still surface. They still ask for gentleness.
There was also a stretch, later, when much of my life seemed to be breaking down at once. My romantic life was unraveling, my sense of purpose was in question, and the path I thought I was on no longer felt like mine. Heartbreak, grief, and that not-knowing were what drove me to look more closely.
What began to reach those layers was a different kind of practice: going inward in altered states. Eyes covered. Music on. No destination. New layers kept opening as I worked this way.
One session caught me off guard. I was learning a modality called Psychedelic Somatic Interactional Psychotherapy, and I was the one in the chair, being guided with a low dose of cannabis. Material I had talked about in therapy for years — and thought I was long past — began to surface. My body started talking. It moved on its own, trying to discharge what it had been carrying: energy from old experiences that hadn't had a chance to release.