Over time, many of us become emotionally numb—not because we’re broken, but because life has taught our bodies to shut down and protect us. Somatic healing gently reverses that process. Rather than diving straight into emotions, we start with something simpler: helping your body feel physical sensations again. This slow reintroduction helps your brain recognize, “Oh, I have a body that can feel—and it’s safe to feel.”

As that awareness grows, the nervous system begins to release long-held tension. You might feel tired, sore, or emotionally tender after a session. This isn’t a setback; it’s your body waking up. Trauma often happens because something was “too much, too fast,” so in my work we intentionally slow everything down—sometimes much slower than you expect.

That pause you feel in a session, the silence, the slowing of your story? That’s where the work is happening. How you tell the story is as important as the story itself, because it’s your nervous system learning to stay present with what’s arising.

And sometimes, the body asks us to move. Because emotions are stored in the body, you may find yourself making small gestures or intuitive movements without realizing it. Think of how someone “talks with their hands”—we actually talk with our whole bodies. In session, I’ll notice and invite those movements to become intentional, slowing them way down so your body can complete a cycle and release what’s been held inside. Yes, it may look or feel awkward, but that’s just the brain judging what the body needs.

In this space, every emotion is welcomed, every sensation honored. Somatic healing can feel challenging, but it is also deeply beautiful: the rediscovery of your body’s aliveness and its innate capacity to feel, heal, and be fully seen.

When my kids were little, one of the things I wanted them to know deep in their bones was this: you have to take care of #1.

One of my children especially struggled with that idea. From the time they were tiny, they carried this huge concern about what other people would feel. I’ll never forget the preschool-day protest: “Mom, I can’t tell my frieeends NOOO!” It was heartbreakingly sincere.

As they grew, the situations became more complicated. Imagine the middle school version: “If I say yes, my friend won’t be mad. But if I do, I’ll be exhausted for something really important tomorrow.” We’d sit and talk it out, me mostly listening, and when they finally came to the choice that honored their own needs, I’d gently say, “Yes. That’s right. You have to take care of #1.”

And then I’d follow it up with the same question every time: “You know who #1 is, right?”

At first, there were blank stares and tilted heads. But over time, the answer started coming back with confidence: “I AM #1!”

That’s what I wanted them to know—not as a rule, not as a lecture, but as a quiet truth: it’s not selfish to choose yourself. It’s loving. It’s wise. It’s what makes everything else sustainable.

Because here’s what I’ve seen, in my kids and in so many adults too: the real harm doesn’t come from saying no. It comes from saying yes when you really don’t want to, just to avoid conflict or disappointing someone. That’s when resentment takes root, when our feelings get stuck, when our bodies carry the weight of something untrue.

Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you care less about others. It simply means you’re in the picture too. Sometimes choosing yourself looks like helping. Sometimes it looks like saying no. And sometimes, it’s simply deciding you don’t want to do something—and letting that be reason enough.

And really, this is what living authentically is all about: making choices that align with your truth, not with what you think will keep the peace or please everyone else.

So here’s the reminder I gave my kids, and the one I’ll share with you: take care of #1.

And you know who #1 is, right?

Exactly.