From a young age, my body was my guide—even before I consciously realized it. I had an innate ability to sense what was true and what was incomplete, investigating and experiencing different facets of the human experience until I viscerally understood. People seemed to trust me.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I was relentlessly bullied. School was an inescapable nightmare. After my teenage years, I wrapped myself in thorns and began to chase an arbitrary line of salvation I believed would fix my brokenness.

I pursued every form of achievement: I pushed my body beyond its limits in physique competitions, counting calories, training for hours each day, obsessing over my appearance. By 25, I was earning well over six figures, recognized as a top Account Executive across Canada, and had just bought my first home with my partner. I was a fully functioning sufferer with a seemingly “perfect” life.

As I walked deeper into the practice of meditation and ritual, I began to hear a call to something deeper. Eventually, I quit my corporate job, sold my home, and moved to a new country with my partner. I pursued a career in coaching, but that too became another form of striving—another performance for validation.

Over the next several years, I shed layer after layer of identity, achievement, and codependence. I left my partner, packing the tangled remnants of our lives into my heartbroken pockets, and ventured into the jungle to face the weight of my decision. I would spend the next three months processing, grieving, shedding my armor, and being with my naked self—away from the relentless hustle of life.

The Costa Rican jungle didn’t offer the liberation I had imagined. Every task felt like a wasted breath if it didn’t serve a definitive purpose. I had spent my life chasing, measuring, and achieving. Even here, in the stillness, the same relentless pursuit loomed over me.

With nothing left to lose, I gave up. I stopped fighting and let the darkness have me. I opened my journal to a blank page. And the words poured out. I performed for the only audience that had ever truly needed to hear me: myself. And as I spoke, something loosened.

That night, I touched life. That creative moment—the night I let everything go—was the first time I understood life not just intellectually, but viscerally. I was no longer just observing existence; I was being lived by it.

It took me decades to realize that the person I had been running from—the one I refused to look at—had been here with me all along. I had stripped myself of everything I thought I needed, only to discover that the only necessity was to look inside.

I found power, not in control but in the effortless flow of what is. My body was no longer something to manipulate or improve—it was a portal. A vessel through which something greater could move. The wisdom I had chased in books, mentors, and strategies had been humming through my bones all along.

I was no longer trying to escape my experience, nor was I drowning in it. I experienced something in the space between—where stillness becomes movement, and movement becomes prayer; where wounds become the doorway, and pain becomes the path; where we root into groundlessness and find home in the mystery; where identity softens, and the self becomes the vessel rather than the mask; where devotion replaces force, and effort becomes flow.

I had freed my body, and in that freedom, something in my bones knew: I was ready. Not because I had arrived, but because I no longer needed to. My service was no longer an act of striving—it was simply the next step. An offering. A truth I could no longer keep to myself. The same forces that once drove me to chase, to control, to grasp—were now guiding me toward something greater—not as a destination, but as an unfolding path.

My life’s work is to invite others into this same dance—not to fix, but to feel. Not to escape life, but to experience it more fully. My work is about integrating the intelligence of the body with the depth of awareness. About becoming a vessel for what’s already here. About remembering the river we’re already in.

This path isn’t linear. It’s sacred, alive, untamed—and so are we.