The Birth of a Descent
Last year I watched a film called The Deepest Breath that had a life-altering impact on me. It was a documentary about free divers—individuals whose calling is to descend into the dark layers of the sea on one breath alone, 100 meters deep. The film tells the story of Alessia Zecchini. One thing she said is that at about 30 meters down, there is a gravitational pull that takes her deeper—and that this is her favorite part. That it feels like flying.
Any time I share that with someone, they tend to gasp in fear at the thought of it. And this is why I decided it’s time for me to finally offer this comprehensive work that my soul has been calling me to create for over a decade.
Most people fear being in their bodies because they fear the emotions that live there—emotions that may feel too painful to face. But the idea of going down and into one’s being should not be something we fear, I thought. It would be like having a home you never want to return to. My work as a bodyworker has taught me how to come home to my own body, more and more, and to make it truly feel like home. Though I assure you, it is still a long and slow process for me as well.
I am honored to guide people to begin the journey home to their own bodies, and to meet what arises along the way with vulnerability, honesty, patience, compassion.
Around the time I saw this film, I had been studying with Todd Jackson, an incredible bodyworker, teacher, and yogi in Portland, Oregon. His teachings of Biodynamic Massage and Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy function as a surrendered state of meeting a body right where it’s at—without preconceived ideas or intentions. It is a very feminine form—chaotic at times, intuitive, and deeply trusting. Craniosacral work revolves around the cerebrospinal fluid and its flow, or lack thereof.
After I trained in these modalities, I felt deeply moved by the imagery that would come to me as I felt the body from this vantage point. I saw caverns and coral reefs in the body. It felt very oceanic. And then the pearl emerged.
The pearl came to me in so many beautiful layers. Its medicine is still very much with me. I wear pearls every day. I even sleep in them. Their energy feels very protective, comforting, and divinely radiant. But what they signify for me is the reward from the depths I’ve dove into.
Recently, I was reflecting on this with a girlfriend I’ve known for over 20 years. She reminded me that I’ve always been a rebellious risk-taker—willing to leap into the unknown. Willing to get messy and bruised in search of the truth. Willing to stay on the edge—where the cutting edge resides. Where discovery lives. As a pioneer and trailblazer, this excites me. It’s what I feel I was made for. And for that, there are challenges, pains, and rewards.
The leap I am in the midst of as I write this feels like one I’ve been preparing for over the last decade. It is the most important leap thus far because it is the most personal. It is the one that relies on my full and unflinching faith in myself. And it’s funny, because it’s the exact leap I feel I am here to midwife others into. So of course, I would have to go first.
The energy of depth has been consistent over the past year in preparation—through grounding, through initiation. Of course, the soul knows the way home when we listen and align with it.
The feminine womb is surely a salty one. Though I feel myself to be an earthy Virgo soul, I lived on the upper left edge of Oregon’s coastline throughout my twenties, and the sea has become a home I return to. I visit my father who lives there, and I have a community I consider family who receives me with warm, loving arms every time I return.
I was once asked what place on this planet I love more than any other. I answered: Arcadia Beach. There’s a cliffside there I call my “conception point.” I feel like I’m back in the Mother’s womb when I am there. It is a portal that reminds me I am a child of the Mother, of the Earth. As I age, I see how all these dots are connecting. I couldn’t have known how important each element would be until later—like the last pieces of a puzzle that suddenly come together to reveal the full image.
The deeper we invest in and commit to what lives at the center of us—the Truth of who we uniquely are, that thing no one can certify or validate—the more free we become. The wind comes into our sail. I am experiencing that now in my life. I am in the unknown, yet somehow it is also known—because it is my territory.
Someone may say you’re crazy for wanting the thing you do—maybe because no one has done it before, or because it scares them to want it. But that’s because it’s not theirs to want. It’s yours. And it is sacred. It requires patience and utmost trust in its becoming. There is a longing that draws you toward it. There are no guarantees as to how it will feel to arrive, or what it will require of you.
Perhaps it’s like bringing a child into the world: so many unknowns, so many fears that can arise. A sense of powerlessness. A surrender of control. The wild unknown.
And yet, we can learn to surf the waves of this unique thing that wishes to be born through us. We can live a safe life on the surface—pushing and pulling to make things happen, which may or may not feel satisfying in fits and spurts. Or we can let go into something miraculous—beyond the mind and manipulation. Life can be lived as art. But the spectrum of emotional experience becomes limited by the range of what we think is safe—which, from a distance, may look more like a straitjacket than a comfort.
We don’t know what we don’t know. And we are not shown much range in the mainstream of our culture. We chase an eternal summer, avoiding the depths of winter—the quietude and personal stillness it invites. Or we can have the courage to dive deeper, to potentially uncover abundant rewards and a resilient peace. When you become the ocean, the waves don’t rock you as much.
Reorienting in this way is the purpose of the service I feel wholeheartedly devoted to.