I only got home the night before last, after taking these past days to be with my family. There is grief, of course, there always will be. But the signs and messages I have been receiving have helped me more than I expected, and I know I need to start sharing them here.

My father left us last week. Yesterday, after being off social media for ages, I recorded a video without overthinking it, talking about the comfort I have found in the signs and messages. It was the first time I have let myself be that open in public.

Right after I filmed my video, Katie chased me down. She had heard the news about my dad and gave me a giant hug. I thanked her and told her I miss him so much, and that I also feel lucky to have had him as long as I did. He had been living on borrowed time for a while. And the thing I am most grateful for are the messages and the signs I keep getting.

She was listening, but skeptical.

As if on cue, a pure white feather appeared on the ground in front of us. We were standing under the corridor of my building. I bent down and picked it up. “This is pretty cliche,” I said, “and it surprises me that my dad would send a feather, but here it is.” We only have pigeons and black geese in my NYC neighborhood, no white birds. It stuck out against the brick sidewalk, there was no way to miss it.

Katie said, “Well, it could be from a summer camp art project or something.”

“Of course it could be,” I said. “But it appeared right here, in front of us, while I was telling you about signs.”

To me, how it got there has nothing to do with it. It was there, at that exact moment, and I noticed it. That is what a sign is. Not something that arrives with proof attached, but something that shows up right when you are open enough to catch it.

I will be sharing more of these here. If you have had a moment like that, a feather, a song, a smell, something that appeared right when you needed it, I would love to hear about it

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This morning I was working with a client who had groin pain. I knew immediately where it was coming from - I always do. That is the part of this work that still surprises me after all these years, my ability to sense where pain originates in the body before my hands even get there. But knowing isn’t the same as helping. I learned that the hard way.

The old version of me would have gone straight to the source. I would have bypassed where she felt it, skipped past her description of it, and moved directly to the place I already knew was causing the pain. And I would have been right. But it wouldn’t have mattered.

Instead, I had her show me exactly where she felt the pain. I asked her to describe it, and we talked about the different movements during the day that make it worse. I listened hard. I asked more questions. I nodded and I empathized. And only then, once she had been fully heard, did I move to the area I sensed from the beginning. I asked if she felt anything there. Of course she did, it was completely stuck. And when I worked on it, even though it was tender and a little painful, she allowed it. She always trusts me, but there’s a difference between conscious trust and body trust. Now we had both - because I was a star listener.

Believe it or not, that sequence - hear first, help second - took me years to learn.

I realize now that I always used to lead with what I knew. I had the solution and I was excited to share it. I’ve started calling it the premature reveal reflex - that impulse to jump to the right answer before the person in front of you is ready to receive it. The answer might be accurate, but the timing is off. And the right answer delivered to someone who doesn’t feel heard lands about as well as advice nobody asked for.

This isn’t only true in bodywork.

Think about having a disagreement with someone where you were both absolutely certain you were right. If you kept pushing your position - even if it was the correct one - they couldn’t hear you. But if you stopped and actually listened to their side first, something would probably shift. Your own stance would soften. And once a person has been heard, they become capable of receiving what you have to say in a way they just were not before.

The body works exactly the same way. It won’t receive what you are offering until it feels met. Listening isn’t the warm-up before the real work. It is the real work.

My client left this morning feeling so much better. Not because of my ability to decode where pain comes from. But because I waited until she was ready for the reveal.

If you want to go deeper into how your body holds what hasn’t been heard - that’s one of the things we explore in the Inner Circle.

Read more

I was telling a good friend about someone I had been very close to - someone who had passed. We were deep in conversation as we got into her car, and the moment the engine turned on, a Styx song from the 80s began to play. Not one of their big hits - a more random one. It was his song. It had always been his song.

I burst into tears, because I knew he was there.

You can call that coincidence. You can call it the algorithm, the radio, random chance, and I completely understand that. I just don’t see it that way.

Synchronicities have always been happening. That is the thing most people miss. We are not experiencing more of them than previous generations did. We are simply, slowly, and imperfectly starting to pay attention.

The tap on the shoulder has always been there. We have just been too busy to feel it.

Just this morning I went to find a friend’s name in my texts so I could reply to a question she had asked three days ago. At the exact moment I searched for her name, a new text came in from her. This kind of thing happens constantly, and I do not think it is an accident.

Something is shifting in how people relate to intuition, to energy, to the things that cannot quite be explained. You feel it. Your friends feel it. Even the skeptics in your life have a story they tell, usually after a glass of wine, about something they could not explain away.

We are waking up, not in a trend or a moment, but in a slow collective turning. And what is working against us is the sheer volume of collective noise. The information, the anxiety, the outrage, the constant barrage of other people’s urgency - it does not stay on our screens. It filters into our energy field even when we make a conscious effort to stay away from it. The collective energy right now is chaotic, and that chaos drowns out the signal.

Even a few moments every day of consciously stopping and breathing opens us up to receive so much more.

Every morning I meditate, and lately when I catch my mind drifting into planning mode, I remind myself: you are in the 3D, get out of the 3D. And when I give myself that reminder, I almost feel myself leaving my physical body and going somewhere else - somewhere much lighter and brighter, full of wonder and possibility.

Sometimes I cannot get out of the 3D, and that is okay too. I am human, after all. But I do notice the difference on the days that I cannot. I am just a little more irritable, a little more overwhelmed by everything on my list.

The days I can get there, even briefly, are different. I am not suggesting a wellness routine. I am suggesting an experiment. Try it and see what shows up.

P.S. the other night my friend and I were watching Game 1 of the NBA Championship Series, and every time we got up to go to the kitchen, the San Antonio Spurs started gaining on the NY Knicks. We sat back down and the Knicks started winning. My friend was tired and wanted to go home. Sadly, I could not allow it. To all the New York Knicks fans who read this - you’re welcome.

My husband read an article in the Times magazine this weekend about the interstitium - a fluid-filled network of connective tissue woven through the entire body, surrounding organs, carrying information. The piece treated it as a significant new discovery.

He looked up and said, “Isn’t this what you’ve been telling me about for years?”

I needed that to sink in.

I first learned about the interstitium around 2006 when I first trained in MELT. It was one of the earliest methods to work directly with the body’s connective tissue and fluid system, and for me, it was the first time I learned the language for what I had been sensing in my work for years. So when the Times calls this a new discovery in 2026, I’m perplexed. I guess it’s a good thing when science refines itself, and really, why should I care if they’re calling it new, if it means more people will pay attention. I think it’s cool that something I’ve known about for over 20 years is being explained in the New York Times, even if some of the details around the discovery are a little off.

Connective tissue and the body’s fluid intelligence is not everyone’s jam. Even when I mention it over and over, it doesn’t always register. I’m thrilled if a New York Times article actually gets through in a different way.

The body works like that too. Something can be held in the body for years and years before the right moment arrives for it to finally let go.

That’s how my sessions have always worked.

The interstitium was always there. We needed new imaging technology to finally see it. What I work with has always been there too. My job is not to introduce something foreign. It’s to help create the conditions where what the body already knows can finally become visible.

But most importantly, my husband has actually heard what I’ve been saying all these years. Maybe my friends have too.

That would be awesome.

I Have a Confession to Make

I’m a lurker.

I follow accounts I never comment on. I read Substack articles that I really like but I rarely hit the like button. I’m in communities where I sometimes go through and look at the comments, but I rarely say anything. I have always been like this - with Instagram, Facebook, Substack, private groups, you name it.

And I know I’m not alone. In fact, I’m pretty sure many of you reading this right now are also lurkers.

Here’s how I know. I get emails from real people telling me that something I wrote really resonated, meant so much to them, or that I took what they were feeling and put it into words, and they are so grateful. These are not short emails. These are the kind of emails people take the time to write when something genuinely moved them.

And yet none of these wonderful emails were in addition to hearts or comments on the articles or posts themselves.

I’m not writing this to guilt anyone. I’m writing it because I find it genuinely fascinating, and because I operate the same way.

There’s a reason we lurk. Comment sections can be brutal. You go in to read something you loved and somehow it turns into an argument. People are unkind. Things get weird. And sometimes you just want to receive something without having to perform a reaction to it. You want to just sit with it. You want it to be yours for a minute before it becomes part of a conversation.

I get that. I really do.

So here we are on Substack, a place that genuinely feels like it was built for thought and depth and real ideas, but in fact it still runs on engagement signals just like everywhere else. The people who email me privately instead of leaving a comment are essentially keeping my work invisible to anyone who hasn’t already found me. I know this is not intentional, it’s just a by product of being a lurker. Trust me, I get it.

So this is me outing myself - not just as a confession, but as a kind of commitment. I want to stop doing myself the disservice of staying silent in spaces where people are doing work I actually value.

And if you’re reading this and you’re one of the people who emailed me, first of all, thank you. Those emails genuinely mean so much to me. But next time, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe tap the little heart. And if you’re feeling generous, drop those lovely sentiments in a comment. You have no idea how much that simple act ripples out.

We don’t have to completely stop being lurkers. But maybe, every once in a while, we let people know we’re here. And to my fellow lurkers who are feeling brave, come find me in the comments. No anti-lurker comments allowed. I see you. :)

Something strange is happening right now. Everything is becoming transactional. Faster, more automated, less human….even at the airport.

I got there early, which almost never happens, and went to the help kiosk to try to change my seat - middle seat, back of the plane. The price you pay for not wanting to pay more for the seat than the flight itself.

The man managing the line was cutting people off before they could even finish their sentence. When I got to the front, I said I needed to talk to someone about my seat. “You’re going to have to pay,” he said. I told him I understood. He let me through. That alone felt like something.

But when I got to the desk, the energy shifted again. The woman behind the counter had this particular kind of guardedness, not rude exactly, just closed - already braced for whatever I was about to ask. She was typing, barely looking up, and I could feel the story already forming in her body: Here we go. Another person who thinks they’re the exception.

I stood there for a second and just felt it. We think we’re dealing with systems, but we’re always dealing with nervous systems. And hers was already contracted.

So I didn’t push. I didn’t explain or try to justify why I deserved a better seat. I just shifted. Without thinking about it, I asked her how long she’d been working there. “Eight years,” she said. Still typing. Then I said, “Can I ask you something?” That made her pause. She looked up. Still guarded, but curious now. “Why don’t they give us those amazing blue potato chips anymore?”

It was so random I almost laughed saying it. But something changed immediately. Her whole body softened. “They were probably too expensive,” she said. “It’s always about money.” And just like that, we were in a different conversation. Not customer and employee, not request and resistance, just two people talking about something slightly ridiculous and oddly specific. I told her that used to be the whole reason I always chose JetBlue. She smiled. Actually smiled. And a few seconds later, she printed me a new boarding pass. Aisle seat, toward the front of the plane. And on a completely full flight, the seat next to me was the one empty seat on the plane. I didn’t plan that. I didn’t ask for it. It was just a gift.

I didn’t argue for it. I didn’t convince her of anything. I didn’t do anything strategic at all. But something shifted, and I’ve been thinking about it since.

Because we talk a lot about energy, about frequency, about flow. But this is what it actually looks like. Not when everything is calm and aligned and easy, but in the middle of a system that’s set up to be rigid. Kindness isn’t just a personality trait. It’s a frequency, and most people are starving for it without even knowing it.

Her nervous system wasn’t responding to my words. It was responding to the shift. To being seen as a person instead of a function. To one moment that wasn’t asking anything from her. And that’s what keeps coming back to me. Because nothing about that interaction made logical sense. There was no reason for her to change my seat, no policy supporting it. If anything, the whole system was designed to prevent exactly that. But systems don’t make decisions. People do. And people are constantly reading the energy in front of them, in the body, before the mind has a chance to explain it. That’s not philosophy. That’s just physiology.

So when we talk about frequency, it’s not abstract. It’s this. The moment something softens, where the interaction stops being mechanical and turns human again, where things start moving that weren’t moving before. I walked away with a better seat, but honestly that’s not what stayed with me. It was how fast everything changed when the energy changed. Like the whole thing was a locked door, and kindness was the one thing that didn’t try to force it open. It just made the door realize it wasn’t locked anymore.

And I keep thinking about how often we forget that. How often we push, explain, prove, justify, when sometimes the real shift happens somewhere else entirely. Not through effort. Through frequency.

I’ve always been so intrigued by the moon. Sometimes the sight of it actually stops me. I’ll be walking, doing nothing special, and then… there it is, and I just stand there for a minute.

As a city girl, I don’t get the stars, the ocean, or that fresh mountain air on a regular basis. But the moon is always there. It’s the one piece of nature I don’t have to go looking for. I am fortunate enough to get to travel and take in all the other parts too, but the moon is my constant. It follows me no matter where I am.

I can stare at it for a long time. I feel like it’s speaking to me, thanking me for being present in that moment, and acknowledging the energy. And I really pause and feel it. Until I just can’t help it and I have to take a picture. I want to remember this particular moon on this particular night, or day.

And I post it on Instagram, partly because it’s been the only thing I’m actually excited about posting. Not because it’s a strategy. If anything, it’s probably the opposite. I’m not teaching, I’m not sending a specific message. I just see the moon, I feel something magical, I take the photo, and I share it. And now I have a record of my moon stories, which I love.

And that alone has been interesting to notice, because I am curious about it. In my Moon Stories, I’ll usually mention what sign the moon is in, and many times, what gate it’s passing through. I don’t know those things off the top of my head, but I am curious, so I look them up. Then I read about the zodiac sign the moon is in, and the gate it’s moving through in the Human Design transit. And I learn.

Sometimes it really resonates. Sometimes it feels almost a little too accurate. And other times, it doesn’t land much at all. And I learn then too. There’s no forcing it to fit. No trying to make my experience match what I’m reading. And I think that’s part of what keeps my attention.

There isn’t one way for anything to land. There isn’t one perfect interpretation. Or at least no singular perfection. There are patterns, there are themes, there are shared experiences, but none of that overrides what I’m actually feeling. My perception is mine alone. And that’s what makes it meaningful. That’s what makes it special.

The more I’ve been noticing that, the more I’ve been thinking about how I work. Because it’s the same thing in the body. There are guidelines. There are systems. There are things we know to look for. But no two people experience anything the exact same way.

Pain shows up differently. Patterns show up differently. Even the same issue can feel completely different from one person to the next. The body is always communicating, but it doesn’t follow a script. It speaks through sensation, tension, breath, and movement, and it is constantly adapting to what we experience.

If I try to force someone into a framework, I lose what is actually happening in front of me. So I don’t. I pay attention to what is, not what something is supposed to be.

Maybe that’s part of why the moon pulls me the way it does. Not just because it’s beautiful. Not just because it’s constant. It invites my curiosity, but it also leaves room for my own experience. I can look at it, read about it, follow its cycles, and still feel something completely different from what I expected. And nothing about that feels wrong.

We’re so used to looking for the right interpretation. The right answer. The version that fits. But there’s something about letting yourself notice what is actually true for you in that moment, without needing it to match anything outside of you. Not what it’s supposed to mean. Just what it feels like.

I don’t need to fully understand why the moon pulls me the way it does. I just know it does. And that has been enough to make me stop, look up, and stay there for a while.

I was teaching a class recently, and when I asked where people needed support in their bodies, I heard shoulder, knee, low back, rib cage, shin, neck. They all expected the same thing. They wanted me to tell them which movement to do for each body part that was giving them trouble.

I get it. That’s what’s out there. Your shoulder hurts, do this. Knee pain, try this. Tight hips, this is the only way to release them. And I’m not above it. I’ve given those kinds of quick solutions too. Sometimes they help. But they are never the whole story.

These pains represent patterns, and not just physical patterns.

When we listen more closely, it’s never only about the body. There may be a relationship with some tension, work that’s super stressful, the constant bombardment of news and divisiveness. Our bodies are overwhelmed, and most of it never gets acknowledged, so it finds a place to go. A neck, a shoulder, a knee, a low back. And the pain is real - I’m not saying otherwise.

I see it in my hands-on work too. I have a client, she’s 95, and she’ll say, mamale, can you fix my ankle… it’s stuck. But I can feel right away, even though it’s the ankle she feels, the ankle is not the source.

She spends her days listening to the news. She takes it all in. She feels everything in her body. She cries for the people she hears about all over the world. Their tragedies are her tragedies. And I tell her, it’s the news you’re feeling in your ankle. Please take a break from the news. But nothing changes. God bless her, she’s 95.

So I start with the ankle. And there’s always something there. The body is never wrong about what it’s feeling. But as it starts to release, something else grabs. The other ankle, the knee, sometimes even the shoulder. The fascia is communicating, and everything is connected, and I’ll talk more about that in another article.

It’s hard to explain, but once you feel it, you can’t unfeel it. The stuck ankle is the symptom. The place it hurts isn’t always the source.

Without that awareness, you keep going back to the same spot, trying to fix it, stretch it, figure it out, while your body is pointing somewhere else.

What I’ve come to see over time is that the body is incredibly efficient. It will do whatever it needs to do to keep you moving, even if that means compensating in ways that don’t make sense at first. It starts out small, then another area picks up the slack, then another. Eventually there is one place carrying the most load, and that’s what we feel, so that’s what we focus on.

But there’s a difference between where we feel it and where it started, and that’s the important part.

Because when you start chasing symptoms, you can spend a lot of time working really hard on your body without actually getting anywhere. You get relief, sometimes a lot of it, and then something else appears, or it comes back, or it moves.

It’s not that your body is unpredictable, it’s actually being very consistent. We just need to learn the language our bodies are speaking.

So the question is not where does it hurt the most, but where did it start.

Was it something physical that happened - a movement pattern, a fall, a compensation? And even when it is something physical, it’s usually not just physical. Something led up to it.

An argument with your spouse, feeling taken for granted at work, financial trouble… we all have stress. As you read this, which stressor of yours came to mind?

Sometimes just acknowledging that allows the pain or tightness to ease. I know it sounds crazy. But try it.

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Broadway has become one of my most reliable tools.

I am so grateful for all of the amazing tools I have. I really am. I’ve spent decades learning how to work with the body, how to listen, how to regulate my nervous system, how to stay grounded even when a lot is coming at me. And I do use those tools every day. Movement, fascia work, slowing things down, paying attention, meditation, gratitude… it’s just part of how I live now.

But there are moments - and lately there have been A LOT of them, where life starts pulling at me from different directions. And even when I know how to protect my energy, I still feel it. I still absorb things. I still need somewhere for it all to go.

And for me, when I really need to reset, I go to the theater.

I know I’m lucky. I live in New York City, where there are endless options, and as a long-time New Yorker, I know how to find the cheap tickets. I also have friends in the theater world who often invite me (I know, I’m very spoiled :) , and I get to step into that space more often than most people can. I do not take that for granted.

There’s something about sitting in a dark room, knowing I don’t have to be anywhere else, my phone turned off, not thinking about what needs to be done. Just being there. And then the lights go down, and I’m not in my world anymore.

I’m someplace else. I’m part of the story. I’m invested. I’m laughing, I’m crying. I’m completely in it.

And at the same time, I’m watching everything. The actors, the direction, the set, the lights, the sound. I’m fascinated by all of it. The detail, the intention, the way it all comes together and somehow lands in my body without anyone explaining it.

At some point, usually within the first 20 minutes, I can feel my system shift without me trying to make it shift.

My body softens. My breathing changes. Emotion moves through me without me needing to name it or understand it. I don’t have to fix anything. I don’t have to figure anything out. I just get to be inside the experience.

And when it’s over, I come back to my life a little different. More settled. More open. More like myself again.

I believe deeply in the work I do. I rely on it. It’s the foundation for me.

And I also know there isn’t only one way to come back to myself.

Sometimes it’s moving my body with intention. Sometimes it’s sitting quietly in meditation or journaling. And sometimes it’s going somewhere that takes me completely out of my own world for a little while and letting that do what it does.

For me, that place is the theater.

Part of this whole process is learning to recognize what your version of that is when you need it.

It’s different for all of us.

After more than forty years working in health and wellness, people sometimes assume that if someone has pain or a limitation, I must have a way to help them. But one of the things you learn after decades of working with the body is that help only works when someone is open to receiving it. And sometimes the hardest people to help are the ones closest to you.

My father is a good example.

Years ago he developed drop foot from a cervical spine issue, and eventually had surgery. The surgery itself was considered very successful. Afterward the surgeon told him that the condition would likely not get worse, but that it would never improve.

My dad accepted that as fact.

Whenever I visit, I often spend time working with his feet. Anyone who works with fascia knows how responsive the feet can be. When the tissue starts to wake up, small changes can happen surprisingly quickly.

After I work on him, I’ll have him stand up and walk. Every single time he feels the difference right away. He’ll say something like, wow, that does feel much better.

And yet the belief that nothing can improve is still there in the background. In his mind, the only way it could possibly improve would be if I were there every day working on him.

What he doesn’t see is that the change is happening in his own body.

It took me a long time to understand something that now seems obvious.

Healing doesn’t begin with a technique. It begins with openness.

The body is far more adaptable than most people realize. Fascia changes. Nerves adapt. Movement patterns can shift even after many years. But when someone has deeply accepted the idea that nothing will change, the body usually responds accordingly.

The body listens to what we do, to what we say, and to what we believe about what is possible.

Over the years I’ve noticed that the people who experience the most meaningful shifts are rarely the ones searching for the perfect method. They’re the ones who stay curious. They leave a small opening that says maybe something could change.

Sometimes that small opening is enough for the body to begin responding in ways we didn’t expect.

I came up in the Jane Fonda era, teaching high-impact aerobics classes in 1980’s health clubs on cement floors covered with a thin layer of carpet. I started in high school and continued through college. Back then we did not talk about listening to the body. We talked about pushing harder, pushing through, pushing past pain. And I did exactly that until my body finally said, “Stop.”

By the time I was nineteen, the pain had become impossible to ignore. I could barely get in and out of a car. I was young, active, and doing everything I believed I was supposed to do, yet my body was clearly telling a different story.

Around that time I moved to New York City. At the time it simply felt like the next step in my life, but looking back now I can see that I was stepping onto a healing path that would shape the rest of my life. I stepped away from high-impact movement and began listening to my own body for the first time.

In New York City I discovered healing practices that had never been part of my world before. This was long before the internet, but there was an underground network of healers and bodyworkers that was remarkable. Somehow I kept being guided to the right people and the right approaches. Looking back, it felt like being led home to something I did not even know I had been searching for.

As my body began to heal, I eventually returned to teaching movement, but in a completely different way. I studied Pilates before it was widely known, learning from direct disciples of Joseph Pilates. At the time I was not thinking about building a career or developing a method. I was simply following what felt right for my own body.

Eventually people began asking to work with me one-on-one. Personal training did not really exist yet, and there were no clear certifications or pathways. When clients described pain or limitations, something unexpected happened. I often knew how to help. Not because I had learned it anywhere, but because my intuition guided me. I listened with my hands, my attention, and my body. Only later would I find systems or modalities that explained what I was sensing.

That path eventually led me into decades of studying fascia, energy work, movement science, and the emotional patterns held in the body. But those came later. What came first was trust - trust in intuition, trust in the body’s intelligence, and trust that something deeper was always communicating.

Over the years I have seen the same pattern again and again. Pain is rarely just physical. It reflects stress, life experiences, emotional patterns, and the environments we live in. Healing does not come from fixing symptoms. It begins when we learn how to listen.

Today I work with people who have often spent years on their own healing journeys. Many of them are in the middle of life transitions, leaving behind roles, careers, or identities that no longer fit. They may come seeking support, but what I often see is something deeper. They are standing at the edge of their next chapter.

My role is not to heal them. It is to help them reconnect with the wisdom that has always been inside their own body.

What I have learned over the years is this. Intuition does not always arrive as a clear thought. Often it begins as a sensation in the body - a place that tightens, softens, or quietly draws our attention before we understand why.

The body is often the first place intuition speaks. Learning to listen to it can change everything.