Chiron does not ask you to go back. It does not invite revisiting, reliving, or re-experiencing what happened. There is no return required. No threshold you must cross again. This sound does not reopen anything. You are not asked to touch what hurts. You are not asked to feel more. You are not asked to be brave, open, or willing.

Tibetan singing bowls produce long, sustained tones with gentle overtones. These sounds do not start and stop abruptly. They unfold. They linger. They fade slowly. This gradual movement can be easier for the nervous system to tolerate than sharp or unpredictable sound.

You do not need to sit still. You do not need to breathe differently. You do not need to feel relaxed. You may listen briefly. You may turn the sound off. You may leave the room entirely. The bowl does not follow you.

Calm waters mirror the vibrant hues of dawn as the sun rises over the tranquil lake, painting the sky and clouds in captivating shades of blue. This membership is not meant to persuade you. Before you join, I want to be clear about what this space offers—and what it does not—so you can decide without pressure, urgency, or self-negotiation. You are not late. Nothing here is scarce. You do not need to be ready. This Is Not a Program There is no start date. There is no sequence

I’ve opened a membership—not as a program, not as a promise, and not as a requirement to heal. This membership exists for one simple reason: to create a protected, quiet way to listen. Over time, I’ve learned that sound offered publicly, without containment, is often misunderstood, misused, or consumed too quickly. I’ve also learned that many people—especially those living with trauma, chronic stress, or nervous system overwhelm—need less instruction, not more.

A serene rest day unfolds with a vibrant sunset painting the sky over the tranquil ocean waves.

You don’t need to remember every moment. You don’t need to carry meaning forward. You don’t need to decide what this was.

Often, the most meaningful shifts happen later. In the way you pause before responding. In the way you notice your breath while standing in line. In the way your body recovers a little more quickly. These changes are subtle. They are easy to miss because they do not feel like events. They feel like capacity.

There is a point in many healing journeys where stopping feels wrong. Not because something is unsafe—but because leaving feels like failure. We are taught, often subtly, that healing requires endurance. That staying longer is better. That pushing through discomfort is progress. That stopping means we didn’t try hard enough. Trauma-informed sound challenges this belief. You are allowed to stop.

Trust rarely arrives as certainty. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t feel like confidence. It doesn’t come with proof. More often, trust grows in places that are almost unnoticeable. In the moment you stay when you once would have left. In the breath that comes a little easier. In the choice to listen without bracing. Trust grows quietly. Many people believe trust should feel like safety all at once—a clear signal that the body has decided everything is okay

Many people arrive in healing spaces already apologizing. For how long it’s taking. For how little has changed. For still feeling the way they feel. There is often an unspoken timeline hovering in the background.

A serene meditation scene highlights the healing power of silence, offering refuge for the nervous system with calming candlelight and incense. In many healing spaces, silence is treated as something to fill. A pause that lasts too long. A gap that needs guidance. An emptiness waiting for meaning. But for some nervous systems, silence is not absence. It is refuge. Silence does not mean nothing is happening Silence can feel unfamiliar—especially if your system learned to stay

If you’re new here, you may be wondering what trauma-informed sound actually means. You may be curious, cautious, hopeful, skeptical—or simply tired. You may be drawn to sound but unsure if it will feel safe. You may have tried healing spaces before and left feeling unseen, overwhelmed, or like you didn’t belong. This orientation is not here to convince you of anything.

People often ask what is supposed to happen during sound healing. They want to know what they should feel. They want to know if they’re doing it right. They want to know how they’ll know it’s working. These questions make sense. Many of us have learned that healing looks a certain way—calm, emotional release, insight, lightness, peace. But trauma-informed sound begins with a quieter truth:

If you’re here, you may be curious about sound healing—but unsure if it’s for you. You may be living with trauma, grief, exhaustion, or a nervous system that doesn’t easily settle. You may have tried meditation, breathwork, or sound before and felt like it didn’t work—or didn’t feel safe. This space is different. There is no right way to be here. There is nothing you need to fix. You are welcome exactly as you are.

I am a First-Degree Nia Black Belt  and a Sound Alchemist , but that was not always a comfortable truth to live inside of. When I first walked into a Nia class and later into Nia training, I carried something many people could not see: a deep fear of using my voice.

Even when these expectations are offered gently, they are still expectations. And for many people—especially those with trauma histories—expectations can feel like pressure. Trauma-informed sound healing begins with a different premise: Nothing is required of you.

If sound healing has ever made you feel restless, emotional, numb, irritated, or even resistant, nothing has gone wrong. Your body isn’t failing. Your nervous system isn’t broken. It may be doing exactly what it needs to do. Trauma-informed sound work begins with a different assumption than most wellness culture: healing does not require relaxation. Healing requires safety, consent, and honest presence—sometimes quiet, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes wordless.

We live in a culture obsessed with calm. Calm your mind. Regulate your nervous system. Breathe until everything feels better. For many people—especially those who have lived through trauma, grief, military service, chronic stress, or long-term overwhelm—this message quietly turns into another form of pressure. If calm were the doorway to healing, you would already be healed.

There are moments in sound work when nothing seems to happen. No waves of emotion. No visions. No release that announces itself. Just sound, breath, and the ordinary awareness of being in a body. These moments are often misunderstood. We’re conditioned to look for signs—proof that something is working. When nothing obvious occurs, it’s easy to assume the session failed, that the sound missed its mark, or that we somehow did it wrong.