There is nothing broken about you because relief hasn’t arrived. There is nothing incorrect about your body because support hasn’t landed. Sometimes the nervous system is simply tired of being worked on. This is not a failure. It is a condition of being human under prolonged strain.

This listening does not ask for togetherness to look a certain way. When the Sidereal Moon is heard in shared space, it does not ask people to synchronize—to feel the same thing, to settle at the same pace, or to arrive at a shared meaning. There is no emotional alignment required. Each body remains its own body. Each person keeps their own interior world.

The Sidereal Moon is measured against the fixed stars—points in the sky that do not shift in response to mood, memory, or circumstance. This matters. Many listening practices assume that sound should follow feeling, deepen it, or help move it along. The Sidereal Moon does not do this. It does not track emotional states or respond to internal shifts. It stays where it is. Your feelings may change while the sound remains steady. They may intensify, soften, or disa

This listening does not ask you to look inward. The Sidereal Moon is measured against the fixed stars. It is not concerned with what you are feeling, remembering, or processing. It does not invite emotional inventory or inner analysis. You are allowed to remain oriented outward. You may notice the room. The floor beneath you. The edges of the space. The simple fact of being here. Introspection is often framed as care.

The Sidereal Moon is not the Moon of mood, manifestation, or emotional cycles. It is the Moon measured against the fixed stars—steady, observational, unconcerned with what we feel or what we do next. This listening does not ask you to track phases. It does not ask you to notice emotion. It does not ask you to move with a rhythm. It allows time to widen.

Venus Gong — Post 8 (Closing)

In many sound spaces, staying is treated as success. Staying present. Staying through sensation. Staying until the end.

This album was composed with that in mind. The sound does not ask anything of you. It does not insist that you listen carefully, relax your muscles, slow your breath, or feel something specific. There is no arc, no rising action, no climactic resolution. There is only invitation—and that invitation is always optional.

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.

No matter how experienced a facilitator may be, they cannot feel what you feel. They cannot sense your edges. They cannot track your capacity. They cannot know what safety means inside your nervous system. Only you can. This is not a responsibility to perform well. It is a permission to decide.

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.

In many healing spaces, improvement is implied. Calmer. Lighter. More open. More regulated. Even gentle practices can carry the message that who you are now is a starting point—not a place to stay. For trauma-shaped nervous systems, this can feel like another place to fail.

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.