I’ve been quiet lately — not because there’s nothing to say, but because I’m learning to speak from a different place.
On June 17th, I was in a head-on collision that caused whiplash, significant neck pain, deep seatbelt bruising, and — most devastatingly — an injury to my right hand. The very hand I’ve used to serve thousands of bodies, to adjust spines, place needles, offer Reiki, create healing sounds, and to hold sacred space in ceremony. The right hand is action-oriented. It’s the doing hand. The practitioner’s hand.
And now, it’s the one asking me to stop.
I was offered prescription medications to help manage the pain. But something inside me said no. Not out of stubbornness or pride, but because I could feel there was something in the sensation itself I needed to hear.
Because pain, as uncomfortable and inconvenient as it is, is also communication — a messenger from the body saying: stop, tend, listen. And when we listen without rushing to silence it, something remarkable begins to unfold. A deeper dialogue opens. One that speaks not only to the tissues and tendons, but to the spirit inside them.
So I’ve been sitting in sacred ceremony with the pain.
Letting it speak.
Letting it slow me.
Letting it teach me.
In my listening, I’ve been allowing my body to rest — often napping multiple times throughout the day. I’ve also increased my nutritional support with clean protein, grass-fed collagen, liposomal vitamin C, iron, and a prenatal multivitamin. In addition, I’ve started drinking more hydrogen water, using arnica gel on my bruises, sitting in reflective meditation in my backyard with ceremonial cacao, and taking gentle evening walks through my neighborhood. And of course, I’ve been receiving gentle chiropractic care and laser treatments to engage my nervous system and to help amplify the body’s natural healing cascade.
What I know is this: The aches in my muscles, the pooling of blood within the bruising, the fire of inflammation in my hand — they are not just symptoms of an injury — they’re there for protection. It’s the body’s way of creating sacred space. A biological boundary that says: “Nothing enters here. This space is for healing only. You are not meant to move forward just yet.”
And I’ve come to trust it — not just as a chiropractor, not just as a healer — but as a human being who is learning, once again, that the body knows.
Despite that trust, there’s a particular kind of heartbreak that arises when the thing you use to give is the thing that gets taken offline. As a solo practitioner, as a chiropractor (from the Greek meaning “to practice with hands”), this rupture goes far beyond the physical.
It touches the core of my identity, my work, my daily rhythms, and my purpose.
Pending further review for a possible scaphoid fracture, I’ve had to cancel everything — appointments, collaborations, plans. I’ve had to slow down, ask for help, and sit in the stillness.
But the stillness isn’t empty. It’s potent. It’s revealing. And it’s uncomfortable in all the ways growth often is.
What This Pause Is Teaching Me
This isn’t just a physical injury. It’s a spiritual initiation.
I can feel it in the way my nervous system is finally exhaling.
In the way grief and gratitude are walking hand-in-hand.
In the space that’s opened up — space I didn’t even know I needed.
I’ve been guided to reflect on some tender, soul-level questions:
- What if this moment isn’t a setback, but a redirection?
- What if my voice, my presence, my energy — not just my hands — are just as powerful tools for healing?
- What if the version of me that emerges from this is more aligned than ever before?
I don’t have the answers yet. But I’m sitting with the questions, day by day. Breath by breath.
On Being a Healer in Healing
There’s a pressure in our culture — especially as practitioners — to always be okay. To be the one who holds it all together. To keep showing up no matter what.
I’ve lived that story. I’ve embodied it. I’ve prided myself on being grounded, capable, and consistently available for others.
But now I’m learning to receive.
To let myself be held.
To allow this body to unravel, rebuild, and rewrite its own wisdom.
I don’t know exactly how long I’ll be in this pause. And maybe that’s the medicine too — releasing control, letting go of timelines, and unraveling the illusion that our worth is measured by our productivity..
What I do know is that this time is sacred.
And I feel called to write from within it — not just after I’m “better,” but while I’m still in the raw, liminal space of healing. Because healing isn’t linear. It’s circular, spiraling, and profoundly humbling.
A Birthday in the Pause
July is also my birthday month — which will be a quieter milestone this year.
I won’t be celebrating with big gatherings or loud joy, but rather with reverence. With reflection. With deep breaths and slow mornings. There will be gratitude — for breath, for life, for this body that is working so hard to heal. With the soft medicine of knowing that every year we’re gifted on this Earth is a chance to listen more deeply, love more fully, and realign with what truly matters.
If you feel called to share a birthday wish, a prayer, or simply a moment of presence — I welcome it with an open heart. More than anything, I’m grateful to be here. To be healing. To be held by this community.
Here’s to another turn around the Sun — even if this one looks a little different. 🌞
An Invitation to Breathe With Me
If you are also in a season of pause, transition, grief, or transformation — I see you.
May we remember:
- Rest is not laziness. It is listening.
- Slowness is not weakness. It is wisdom.
- Surrender is not giving up. It is giving in — to something deeper.
This is not the content I planned to be writing this summer. But maybe it’s the message that wants to come through. Maybe this chapter isn’t about returning to what was, but becoming something new entirely.
Thank you for being here — whether you’re a client, a friend, or simply a kindred soul walking your own sacred path.
And a very special thank you — from the depths of my heart — to everyone who has stopped by to check on me, offered rides to my appointments, brought nourishing meals, delivered thoughtful gifts, sent words of encouragement, offered distant Reiki, or whispered a prayer on my behalf.
I feel your love. I feel your support.
Not just around me, but within me — woven into my healing.
For the first time in my life, I can truly say: I trust that I am held.
And that knowing is its own kind of medicine.
If anything in this post resonated, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. What are you learning in your own sacred pause?
With tenderness and truth (written mostly with one hand and voice-to-text),
Dr. Charlotte
🌿 Between Realms