On this current healing journey (post head-on collision with the only sustaining injury being my right hand), I’ve been asked several times:
What have you learned during this process?
What does it mean to heal your hands?—
The hands that channel healing.
The hands that are the foundation of your practice.
The hands that also need time to rest.
I started to contemplate what it really means to let the dominant side rest. And when I did, I felt this immense shift in my mental processing. It was like an inner awareness woke up—a knowing that my “doing” side, my masculine side, my dominant side, my right side—was being invited into its yin phase.
Ready to soften.
To do less.
To retract.
To dismantle the need to fix things.
I noticed how tightly I tend to hold onto my need to solve problems. How urgent it can feel. But then something in my body shifted—I began to move my body in a way that felt organic, almost involuntary. A somatic unraveling. An intimate dance. My body knew it was time to release this program, this pattern that says the masculine must always be the one doing, carrying, and holding strong.
I had to release the belief that softness is not an option.
And in that moment, it felt like my feminine finally stepped forward—offering a deeper understanding:
That balance is not just a concept—it’s a necessity.
That sometimes the feminine takes over and leads.
Sometimes she becomes the dominant hand.
To feed you.
To care for you.
To mend you.
Even as my mind insists my right side is capable—ready to return to its normal rhythm—my body tells another story.
Numbness.
Weakness.
Exhaustion.
Pain.
A message: There is no more space to hold everything alone.
This injury is teaching me about cooperation. About interdependence. About co-creation. About the sacred balance that occurs when one hand is down—and the other steps in to support.
And so, this injury is also teaching me about relationships.
How people have shown up to care for me in this time—and my profound resistance in receiving. Feeling as if I was a burden, and yet holding deep gratitude to those friends who insisted I was worth caring for. Those same friends who have gone above and beyond to care for me despite what is going on in their own lives. To remind me that it’s okay to rest. That a pause is merely an invitation for transformation. That there will always be a soft place to land.
I found myself wondering: Do I show up for others in the same way?
Can I? Do I even have the capacity to do so?
This right hand injury is teaching me what compassion really looks like.
It’s also illuminating the shadows—those beliefs buried in shame and guilt.
The ones that tell me I shouldn’t need rest.
That I should be healing quicker.
That I’m weak for returning to my creature comforts.
That healing must look a certain way.
But what if this retreat into comfort—into the soft and familiar—is exactly what’s needed for healing?
Not to shrink, but to expand.
And not with shame.
Not with guilt.
Not with self-judgment.
But with reverence.
And as I reflect on this experience through the lens of the world around me, I can’t help but notice the parallels.
We are living through a time when the dominant hand of the world—its masculine-coded systems of power, productivity, extraction, and control—is faltering. Cracking. Growing numb with overuse. Burnt out from centuries of imbalance.
What we’re witnessing on a global scale is a body too long in overdrive. Whether through ecological collapse, war, collective burnout, or social fragmentation, we are witnessing a world that can no longer hold everything alone.
Just like my own right hand, the world is asking for help. For pause. For recalibration.
And in that pause, something ancient begins to stir.
A memory of balance.
A return to the feminine current: quiet, relational, circular, receptive.
We see it in grassroots healing spaces, in mutual aid, in the way communities are reorganizing themselves around care rather than consumption. In the rise of somatic practice. In the way people are redefining strength—not as endurance at all costs, but as the capacity to feel and receive.
What if this isn’t just a breakdown, but a sacred rebalancing?
What if, like my body, the Earth is asking: Please, let the other hand rise.
To hold the world differently.
To listen.
To mend.
To remember that healing is not a solo task, but a communal unfolding.
So here I am… softened, slower, still healing. Letting my body re-teach me what the world is also remembering.
That real strength includes the willingness to be held.
That rest is not a failure—it is a bridge.
And that in the stillness, we begin to dream a new rhythm into being.
So when people ask about my healing process, all I can truly say is that this right hand injury has only just begun to unfold it’s lessons.
It’s teaching me that to truly rest is to let go of the inner struggle.
To soften self-judgment and give yourself full permission to experience exactly what is here right now.
That an unexpected pause can be fertile ground.
That I am still deeply human.
Still allowed to love what makes me feel safe and warm and alive.
Still held in spirit.
Still connected to the Divine.
And that balance—true balance—means honoring both.
