We take in our world and experiences with all of our senses, to create stories of who we were, who are are, and who we will be.

It is these mental images, sounds, sensations, and stories that shape your reality. I work with you to help you “see, hear, smell, taste, feel, and know” the stories in your subconscious mind. In doing so, you can have a more harmonious relationship with yourself, heal wounds, problem-solve, and deliberately decide the path of your future. You can grow more resourceful and stronger, focused and balanced.

Here are examples of the works of my clients. To protect their identity and maintain the sacred confidentiality in therapy, these examples remain anonymous. Depending on what each client’s main sensory preferences are, we may incorporate drawings and/or music and/or poetry/writing and/or meditation and other sensory forms into our work together.

Talking to the Blob (Anxiety):

“Dude, I get you. You’re ancient, you’re primal, I’ve inherited you from ancestors that go all the way back to Uncle Blob who squirted out of the primordial ooze. And go ahead, make the argument that you protect me, that you inspire me sometimes in my creative work, that I enjoy watching horror movies so what’s the big deal. But listen, you’re way to full of yourself. Do you really think I don’t know you well enough that you need to shove your way to the front of my consciousness every day? Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have you around sometimes, to make me worry about my kids using cell phones when they cross the street, to send me to the dermatologist when a mole or something doesn’t look quite right. But you’re such an idiot too, like when I run knife ridges, climb hand over hand up exposed cliffs, or scoot to the edge of a mountain 4000 feet in the air. People think I’m nuts when I do that, but you’re hardly there because somehow it’s how I put me in control. Instead, you find the most ridiculous moments to trap me where I don’t have that control, like when you manifest as heart palpitations in committee meetings, as worry when there’s nothing to worry about, as nervous squirming and sweating in misery during haircuts, as me fleeing social or career events because oh my god it’s really getting crowded in here and look, run, before that person there I admire thinks I’m a fool. Even getting a massage brings you out, screaming at me to run away just because I have to lie so still. So it’s you I think, not me, who has this shitty anxiety disorder. Me, I’m fine, I’m happy, ready to seize the day—but no, I gotta keep an eye out for all your silly traps, numb your power with pills I’d rather not take, avoid doing things I might otherwise survive easily enough, or even thrive doing, without thinking I’m losing the ability to breath. I’ll admit though, it’s nice to sit in an aisle seat near the front of a plane when I fly—gets me off and on my way in a jiff. I like that in meetings I have no patience for tangents and can keep people on the agenda. I like that anxiety prevents me from suffering too long in situations I’d rather not be in, like last week when you kept me away from that guy who tried to corner me about investing in his business, but I’d like to do all that without you now. I don’t even want to think of you as a you, as some demon blob possessing me, as interesting as that might be. I’ll save that for some creative project, make you a blob that eats people with its giant eye, with its lashes as teeth, its iris a throat. You, in reality, you’re nothing but jumpy circuitry in my brain, faulty pumps squirting too much of one neurochemical or another, and I’ve had enough fishing reels and cars and boats and wired up things to know there’s always a different way to make things work, if only just for me.”