When I look back over the arc of my work with people — helping them make decisions about their health, offering guidance through various modalities — I see a steady thread: a desire to support, to listen, and to hold space without judgment. For years that work included techniques that involved physical contact. I believed in muscle testing, in kinesiology, because it felt like a language our bodies spoke when words were hard to find. But over time I grew uneasy. Even though my intentions were pure, the possibility of being misunderstood or accused for simple, compassionate touch began to shadow the work I loved.
Around that same time I was already gathering another kind of evidence: the quiet, cumulative markings of a spiritual life. I had long felt attuned to frequencies and energetic shifts in people’s fields. I trusted that bodies have an intelligence — a way of signaling what they need in terms of nourishment, rest, and the right balance of herbs and nutrients. Those instincts were not grand or mystical so much as practical: an awareness of how a cup of chamomile might soothe an anxious nervous system, how magnesium could steady a jittered heart, how a change in diet could shift mood and clarity. I wanted to honor that knowledge without inviting controversy or crossing boundaries that made clients — and myself — vulnerable.
So in the late 1980s, I made a decision that felt like both a refuge and a commitment. Rather than negotiate endlessly with systems that seemed hostile to nuance, I pursued ordination. It was not a move to gain authority, but a way to formalize the ethics and the heart behind my practice. Being ordained provided a framework: clear intentions, responsibilities to those I served, and the spiritual license to work from a place of calm integrity. It allowed me to continue honoring embodied wisdom — the subtle cues, the energy signatures, the intuitive pulls — while offering services in a way that felt respectful and safe for everyone involved.
After I was ordained, my practice changed in tone. I found myself operating from a steadier center. The ordination was not a cloak that made me infallible; it was a reminder to be humble, to ask permission, to be explicit about consent and boundaries. It let me teach people to listen to their own bodies, to experiment with natural remedies thoughtfully, and to view health as a multilayered conversation between spirit, mind, and flesh. When I recommended an herb or a change in diet, I did so as someone who honored both tradition and evidence, intuition and discernment.
That balance — between the spiritual and the pragmatic, between touch and distance, between intuition and structure — is what brings me calm. I no longer walk into a room carrying the weight of other people’s expectations or the fear of accusation. Instead, I carry practices that are clear, gentle, and accountable. I feel guided by a belief in the body’s capacity to communicate and heal, and by the responsibility I accepted when I became ordained: to be a steady presence, a careful listener, and a compassionate guide.
In the end, ordination gave me permission to do my work with both heart and clarity. It allowed me to be fully present without compromising safety — for my clients or for myself — and it affirmed the quiet truth I had always trusted: that healing happens when we honor the whole of a person, with humility, care, and an open ear for what their body and spirit are telling us.
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