01/16/2026
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I have always experienced the body less as a machine to be repaired and more as a living landscape to be understood.
When someone lies on my table, I am not only meeting body systems, I am feeling weather patterns. Old storms that never fully cleared. Rivers that altered their course after injury. Soil that has compacted after too many seasons of holding everything together. I feel valleys shaped by years of compensation, ridgelines built through endurance, and places where the ground hardened because it had to.
Pathology, to me, is not a flaw in the terrain; it is evidence of survival.
In traditional medicine, we often separate disease from pathology. Disease is the diagnosis, the name, the category, the thing that shows up on a chart. Pathology is the lived expression of how the body has responded over time. It is what happened in the tissues, the nervous system, the breath, and posture, long before or long after a diagnosis was given.
In my work, I don’t see these as opposing ideas. I see them as layers of the same story.
Inflammation is not the enemy. It is the body lighting a signal fire, saying something here needs care. Pain is not punishment. It is communication, a spoken language we are still learning to listen to. Scar tissue is not a mistake. It is the record of where healing once had to happen quickly, imperfectly, and with great courage.
So many of the conditions we meet on the table are not isolated events. Low back pain does not live only in the lumbar spine. TMJ does not belong solely to the jaw. Chronic fatigue does not exist only in blood work. These patterns ripple outward, shaping posture, breath, sleep, mood, and the way someone moves through the world.
When I place my hands on a body, I am not trying to erase pathology or override a diagnosis. I am listening to how the body adapted around it. I am asking what this body needed to become in order to survive. What strategies it built and what stories live in the fascia, waiting to be met with tenderness and understanding rather than force.
This is where bodywork becomes something more than technique. It becomes a relationship.
Our work is not about fixing the landscape; it is about restoring pathways so circulation can return, sensation can soften, and the nervous system can remember what it feels like to rest. It is about creating enough safety for the body to shift, not because it was told to, but because it finally can.
Pathology is not where the body failed; it is where the body is working the hardest.
This is the heart of the book I am writing. A pathology text that does not separate disease from lived experience, but weaves them together. A way of understanding diagnoses alongside the adaptive patterns they create in real bodies. A way of teaching pathology through the hands of the bodyworker, where clinical understanding and deep listening exist side by side.
