I’m a sound healing practitioner with a background in psychotherapy and counselling. My previous work focused on the taboo: sex, grief and trauma.

That work trained me to listen closely, pace carefully, and notice what happens when pressure enters the room. It also taught me where talking helps—and where it doesn’t.

I came to sound healing in 2020, mostly by accident. I wasn’t a meditator, and slowing down had never come naturally to me. Sitting quietly with my thoughts wasn’t calming—it felt like a lot of work to wreak the benefits that everyone was talking so highly about.

What surprised me was how quickly sound shifted things. My brain settled. My attention slowed. Rest didn’t require effort or skill; I didn’t have to do it “right” for it to work.

I work from a practical, down-to-earth, trauma-informed lens. Making sound isn’t the hard part—anyone can strike a few notes. What makes sound work effective isn’t the sound itself, but the practitioner’s ability to work with skill, attunement, and trauma awareness—creating a space that’s safe, grounded, and capable of holding space for people to unfold.

That means paying attention to pacing, consent, volume, silence, and what happens when someone’s system starts to shift. I’m less interested in impressive sounds and more interested in whether your nervous system feels supported, oriented, and not rushed.

This is careful work. Not fragile, not precious—but intentional. The goal is steadiness, not spectacle.

My sessions are structured, slow, and grounded. We use sound to support regulation and presence, without diagnosis, fixing, or performance goals. The point isn’t to feel a certain way. It’s to create enough steadiness for something to shift on its own.

I work to reduce internal pressure, restore attention to the body, and support a clearer relationship with yourself—one that doesn’t require pushing, overriding, or pretending you’re more relaxed than you are.