Why It Works: The Alchemy of Story, Soul & Strategy

The stories we carry aren’t just paragraphs and pages. They’re the shape of what we’ve survived. They hold joy, grief, tenderness, and truth. They teach us about ourselves as they unfold, often before we even have the words.

And when we tend to them with care—when we honor the body, the thoughts, the process as much as the plot—something shifts. The story starts to do what it was always meant to do: reveal, heal, and connect us all.

Most editors begin with sentence structure, grammar, or messaging. I begin with sensation, presence, and breath. I start with somatics, capacity, and the body.

Because that’s where our stories live—in our posture, in our nervous system, in the places we hold tight without realizing. Through somatic practices, you and I will begin by listening. Where is the story stuck? Where is it moving? What does it feel like? How does it want to express itself? In my group spaces, this becomes a form of communal regulation. An act of allyship. This helps us remember that our wounds were not create in a vacuum and our healing rarely happens alone. 

Many people come to me with something powerful they long to share—but quickly run into fear, self-doubt, and the inherited narratives that have long kept them quiet. We have to meet those inner barriers first. Because the stories that hold our truth can’t fulfill their purpose if we’re still bound by the ones that hold us back.

Some people rush headfirst into their most painful stories, thinking the faster they tell it, the faster they’ll heal. But their nervous system has other plans. They get stuck in fight, flight, freeze, or fawn—sometimes without realizing it. The body says no, even when the mind says yes. And when that happens, the story can’t land. It can’t finish. Because it’s not safe yet—for their system, or for their spirit—to go public. If they bypass the body, they often revert into old stories or unprocessed trauma.

That’s not the way we tell stories here. 

First Drafts Are For You

A lot of people will tell you first drafts are supposed to be messy—even shitty. I don’t believe that. I believe the first draft is sacred. It’s not about getting it right; it’s about getting it real. The first draft is a quiet room where your truest voice is invited to speak without judgment. It’s where you lay down the armor and begin to get honest about what’s underneath.

We let the story speak first to you. Not your audience. Not the market. Not the publisher. But to the part of you that’s been waiting to be witnessed. And often, it’s in that initial witnessing where the real shift begins.

The first draft is often the most transformative for you—because it’s not polished. It’s personal. It meets you where you are and shows you what’s been living beneath the surface. A place where your personal healing and insight begin to emerge.

First drafts don't need to be rushed or beaten into submission, they deserves our tenderness. Our witnessing. So we care for the body as it shows us what it needs. 

Second Drafts Are For Shaping

This is the stage where the story starts to look outward. After the first draft gives voice to what needed to be expressed, the second draft asks: What is this story really about? What does it want to offer the world? What does it hope other people will do once they see it? And perhapps most importantly, what boundaries or practices of care do I need to have in place as I prepare to share it? You'll need to decide what parts of your first draft are for the world and what feels safer to keep for yourself.

Here, we begin to refine—not to tame the story or domesticate ourselves.  We shape its flow and clarify its purpose, all while keeping its integrity and your voice intact. This isn’t just about editing lines; it’s about deepening alignment. It’s about resisting the pressure to shrink, smooth, or sanitize your truth to make it more comfortable for others. While acknowledging your need for safety. 

Rather than leaping straight into rigid structures, we stay curious. We ask: What shape does this story want to take? What rhythm feels right? It might follow a traditional arc. It might unfold in a circle, a spiral, or something more fluid and intuitive. We make space for both—drawing from narrative science when it serves, and from alternative story shapes when it speaks more truly to the soul of the work. Because story, at its best, isn’t polite. It’s potent.

This is also when we begin considering your audience—not in a performative way, but with care. Who are you speaking to? What do they need to feel? Where might your story meet them and move them? We let the story reveal its right shape in time.

Because the goal isn’t just to write something good. This work isn’t transactional. It’s not “send me your draft and I’ll fix it.” It’s to offer something meaningful. Something true. Something that could act as a catalyst for change in the world.

The Final Offering: When Your Story Moves to Meet the World

Once the heart of the story is shaped and the message aligned, there’s one more essential step: making sure the story lands.

This is where we look at your story through your audience’s eyes. I get a case of story amnesia and take on the role of someone who knows nothing about your book—nothing about your background or your intentions—and I read for clarity, for connection, for gaps.

Because every storyteller, no matter how skilled, tends to focus on what matters most to them. And often, what we care about isn’t what the reader most needs to understand. Likewise, we sometimes leave out the knowledge we take for granted—context, nuance, deeper meaning—because it lives so naturally in us, we forget to explain it.

This third pass is a final act of devotion. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence. And it’s not for everyone. This level of care, of honesty, of emotional depth—it takes something. It asks for courage, vulnerability, and a willingness to be changed by your own words. Here, we’re asking: does this version of the story feel clear, generous, and attuned to the people it’s meant for? Are we not just being understood—but moving people to feel, to reflect, and sometimes, to act?

At this stage, we bridge insight with impact. We consider tone, voice, structure, and accessibility—not just to make things "fit" but to ensure the story resonates deeply with the people who need it. This is where we attune the message and align the reach. I explore this more in Attuned Messaging, Aligned Reach. We make sure your story is grounded in truth and able to land in the hearts of others.

Because when you're ready to release this story into the wild, it’s not really yours anymore. It’s not about pleasing everyone. It’s about disrupting, awakening, reminding—what story was always meant to do before it was commodified. It’s where clarity becomes confidence. Where your voice is no longer just your own—it’s aligned, embodied, and ready to create impact across platforms and communities. It’s a portal. A generous act of connection. A mirror for someone else’s becoming.

What Happens When We Shape Together

By the time we reach this point in the process, the story has moved from the quiet space of becoming into something ready to connect. It’s no longer just about what’s been expressed—it’s about what’s ready to be shared. That shift is not only powerful—it’s pivotal. Because how you tell your story changes what it can do in the world.

Clients often tell me they felt more seen than they expected. That they could finally say what they’d been trying to say for years. That the process surprised them—in a good way. It’s not just about getting the words right. It’s about coming into alignment with what you really want to share. It’s about finding language that feels like yours.

I’ve lived in seven countries—learning to listen not just to language, but to rhythm, gesture, and cultural nuance. Your story doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It lives in a world of many voices, many traditions, many ways of knowing. And you want someone who can hold that complexity with care. My work is rooted in a practice of ethical storytelling—a commitment to honoring the power stories hold and the people they affect. I write more about this in Lineage & Liberation, where I talk about accountability not as perfection, but as practice.

This work works because it meets you where you are—and helps you move toward where you want to be. Because it holds space for your full self, not just the polished parts. Because it honors the story that’s still forming, not just the one that’s finished.

And if you’re reading this feeling the pull—if something in you is stirring, ready, curious—consider this your invitation.

As one client shared, “I came here to write my story. I left knowing who I was."

You don’t have to do it alone. I only take on a small number of clients at a time, because this work is intimate and intentional. You don’t have to have it all figured out—you just have to begin.

If you’re standing at the edge of your becoming—if your voice is rising and your truth is ready—the next step isn’t loud. It’s deliberate. Devotional. Sacred. And I’m here to walk it with you.

Let’s begin.

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