Yes, medicine is still magic — we just pretend it’s not.

Picture this:
A woman — maybe you, maybe your mother, maybe every client who’s ever sat across from me — walks into a clinic, heart in her throat, story in her bones. Seven minutes later, she leaves with a prescription slip and a polite pat on the head.
Done. Next. Next. Next.

No one says it out loud, but modern medicine still works like a priesthood.
White coats, sterile altars, rituals you don’t question.
A hush in the waiting room.
A hush in your gut whispering: maybe they know better than I do.

Medicine is magic. It always has been.
Anesthesia is sorcery.
Surgery is a sacred cutting.
A prescription is an incantation you swallow, trusting it will transform you.
Even the cleanest protocol is still part theater.

But here’s the rub:
When we pretend this magic is purely mechanical, we lose the power and the accountability.
The ritual remains — you line up, you submit, you pay — but the priest won’t speak the truth:
This might work. It might not. And your soul is still hungry either way.

So what do we do?
We drift to functional clinics, naturopaths, biohackers, TikTok protocols — because deep down we crave a real rite of passage, not another soulless pill bottle.
We crave transformation.
We crave initiation.
We crave someone to stand at the threshold with us and say:
I see you. Let’s cross this together — with your body awake, not anesthetized.

I don’t reject medicine.
I don’t reject expertise.
I reject the lie that it’s not also a form of magic — potent, powerful, and easily misused.
Because when you understand that medicine is magic, you stop outsourcing every signal your body sends.
You stop assuming you need fixing just because someone in a white coat says so.

This is the work here:
I decode the myth.
I rebuild the terrain.
And I walk you back to the only real magic left: your own sovereign clarity.

If you’re ready to see the ritual—and choose what you keep—I’m here when you are.