Healing Was Never Meant to Be a Program

I’ve been sitting with a rising feeling lately—a kind of sacred frustration, a soul-deep loathing, even a disgust toward the boxed-up, pre-packaged programs that parade around under the banner of healing.

The certifications. The credentials. The class-after-class-after-class conveyor belt of becoming "qualified" to hold space for another human.

And don’t get me wrong—I’ve walked that path. I’ve studied. I’ve earned degrees. I’ve collected titles and trainings like spiritual Girl Scout badges. But what I know now—what my bones have been shouting—is this:

Healing does not require a curriculum.

It requires presence. It requires witnessing. It requires time. It requires truth.

Most people don’t need another 8-week intensive or a color-coded workbook. They don’t need a coach armed with acronyms or a step-by-step method promising transcendence.

They need to be seen. They need to be held. They need someone to sit beside them, not above them. They need space to breathe without being analyzed.

The truth is, most people already carry the medicine they need inside them. But this world is so loud, so fast, so demanding, that they’ve forgotten how to listen. Forgotten how to be in their own company. Forgotten how to feel their own hearts without being told what it means.

And that’s what makes me recoil from the machine of it all. Because my soul knows something different.

My authority doesn’t come from my diplomas. It comes from the fact that I survived my life.

I’ve walked through the fire—not once, but over and over—and I didn’t come back with a method. I came back with truth.

So yes, I feel deep resistance now when I see the commodification of healing. When I watch people spend thousands trying to become whole by someone else’s blueprint. When I hear the echo chamber of "do more, fix more, be better" in spaces that should feel sacred.

Because what people need is not another system. They need presence. They need safety. They need permission to be as they are.

And that’s why I speak from my pulpit—not just the one in my church, but the one I carry in my voice, my story, my living truth.

Not to preach. Not to fix. But to remind:

You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not unfinished.

You are just remembering. And that remembering doesn’t need a license. It needs a lighthouse.

And that’s what I offer now. Not a program. Not a plan. But a hand to hold while you remember yourself.

Because healing was never meant to be a product. It was always meant to be a homecoming.

And I welcome you there.