the field-tender:
About Mars
There’s a kind of story we’re taught to tell—
One with a wound, a breakthrough, and a solution.
A story that makes pain make sense.
A story that performs healing in a way that feels legible.
Respectable.
Marketable.
I’ve told those stories.
I know their seduction.
And I know they nearly killed me.
There’s a kind of story we’re taught to tell—
One with a wound, a breakthrough, and a solution.
A story that makes pain make sense.
A story that performs healing in a way that feels legible.
Respectable.
Marketable.
I’ve told those stories.
I know their seduction.
And I know they nearly killed me.
What if we composted the colonial progress narratives… for good?
I was taught to call my initiations “disorders.”
To speak about grief and altered states through clinical frameworks.
To narrate my own pain in a voice that wasn’t mine—
So that systems could feel more comfortable,
And I could be understood as “getting better.”
That narration made me sick.
I tried to reclaim it.
I got sober.
I trained as a trauma therapist.
I learned to regulate my nervous system,
To track triggers, to reframe the past.
And some of it helped.
But somewhere along the way, the story of healing
Became another performance.
Another version of containment.
I used to believe healing meant getting back to some truer version of myself.
That if I did enough work, followed the protocol, mastered the method—
I would finally be whole. Clean. Free.
But now I understand:
Healing is not always about restoration.
It’s about hospicing what needs to die.
Yes—sometimes that means old identities.
And sometimes it means actual ghosts.
(Yes: literal ghosts. Damp, hungry, lost beings who take up space in your body when you are not fully there. Opportunistic organisms who are hungry. Everybody has to eat.)
Follow my substack or read me on medium for all the ghost stories!)
What if the self you are trying to restore was never yours to begin with?
I now work with others—
Not to fix them.
Not to guide them “home.”
But to sit in the field
Where the scaffolding has cracked
And the old language no longer holds.
Through energetic work, narrative dismantling,
and creative direction that listens instead of performs,
I walk with those who are ready to speak—not more loudly—
But more honestly.
Who are ready to ask:
What kind of story am I telling?
And who does it serve?
a portal to remembering:
What is the “Resonant Field”?
There is a moment in every great transition when the old stories falter.
When the scaffolding of the worldview begins to break apart.
When what was once thought to be solid—the systems, the institutions, the myths—disintegrates before our eyes.
We are living in such a time. A great unraveling.
The systems upon which modern life was built—extraction, consumption, domination, colonization, the suppression of the sacred and unseen—have not only brought destruction and death to the living world, but have also wounded our imaginations, fractured our relational knowing, and perturbed our neurobiology.
We have been told we are separate.
That we are individuals—atomized, unbound, untethered.
That we must seek control, mastery, dominance.
That we are observers, not participants in the great web of life.
That we must earn belonging + seek salvation in exchange for good behavior.
But beneath this illusion, something has been waiting—
a pulse, a song, a deeper rhythm calling us home.
What if everything we’ve been told about our minds, our suffering, and our healing is incomplete?
What if the way we’ve been trained to heal is itself part of the sickness?
Are we willing to let it all go—even if it means losing ourselves in the process? If we are not here to simply survive the unraveling, do we dare to become what is waiting?
Unruly Thoughts, Literary Mischief & Rogue Ramblings—
