It’s easy to speak on autopilot. "You look lovely." "I’m proud of you." "I love you." We’ve learned to say these things almost as a script, passed down generationally or absorbed culturally, and while they can be deeply meaningful, they can also become hollow if we don’t embody what we say.

Before beliefs, before structure, before the world layered over us its conditions, expectations, and fears we were born into this world with breath. The very breath God gave humanity. In that first inhale, there was no striving or confusion. We were simply being, unguarded and whole, made in His image.

Over time, I noticed that resistance to “labels” didn’t usually come from those who were actually neurodivergent. It came more often from people uncomfortable with difference, or those who hadn’t yet explored their own biases or internal stories. There’s a deeper discomfort in society with vulnerability and labels often make things visible that we’re taught to hide.

It’s far too easy to navigate life focused solely on what we see our external terrain. Whether distracted by the daily grind, hyper-vigilant and scanning for threats, or over-stimulated by the sheer noise of the world, we often lose touch with the inner terrain. But what lies beneath?

“Instead, we allow a process to unfold gently and patiently where we build our window of tolerance to sit with discomfort, to witness ourselves, and to hold space for the body.”

For all the noise and awareness raised in the last decade, our collective understanding of autism is still shaped by outdated beliefs. Originally, the label “autism” was tied to severe intellectual and developmental delays, terms like “retarded,” “disabled,” and “nonverbal” were central to its definition. Now, it’s used as a wide-ranging umbrella and we need to stop and ask:

is the label itself still serving us?

The word facilitate means “to make (an action or process) easy or easier.” And yet, I think the word is often misunderstood. In healing spaces, it’s not about fixing someone. It’s not about having all the answers or giving advice. Instead, it’s about holding space creating an environment of safety, presence, and compassion so that someone else can gently begin to access their own inner wisdom and healing, in partnership with the Holy Spirit.

What does it really mean to be still in a Western, busy, striving world? The Hebrew word often translated as “be still” literally means to let go, release, cease striving, relax your grip. The root raphah (ָרָפה) invites a softening of the whole body, a release of control and a return to trust. This is not a mere mental exercise; it is a full-bodied, embodied experience.

They meet us in the in-between moments… a scent, a song, a change in the air. Something inside responds to something outside, and for a moment, there’s peace. It reminds me so much of perfumery and how it speaks directly to our limbic system.

What does it mean to be “called out”? Not just from the world, but into something into community, into purpose, into presence with one another. The early ekklesias were gatherings of people coming together to live out the way of Christ daily. Not just to hear a sermon but to live as the body of Christ embodying love, justice, hospitality, and mission.

It seems to me that many have been taught a version of the gospel that focuses more on our lack than on our belovedness. And when our faith roots itself in this chronic sense of lack, it breeds limiting beliefs that we carry deep into our bodies, our emotions, and our relationships.

We say “God’s will be done” while still trying to control the entire narrative. We want the outcome we’ve planned, the tidy story with the faithful ending. But I wonder… is that really trust? Or is it fear cloaked in spiritual language?

We see this kind of engagement in many cultures today monks chanting, Muslims reciting aloud, Indigenous people expressing prayer in movement. Their spiritual practices aren’t just intellectual; they’re fully embodied. And yet, in Western Christianity, we’ve often misunderstood meditation as a quiet mental process, separating the body from faith.

Healing often feels like death and it is. It's the death of the false identity, the survival self, the one who had to protect, perform, or please to feel safe. That part of us crumbles. And it feels like a loss. But it’s actually freedom.

Too often, we ask for change, but we don’t embody the ask. We don’t align our hearts, thoughts, and actions with what we say we want. But if we want to receive fully, we must be clear in our asking, intentional in our focus, and willing to step into the identity of someone who is truly open to transformation.

While Buddhism offers release through detachment and cultivated awareness, Christianity offers a relational awareness. We are not asked to become empty, but to become full, filled with Christ.

Today, we often find ourselves living in single room dwellings, isolated from extended family and community. We are busier than ever, with calendars full and minds overwhelmed. And in the midst of this rush, we have lost the art of presence not just being in the same room, but truly being with each other.

And yet, so many of us grow up in Christian circles where we are taught rules. Structure. Guidelines. Expectations. There’s often a checklist of behaviours and moral standards designed to help us be "more like Christ," but in reality, it can often do the opposite. When we fall short which we will we feel shame, guilt, or embarrassment. We hide. We perform. We try harder. But these are the very things Christ came to set us free from.

Our orphaned parts — the fearful, the ashamed, the angry, the hurting — are not barriers to our relationship with God.
They are reminders that we were never meant to navigate life without Him.

It’s only now, through healing and research and through a deepening connection with my body, spirit, and the Word that I’m beginning to understand what music was truly designed to do. Music wasn’t supposed to be ritualistic or obligatory. It was always meant to move us. To restore. To connect. To awaken.