01/26/2026
I have spent my career working with, training, caring for, and truly experiencing animals.
My parents like to tell stories of me as a small child—risking my own safety to save a neighborhood cat, leaving me bloody and shaken, clutching a scruffy animal in my little hands. I think, even then, I knew I would walk with animals. I didn’t yet have the language for it, but I knew how I saw them: as sentient beings—deserving of protection, of compassionate touch, and, many times, of my words.
I was an extremely shy child. So shy, in fact, that my parents put me into speech therapy. What they didn’t realize was that I spoke just fine—just not to humans. Animals captivated me even then. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I would find a way to walk and talk for them.
For years, I spent countless hours training animals in ways that encouraged participation without fear—methods rooted in choice, trust, and communication rather than control. Education felt less like rigid instruction and more like a conversation.
And yet, no matter how many books I read, seminars I attended, or clinics I studied under, there were always some animals I couldn’t quite reach. Ones that felt locked behind something I didn’t yet have the key to.
Eventually, I realized something was missing.
So I began studying the body—how it functions, how it adapts, and what happens when it becomes fractured. And then the realization hit me like a flashing neon light:
A sentient being’s nervous system will always prioritize survival over repair.
When safety is absent, every system in the body becomes vulnerable to breakdown. What we often label as a “behavior problem” or illness is not the root issue—it is a symptom. A symptom of a nervous system that is not regulated.
An animal must be regulated before any meaningful correction can occur.
Take the dog who is reactive to noises in the house. Yes, we can condition an alternate behavior. We can manage the outward expression. But if the underlying lack of safety remains, so does the problem—just in a different form.
People often ask me what I do.
“What is bodywork?”
I usually explain the modalities, the techniques, the ways I support the body’s ability to heal itself.
But what do I really do?
I create a sense of safety within the animal’s body.
Before a horse can feel safe in a trailer, a dog can feel safe in a car, or a cat can feel safe in a carrier, they must first feel safe inside themselves.
If they once knew safety, I help their body remember it.
If they never knew safety, I help their nervous system discover that space—through touch, presence, and respect.
Safety is not optional. It is vital to the health of both humans and animals. And if we expect animals to regulate their behavior, respond to our needs, and function within a human-designed world, then we must first understand what allows them to feel safe—
in their homes,
in our communities
and most importantly,
in their own bodies.
Everyone can help animals experience safety within their bodies, the first step is to listen, to truely hear them. Then ask what they need to feel safe.
