Being Seen

On teaching, plant medicine, and the fear of having nothing to prove

In my previous life. Before Peru. I was building a version of myself who was also on stage. An expert. A trusted voice in the integrative oncology space. Teaching doctors, medical students, and patients. The author of a bestselling book. But there were parts of myself trying to peek out that weren’t really accepted.

In the health entrepreneur world, I have been welcomed. All of me. The woo-woo me, the scientifically oriented me, even the parts that like to be super serious and also have tons of fun. This community has supported me in exploring vibe coding, content creation, and so many avenues of self-expression. I hold everything from branding courses to fire ceremonies of release.

Gradually, I found myself back on stage. Navigating the pre- and post-Peru version of myself. Finding my voice from this new point of view. Reconnecting with what I have always considered my primary archetype and through-line: the teacher.

I was the kid who arranged all her dolls and stuffed animals in rows while she taught something profound to her imaginary class. Even in medical school, I wore the hat of a teacher. I started teaching yoga before I stepped into the role of student in medical school. Teacher in one realm, student in another. And that pattern is repeating today. Teacher to entrepreneurs, student to Peruvian and Andean curanderos, diving deep into what it means to heal in this beautiful country alongside gracious teachers who have made space for me.

So why is it that with all this background in speaking, writing, and being on camera, I still want to shrink when it comes to the medicine work held in ceremonial spaces?

I feel awkward sharing the quiet conversations that open slowly between humans and plants. Like these things should only be met with a whisper, not a big voice. I feel the awkwardness in my skin, in the voice that tries to squeak itself out.

It is a fear of being seen. Of speaking out. Of reassuming the role of teacher. Because the truth is, when I was younger, I at least felt confident that I knew more than my students. But from this space, I know that everyone carries the same wisdom inside of them. I haven’t accessed something they don’t already know. I have only given myself the gift of slowing down, listening, and reconnecting. And all of that is just one slow breath away from anyone I am speaking with.

So when the teacher doesn’t know “more” but has only given herself the time to connect with the earth-bound master teachers, what does it even mean to be a teacher? Why would someone watch the video or read the blog? Just to be reminded of something they already know? And can I even be an effective teacher in this self-gazing ritual of reconnection? What if I learn more from you than you could ever learn from me?

That last question might be the truest thing I could say. As a space holder, portal opener, and witness to human unfolding, I undoubtedly learn more from you than I give. So much so that I can no longer think of anyone as a student or a teacher. We are all both, simultaneously. So what does that mean for writing? For sharing? If I cannot possibly be an “expert” on what it means to be human or live your life. And yet something is still worth saying. Maybe that something is smaller and truer than expertise. A sliver of understanding. The experience of being witnessed by one another.

Yesterday I recorded videos for social media. Awkwardly. I was genuinely surprised when my 60-second script turned into three minutes on camera. Who will watch me for three or four minutes? I talk too slowly. I close my eyes and breathe in too much. I can hear my old doctor voice, but at a new pace. I see the somatic processing happening in real time, right there on the screen.

My old reflexes know how to do it differently. How to speed up. How to sound less like a talking head and more like a “real” person. But the speaking training kicks in and I lose a piece of my humanity. At least I didn’t say “hi everybody, today I am going to share about...” LOL. Small wins.

So this is just another messy middle. Another chrysalis moment before something emerges. I have been through so many of these that it is almost comfortable. But I cannot stop wondering why being on stage for one topic can feel so natural, and for another, so impossible.

Will this keep me from trying? No way.

The practice is to hold myself with self-compassion. To keep writing when there are only six people subscribed (and I am so grateful for you), and AI could probably write a better article than me. To keep recording when what I have to say could be said by thousands of others, and the views are low because I am talking too slowly. I will stay in the space of creating anyway. Giving myself another chance to work in the room that the master plants have polished so many times before.