A sacred practice for those called to the old work — ancestral healing, plant medicine integration, and the slow remembering of what the body has never forgotten. No rush. No floaty promises. Only the medicine you came here for.
Each modality is a doorway. Some clients arrive called to one; others move through several across a season. I will listen before we choose.
Reiki-trained, channeled, and tuned to the subtle body. We clear the layers where old grief, trauma, and borrowed weight have settled. Simple, still, and deeply felt.
We go back through the bloodline. We find the unspoken story, the shamed name, the untold truth. We make offerings, tend the wound, and bring forward what was asked of you — and what was not.
For those returning from ayahuasca, psilocybin, kambo, or San Pedro and struggling to carry it. We hold the experience gently until it becomes your life instead of a memory.
The body remembers first. We work with breath, sound, trembling, and touch-free movement to let the nervous system finally complete what it started years ago.
The piece of you that left during the loss, the crash, the leaving — we call it home. Traditional shamanic journeying to recover and re-integrate the fragments of self.
Cards, bones, and the quiet voice that speaks between them. For the crossroads moment when the mind has exhausted itself and needs a different kind of counsel. Specific, not vague.
Demystifying the arc so the mystery can do its quiet work.
Tea, candle, the settling of the room. I ask what called you today. We do not begin the work until the nervous system has agreed.
I read the field — ancestral, energetic, somatic. You are invited to say what feels true. Most of what I need, your body has already said.
This is where the medicine happens — through breath, sound, ceremony, or stillness. Different every time. The medicine knows what it wants to do.
We seal the container. You receive integration notes within 48 hours. The real work often begins three days later, on a Tuesday, in line for coffee.
Choose the vessel that matches the work in front of you.
A complete arc in one evening. We open, we listen, we work, we close. Good for a specific question, a stuck grief, or a first taste of the medicine.
For the work that cannot be rushed. We move between ceremony, silence, tea, somatic release, and integration. The depth shifts when we stop watching the clock.
A full week of attention. We meet daily. Between sittings you walk, you write, you let what rises rise. For those in the middle of a true threshold.
I was born sensing more than my small body knew how to hold. It took many years, many teachers, and many unraveling seasons before I learned to translate what I was feeling into medicine that could serve another. This practice is the quiet fruit of that long apprenticeship.
My work sits at the intersection of the old ways and the modern nervous system. I have studied with curanderas in Oaxaca, reiki masters in the Pacific Northwest, and sat in enough circles to know that real medicine is slow, specific, and never performed.
I carry nothing I did not receive. These are the hands that taught mine, and the names I speak before I begin.
Words sent in the weeks and months following. Permission was asked; names were kept.
I went in expecting some version of therapy dressed in feathers. What happened instead was that a grief I had been carrying since my grandmother's death seven years ago finally left my chest. Imani did not perform. She was just very still and very present, and somewhere in that stillness the thing released. I've been breathing differently ever since.
I returned from an ayahuasca retreat in Peru and could not make sense of what had happened. Three months of trying to integrate it alone, feeling crazier by the week. Two sessions with Imani gave me what the retreat could not: a quiet room where the medicine could finally settle into my regular life. I sleep now. That alone is a small miracle.
I came for a reading and left with my mother. I don't know how else to say it. Imani described a woman I had not seen in thirty years, told me what she was trying to say to me, and by the end of the session I was weeping in a way I had not wept in three decades. This work is the real thing. Be ready.
I booked the seven-day mentorship during a hard divorce. I arrived feeling like a ghost of myself. By the end of the week I was laughing again — the real kind, from the belly. Imani never tried to fix me. She kept tending the fire until I remembered how to warm myself. I will recommend her for the rest of my life.
I have sat with many shamans, teachers, and guides across fifteen years of searching. Imani is the first one I stopped searching with. The depth is quiet, the container is airtight, and she holds everything — including the parts you are ashamed of — with the same steady warmth.
The quiet details that make the deeper work possible.
The ones I'm asked most often, before the first sitting.
Quiet essays from the practice room. Slow writing for slow readers.
Grief is not a task. It is a room you live in for a while, and the furniture rearranges itself without your permission.
Read the field note
There is a phase in the work where the door closes. The dreams go quiet. This is not a failure — it is the lineage asking you to become.
Read the field noteThe nervous system is older than language. It holds what the mouth could never say, and it waits — patiently — for a safe enough room.
Read the field note
Every tradition I carry came from a village I was not born into. Here is what I have learned about how to hold it with honor, and how to keep returning what was given.
Read the field noteA ceremony tends the wound. A performance makes the wound decorative. Here is how I try to know the difference, most weeks.
Read the field note
If your person went quiet this year, and the world kept moving anyway — this is a small note from my candle-lit room to yours.
Read the letter
Tell me what's calling you. I read every note myself, usually within a day or two. If we are a fit, we'll set a first sitting. If not, I will tell you honestly and point you toward someone who is.