Apparently, I’ve Gone Full Weird

If you’re reading this, chances are you’re arriving from one of two directions.

You may know me from my early professional work—as a Gestalt therapist and author of Body Process and Healing Tasks, books that argued (somewhat insistently) that the body belongs at the center of psychotherapy and trauma therapy.

Or you may have arrived here through my more recent books—About Time or Past the Past—and are now wondering how a psychotherapist ended up writing about subtle energy, time, and reincarnation.

Either way: welcome. And yes, both impressions are accurate.

For much of my professional life, I’ve worked at the intersection of psychology and lived experience. My earlier books focused on the body—at a time when working directly with the body in psychotherapy was considered, at best, questionable.

Those books helped open doors. Body-oriented approaches are now widely accepted, even mainstream in some circles. Which is why, for readers who only knew that work, what came next can feel… surprising.

When About Time was published in 2023, my wife laughed and said,

“You finally outed yourself. You don’t have to pretend you’re normal anymore. You’re officially weird—in public.”

She was right. And honestly? It felt like a relief.

I’ve Always Lived Near the Edge

What may look like a sharp turn is actually the same path I’ve been on all along. My work has always focused on experiences that live just beyond the borders of what’s considered respectable or easily explainable—especially when those experiences prove themselves in practice.

Early on, that edge was the body.

Now, With More Body

When I began integrating body work and touch into psychotherapy, it was risky. At the time, the body was not something therapists talked about or worked with directly. Touch work, in particular, was often viewed as inappropriate or taboo.

Writing Body Process was my way of saying, “This belongs here.”

I was part of a small “fringe” group of folks of my generation, writing and talking about this. Eventually, the field caught up. What was once strange became familiar. Younger therapists today might be surprised to learn how controversial that work once was.

By the time it settled into acceptance, I was already standing at the next edge.

Then I Added Energy (Oops)

Subtle energy work entered my life not as a belief system, but as experience—palpable, repeatable, and effective. To me, it was a natural extension of embodied psychotherapy generally, and touch work in particular.

To others, it was… a lot.

I learned just how much during a presentation at a body psychotherapy conference. I guided the group through experiential exercises so they could feel energy movement themselves, then demonstrated how combining touch and energy could shift a client’s nervous system.

The audience—experienced, thoughtful clinicians—accurately described the physiological changes they observed. Then mostly explained the effects they saw entirely in relational terms, quietly setting aside their own direct experience.

Occam’s razor is useful, but it can also be ruthless. It tends to shave off whatever makes us uncomfortable—even when that something is right in front of us.

That moment clarified something important for me: even people who like living on the edge have limits to their weirdness.

Choosing Not to Convince

Over time, I stopped trying to persuade people about using subtle energy. I learned to demonstrate its effectiveness without insisting on an explanation. If someone wasn’t interested in how energy contributed, fine—but they were leaving a tool unused.

Subtle energy work also reopened a lifelong spiritual thread. In About Time, I describe meeting my teacher and the doors she opened—including vivid memories of other lifetimes.

For readers who came to me through that book, this may feel like the beginning of the story.

For those who knew my earlier work, it may feel like an unexpected continuation.

Publishing Past the Past made it clear that this wasn’t a one-off curiosity. Apparently, believing in reincarnation twice crosses some invisible line.

Not an Explanation—A Story

My early books were careful arguments, built for professional audiences.

These newer ones are something else. They aren’t trying to prove anything. They’re stories—meant to be entered, not explained.

They ask a simple question:

What if human experience is wider and older than our current models allow?

So yes, this may be weirder than you expected—whether you’re meeting me for the first time or returning after many years.

But it’s the same curiosity I’ve always followed—just with fewer disguises.

If you’re curious too, you’re welcome to join me out here, right at the edge.