Changing the Story through Reflection
Most people step into service because they want to make a difference. They want to uplift, help, and bring light to the lives of others. I was no different. For years, I poured myself into service, driven by the belief that this was my purpose.
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Over time, I noticed a painful pattern. Colleagues, mentors, and even I became disillusioned — burnt out by the unrealistic expectation that to serve others, we must be perfect ourselves. Constant pressure, fear of mistakes, and silence around our own pain chipped away at the joy and clarity that first brought me to this work.
There were moments when I considered walking away. Sometimes I was disappointed by others; sometimes, by myself. Those experiences left deep marks — but they also taught me something valuable: we do not need to be flawless to be faithful to our calling. It is our humanity — our scars, resilience, and willingness to keep going — that makes us effective and compassionate healers and helpers.
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Discovery of Somatic Core Centering
In my own search for healing, I discovered Somatic Core Centering — a practice that reconnects us to the wisdom of our bodies, grounds us in the present, and supports authentic, integrated healing. This training was a turning point. It helped me reclaim parts of myself buried under shame, burnout, and self-doubt.
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It also gave birth to Holistic Community Healing — a space where healing doesn’t require perfection. A space that honors the full human experience: joy and pain, triumphs and mistakes.
Here, I guide individuals and groups in developing somatic skills that support personal growth and meaningful community engagement.
A Regret That Guides Me
I've written about regret before, and it struck a chord with some—maybe because regret has become something of a taboo. We’re taught to refuse it, push away the pain, shift the responsibility. But I’ve learned that regret, when we listen, can provide a lesson. And some regrets need to stay with us—not to punish us, but to guide us.
As some of you know, I began working with communities in Russia in the early 1990s. That journey later took me to Ukraine on a couple of occasions. Being where we are now feels sobering. Most people I know are focused on what the conflict means for Western countries. I think about the children I met in Russia and Ukraine, who are now adults.
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One face stands out.
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There’s a drive in the nonprofit world to send foreigners to do work they shouldn’t be doing. I’ve written about this before: investing in local people to drive their initiatives is always best. But in the early 2000s, I made a decision that still weighs on me.
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I agreed to partner with an organization that believed it was investing in locals through community-led initiatives. I was told the group I was bringing that summer would either be training or working alongside Ukrainian nationals to reach out to children living on the streets. The premise was to better equip the locals and support them in their programs.
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I’ve always been uncomfortable with foreigners forming deep attachments with children in orphanages—because we leave. And no matter how well-intentioned we are, leaving becomes another wound for a child who has already been let down so many times.
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When I arrived in Ukraine, I realized we—the foreigners—would have the most direct contact with the kids, especially those in a juvenile detention center.
My concerns began causing friction with the organization, but I went along anyway. Had I known the full ramifications, I would have put my foot down.
One boy in particular—I called him Little Chase—captured my heart.
Like every child there, he needed love. And that was something I could give. He followed me constantly, always finding his way to my side. He didn’t need words to communicate how much he craved connection. For that month, I became a mother figure to him—and he clung to that.
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The day before I left, I noticed something was wrong. He was pale, silent, and visibly depressed. I asked his friends if something had happened to him the night before. They said, without hesitation, “He is sad because you are leaving.”
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I sat down next to him. He was holding a small gift I had given him and turning it slowly in his hands, eyes downcast. He wasn’t angry. Just very sad. I knew he had been crying from his puffy eyes, and now he was too exhausted to do even that. I tried to say all the right words. None changed his mood.
It wasn’t until years later that I could sit with what I had done. I had become another person who abandoned him. People tell me I shouldn’t carry that load. They say I have no idea what kind of positive impact I may have made.
But I was there. I saw and felt what happened.
​And I need this regret.
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I don’t beat myself up. But I carry the weight of what I did. It’s one of the reasons I stepped away from opportunities that would have advanced my career in the humanitarian world. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve spent the last decades investing in Community Driven Development.
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Whether Little Chase remembers me or not doesn’t matter. I pray for him regularly. And I let that experience inform the way I show up now—especially when I feel tempted to compromise by succumbing to a savior mentality.
For me, everything boils down to the state of our communities.
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Had the capable Ukrainian people been my primary focus, Little Chase would not have felt my abandonment. Instead, he might have experienced the consistent love and support of his own community—people who weren’t going anywhere.
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To be clear, I do not regret going to Ukraine or forming connections with the children. But if I could do it over again, I would have insisted that my role be to equip and uplift local leaders, not to stand in their place. If I had stood firm, the picture in this post wouldn’t just show an adult foreign face with Ukrainian children. It would show Ukrainian adults—parents, mentors, youth workers—being supported, empowered, and invested in to serve their communities long after we left.​
Lesson received.