I grew up in India, wrapped in the warmth of maternal love, surrounded by the voices and silences of parents, aunties, and grandmothers. As the youngest in the household, I became a dancer of nuances and abruptions—moving through the unspoken choreography of dignity, belonging, and relationships. I learned to intuit what was accepted, what was taboo, and how each connection held its own quiet boundaries. I shaped myself around those contours, all the while longing for a kind of expression that could reveal me to myself. Our household held paradox at its root: the matriarch lived through devotion and spiritual practice, while the patriarch dissected reality in search of truth. In this sacred tension, I grew—part existentialist, part visionary. I was raised amidst ritual and reason, taught to question the world while sensing a deeper thread beyond it. Rooted in ritual stretched toward the edge of unknowing I was taught to question, to watch, and to feel for something beyond the visible. As I matured, subtle patterns began to surface. I noticed how those around me—though full of love and wisdom—moved in ways that felt inherited, as though they were enacting scripts passed down through generational anxieties and fear of the unknown. Their gestures, speech, and emotional responses bore the mark of fear rather than presence. Authentic experience—raw, unguarded, spacious enough to hold the unknown—was often avoided, feared, or dismissed. These inherited roles, these carefully woven distractions, were being offered to me too. Yet, between the pull of tradition and the call of inquiry, a spark was kept alive within me—an innocent curiosity that played with the wonder of this creation. The parts of me that sought connection and truth were often misunderstood as disruptions. So, I turned to performance—in the theater of everyday life. I tried on different voices at the vegetable stall, shifted my posture when stopped by the traffic police, and noticed how my tone could shift the energy of a room. I became fascinated by the subtleties of persona, improvising within each scene, discovering the edges of authenticity and role, and exploring how to move between them. But the more I shaped myself to fit the moment, the more I lost touch with the truth beneath the performance. What began as playfulness slowly hardened into a persona, molded to meet the expectations projected onto me. I started doing what others accepted, playing smaller and smaller within the confines of their approval. And somewhere along the way, I began to disappear from myself. The ache of disconnection set in—subtle, yet persistent, an echo of something forgotten. What had started as play transformed into a mask. The more roles I wore, the deeper my fear grew of the inevitable unmasking: I do not know who I am. Cut off from my own mystery, I grew weary of performance. I no longer wished to impress—I longed to feel, to return. And it was through the body that I found my way back. Dance reawakened spontaneity and courage to face the unknown. Theater revealed the mythos we all move within. Storytelling helped me listen for the hand behind the script. And through these doorways, I began to sense something vast—an intelligence, a rhythm, a presence not bound by form. There, in the silence beneath all becoming, I anchored myself in the Nameless—the ungraspable, unperceivable one who moves through all things yet remains untouched. The eternal stillness behind every sound. The stillness behind every step. And from that anchor, I began to feel the choreography of existence: each of us a phrase in the great cosmic dance, distinct yet inseparable from the whole. The wind called my name in languages I had forgotten. The sky laughed thunder into my bones. I dissolved into the song of it all, and became the silence between the notes. The more I surrendered into presence, the less I needed to be anything at all. In that soft, expansive emptiness, something true began to blossom—my voice, my colors, my rhythm in the great web of being. To live, I realized, is to let life be experienced through me. I move between worlds—form and formless, self and source—carrying offerings of story, sound, silence, and play. In remembering our connection to all beings, I began listening more deeply: to the land, to the breath of plants, to the spirits that walk beside us as allies on this winding path of return. The song of the earth stirred the dance in my feet. As I unclenched the fist I didn’t know I was holding, ease entered this body. Streams of grief poured through me—unspoken, ancient, cellular—and slowly, those streams became rivers of rejoicing. Now, I serve as a bridge—between what is seen and what is felt, between the ache of separation and the truth of belonging. My devotion expresses itself through the pathways of plant medicine, yoga, meditation, massage, and sound. Each modality a portal. Each encounter a ritual. Each being, a mystery ready to be remembered. My devotion is to unity—not as a concept, but as a lived experience. A sanctuary within and among us, where we remember we are never separate. I am here to dance that remembering, and to weave spaces where all beings can return home to their innate wholeness. And at the heart of it all, May there be ease and surrender in all beings, May I embrace Us, Let us gently acquaint We, Touching upon our truth. May We return to One, And from One, may emerge an I, Resurrected, purified of its falsehood, Emerging in gladness, vibrant and blissful, Made into a prayer.