“Boom. This is one of many reasons why I don’t want to be a practitioner anymore. When people know you have capacity, their expectations unconsciously shift. And even if you don’t entertain those expectations, there’s still harm. It’s like a restriction has been imposed on your humanity. A subtle narrowing of what you’re allowed to be. It may be conditioning, but it’s still dehumanizing. 

I also feel it's why collaborating within the healing and spiritual spaces is difficult. The more capacity you’re perceived to have as a practitioner, the more you’re expected to "transcend" (aka love and light with a smile) — relational ruptures, boundary crossings, emotional labor that isn't yours to hold. Capacity quickly gets distorted into something else… extraction and ENDURE-ance.”

Let me be clear... I’m not talking about clients. Managing client expectations is part of the work. What I didn’t expect was to encounter these dynamics within my own community. Among peers. Friends. Potential partners. Even strangers in unrelated spaces.

Unpopular opinion: We are not as far along in our collective healing as we like to believe. 

If we were, the endless stream of spiritual and self-development content wouldn’t be mainstream. The general population would recognize that the tools already exist — and that real change comes not from consuming more, but from integrating what is already known.

But integration requires capacity. And while many don’t yet have the capacity for that depth, they do have the capacity to skim, scroll, and half-listen. To consume without embodying.

And that, too, is extraction.

I lived inside that dynamic for years — sharing vulnerably and generously across platforms. If something moved through me and I felt called to share it, I would. No polish. No performance. Just a human, in process.

But I wasn’t met as that human.

I was met for what could be extracted from my experience. For what could be distilled, packaged, and consumed. The mess — the realness — the actual fucking process. That wasn’t what people stayed for. They deferred their presence in the process to the nugget of wisdom that was easily digestible later.

There are deeply embedded unconscious expectations placed on those perceived as “healers,” especially if they demonstrate emotional depth and capacity. Whether accurate or not, that perception is a collective (conditioned) agreement — and from there, an expectation.

That subtle veil that gets placed over you as a practitioner strips away your humanity so others can feel more comfortable. More certain. More in control.

A "Don’t show me your mess — because then I might have to face mine," clause in a contract you never signed.

So instead, you’re pedestalized. Idealized. Separated. Turned into something palatable. Something safe.

And it’s profoundly disorienting and lonely. It's also a fucking lie.

The more I embraced my own complexity — the parts of me that disrupted narratives, challenged systems, and dismantled illusions — the fewer people could stay. 

And eventually, I realized that when I stopped allowing others to extract from me, many weren’t interested in relating to me at all.

Not as a client. Not as a peer. Not as a friend. Not as a partner.

And that realization changed everything.

Because what I want now isn’t to be seen for my capacity.

It’s to be met in my humanity.

Messy. Unresolved. Evolving.

Not as someone to take from — but as someone to be with.

And maybe that’s where this really lands.

What if the work isn’t to expand our capacity endlessly, but to examine how we relate to it — in ourselves and in others?

What if connection begins the moment we stop assigning roles to one another — and start meeting, instead?

Not as healer and client.
Not as teacher and student.
Not as performer and audience.

But as humans.

Right here.