Extraction

I spent some time yesterday morning chatting over coffee with a woman I’ve known for years. We’ve attended the same yoga studio on and off for over a decade and even operated our separate alternative health businesses out of the same holistic center a few years ago. We’ve been formally introduced, shared hellos and laughter in group settings, but we never actually met each other — until a couple of weeks ago.

Before I fully step into this story and everything it continues to stir, unravel, and bloom, I want to name something clearly: I’m sharing this as a human being. Not from any role I’ve held over the past 45 years. That distinction matters. You’ll see why.

Two weeks ago, I was at the yoga studio, folding towels in the dressing room when she walked in. I greeted her. She replied, “Hi Kim, how are you?”

I answered out of habit: “Good.”

I was about to reciprocate in kind, but before I could, she said, “I feel silly even asking that question.”

Boom. There it was... a human after my own heart. Disrupting the fucking pattern. And with that recognition, my body leaned the fuck in.

So I told her the truth — how I was actually doing. The grief. The frustration. The confusion. The rage. The disillusionment. The collapse. And before I knew it, she was holding me as I cried.

When things settled, she did something unexpected. She said, “Thank you.”

That moment — raw, unfiltered, human — had been healing for her too. It opened something. A pathway to real connection and intimacy. The kind we say we want, the kind we work toward, but rarely allow ourselves to fully receive.

A few more words passed between us, and then we returned to the rhythm of the space. I went back to folding towels. She stepped into class.

Yesterday, we finally sat down together. Much of our conversation centered on our experiences as practitioners and how those roles have shaped our lives. She’s still practicing. I’m not. But the observations we’ve each gathered over the years landed on the same page. I won't go into them all today (maybe ever), but there's one in particular knocking on my heart, asking to be spoken.

Extraction.

I want to begin by sharing something I sent her — a note Alexandra Winteraven posted on her Substack. In full disclosure, I'm using it slightly out of context. It was accompanied by an essay where she made a counterargument for matriarchy, but it still fits. This is followed by my own immediate reflection.

“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 maintain boundaries and don't meet 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 repair relational ruptures you didn't create and carry unspoken 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.

And the deeper I allowed myself to feel this, to grieve this, the more I realized it wasn't an isolated experience.

It pointed to something larger.

We say we want healing, but healing is relational and we're often still relating through extraction.

We consume insight faster than we embody it. We gather language without allowing it to change us. We take wisdom while remaining disconnected from the person, the process, or the practice that gave rise to it.

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.

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.

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

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 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.

That's what happened in the yoga studio that morning.

For a few brief moments, neither of us showed up as practitioners.

Neither of us reached for a role.

We showed up as people.

And somehow, that simple act of telling the truth became the most healing part of the conversation.

Maybe connection begins the moment we stop assigning roles to one another.

The moment we stop asking who someone is supposed to be... and simply meet the human standing in front of us.

Right here.

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