Taking My Medicine - Bitter Pills and Sweet Relief

This week, I set out to find the medicine I needed.

Not because I was sick in the way we usually mean it—but because I am preparing. Next week, I begin seeing clients in my new space, five days a week. That kind of threshold asks something of the body, the nervous system, the spirit. It asks for honesty about what support is actually required.

I’ve been thinking a lot about medicine lately—what it is, how we take it, how often.

Some medicines are maintenance medicines. They’re the quiet, daily practices that keep our energy circulating and our systems resilient. For me, those look like eating nourishing food, moving my body, running and practicing yoga through the winter, journaling, and writing—writing always. These are not flashy acts. They’re not dramatic. But they are faithful. They keep the channels clear.

And then there are medicines we take when we need extra support.

When we are stretching.
When we are stepping into something new.
When the container of our life is expanding.

This week, I took several of those medicines.

One was a virtual Reiki session hosted by my friend Kristen. There is something deeply restorative about receiving Reiki from someone else. Holding space takes energy. When I am the one offering the session, I am also the one maintaining the container. When someone else is offering Reiki to me, I get to rest more fully. I get to soften into being held. I get to surrender knowing I am in someone else’s care. This care from another person is potent medicine.

Another came in the form of nervous system entrainment with Colleen, a no-crack chiropractor whose work is subtle and profound. During our session, she identified places where my energy had become separated within my body and encouraged reintegration through light pressure and attuned presence.

It reminded me of something essential about creativity and manifestation: ideas almost always come first. The vision arrives and develops in the mind, but between inception and manifestation, there is a critical step we often overlook—the body has to feel safe enough to carry the idea. The nervous system has to be regulated enough for the signal to travel from the brain down through the rest of us. Otherwise, the vision stays theoretical, trapped above the neck. In this way, integration is medicine.

And then there was the most bitter medicine of the week: meeting with my financial advisor.

Thinking and talking about money has historically brought me very little pleasure and a great deal of anxiety—old feelings of unworthiness, scarcity, and avoidance. But I am learning to recognize something important: not taking bitter medicine when it’s needed is a form of self-abandonment.

So instead of avoiding it, I decided to sweeten it.

I set an intention that I would leave the meeting feeling empowered in my relationship with my finances. I asked my advisor to meet me in a space that felt magickal—Two Moons Café. I wore something comforting: a soft jacket that feels like a hug from a teddy bear. I ordered orange cinnamon tea for optimism and abundance. I pumped myself up singing along to Ariana Grande’s “7 Rings” and imagined “receipts be lookin’ like phone numbers.”

It worked.

Because here’s the thing: anything can be a spell.

Medicine doesn’t have to be joyless. Even the bitter ones can be taken with care, ritual, and self-respect. When we meet our lives with intention—when we choose compassionate support instead of brutal endurance—we practice devotion to ourselves.

This week, I took my medicine.

And I feel steadier for what’s coming.

As you stand on the edge of what’s next, what medicine will help you cross the threshold?