My journey into bodywork began long before I trained as a therapist.

Looking back, I can see that much of my life has been shaped by an unformed question and a search for something I didn't yet have words for: Who am I really? And how can I find a home in my own body?

Art was the language that first helped me explore those two questions. I gained a degree in Fine Art and had a short, but deeply rewarding career as a painter in South Africa before following my heart to London.

If Art had given me a first language to fathom my own inner well, London gave me an ocean to swim in and helped me find a voice. Here, my creativity found a natural home in cooking and hospitality, so I found a catering and events company and I spent many years creating fabulous events for clients and running my own Shoreditch supper club. It was creative, demanding work that brought people together and allowed me to nourish them, yet beneath the busyness I sensed a growing distance from myself. I had become very good at doing, but less practised at simply being.

2016 became a turning point for me. It was the year I finally listened to my increasingly persistent body that was asking me to slow down. In fact, it was asking me to stop. And I listened.

What followed this decision was an unexpected cancer diagnosis and 2 months of intense radio-therapy and chemotherapy. I was 49 years old.

Recovery from the brutal treatment protocol became much more than regaining my health. It became an invitation to slow down and to begin listening differently—to my body, to the ways it held tension and protection, and to the experiences that had quietly shaped my life.

Following my recovery, I retraced my steps to Peru, where I had previously worked with Ayahuasca. It was a time when I was trying to integrate the events of the previous year and understand how the profound inner changes of this period might find expression in the rest of my life.

During that journey, I had an insight that quietly changed the direction of everything that followed: the healing I had come to seek was not something outside myself that I needed to earn. It was already there, inside me, like a gift of grace.

It left me with a simple but enduring understanding: that healing begins not through striving to become someone else, but through learning to meet ourselves where we are, with presence, compassion and honesty.

‍Shortly afterwards, through what felt like an extraordinary coincidence, I encountered Rosen Method Bodywork. Rather than feeling like something entirely new, it felt as though I had stumbled across a language for something I already knew, but had never been able to articulate. I knew, in my bones, that I had found my North Star.

That encounter shaped the course of my work today.

I returned to London, and started assembling the bodywork practice I have today. Built on the foundation of Rosen Method Bodywork, Myofascial Release and Massage followed: all of them representing different ways of exploring my fascination with the body’s remarkable capacity to adapt, and given the right conditions, reorganise itself. The question I was asking my own body was the question that now shaped my work: how do we learn to listen to the wisdom of the body, and what becomes possible when we do?

Over the last 10 years, since I started offering bodywork, my understanding of healing has become both simpler and more humble.

While I aim to work in an evidence-supported way and ground my work in ongoing professional development, I've come to believe that healing doesn't begin with someone who has all the answers. It begins when another person is willing to meet us with presence, curiosity and care. That is the quality of attention I continue to cultivate in my own life, and the one I hope every client experiences when they walk through my door. Every person arrives with their own history, their own nervous system, their own relationship with their body. My role is not to direct that journey, but to accompany it with curiosity, skill and respect.

Some people come because they are living with persistent pain or recovering from injury. Others arrive feeling disconnected from themselves, unable to fully relax, or simply sensing that something in their lives needs attention. Whatever brings someone through my door, I hope to offer a space where they feel safe enough to slow down, listen, and discover what their body may already know.

Alongside my clinical practice, I continue to study the evolving science of fascia, pain and the nervous system, while remaining deeply influenced by teachers such as Marian Rosen, Bessel van der Kolk, Peter Levine, Stephen Porges, Robert Schleip and Tara Brach amongst many more. Their work continues to remind me that healing is rarely about becoming someone different. More often, it is about gently uncovering what has been there all along.

The name Unalome reflects that understanding. In Buddhist symbolism, the unalome represents the winding path of being human—the loops, setbacks and unexpected turns that gradually unfold into greater clarity. Healing, in my experience, is rarely linear. It asks for patience, curiosity and compassion rather than perfection.

Perhaps that is what has drawn me to this work above all else.