One of the assumptions people often make about anyone who speaks publicly about unconventional topics is that they must be trying to convince, recruit, or direct. That has never been my role. I do not tell people what to do. I do not prescribe. I do not position myself as an authority over anyone else’s body or choices. What I do is share what I have seen.
There is an important distinction there—one that often gets lost in emotionally charged conversations. Telling people what to do assumes certainty, control, and responsibility for outcomes. Sharing what you’ve observed invites discernment, reflection, and personal responsibility.
I choose the second.
Over the years, I have listened to thousands of stories. Parents. Patients. Practitioners. People who tried everything they were told was acceptable and still found themselves searching. Their experiences did not arrive as theories. They arrived as patterns.
Patterns deserve attention, even when they make people uncomfortable.
When I speak about tools, gaps in education, or controversial topics, I am not issuing instructions. I am describing terrain. I am saying, “This exists. This has history. This is how people encountered it. This is where institutions struggled to engage.”
What someone does with that information is not my decision.
I believe deeply in individual agency. I believe adults are capable of learning, weighing risk, asking questions, and making choices that align with their values and circumstances. Treating people as incapable of that does not protect them—it infantilizes them.
At the same time, I understand why institutions prefer instruction over observation. Instructions are controllable. Observations are not. They invite independent thought, and independent thought cannot be standardized.
But healing has never been a one-size process.
People come to this work in very different places. Some want nothing more than to understand why certain topics provoke fear. Others are trying to make sense of conflicting information they’ve already encountered. Some simply want reassurance that they are not alone in noticing gaps.
None of those needs require me to tell them what to do.
They require honesty.
There is a quiet power in saying, “Here is what I’ve seen. Here is what I’ve noticed. Here is why this conversation is difficult. You are free to take this or leave it.”
That posture removes pressure—from me and from the reader.
It also restores dignity.
When people are given information without coercion, they tend to move more carefully, not less. They ask better questions. They seek context. They proceed with caution rather than urgency.
Fear-based messaging creates reaction.
Instruction creates compliance.
Observation creates discernment.
I trust discernment.
If someone reads my work and decides a topic has no relevance to them, that is a valid outcome. If someone decides to learn more, that is also valid. If someone simply feels less alone in their questioning, that matters too.
My work is not about outcomes I can control.
It is about creating space for thoughtful conversation in areas where silence has done more harm than discussion.
I share what I’ve seen because pretending I haven’t seen it would be dishonest.
And honesty, offered without agenda, is one of the few things that still allows trust to grow—especially in conversations that have been made unnecessarily volatile.
I don’t tell people what to do.
I tell the truth as carefully as I know how.
What others do with that truth is—and always should be—their choice.
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