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I was set up in the corner of a wellness market when a woman sat down across from me who clearly did not want to be there.
Her friend had dragged her. She crossed her arms. She told me upfront she didn’t believe in any of this. Fine by me—I don’t need belief to take an aura portrait.
I handed her the biofeedback sensors and watched the field build on my screen. What came through was extraordinary: a deep, luminous indigo crown, a wide expanse of green at the heart. The kind of field that usually belongs to someone who has been doing the inner work, faithfully, for a long time.
I turned the screen toward her.
She uncrossed her arms.
“Is that…me?” she asked.
“That’s you.”
She stared for a long moment. Then her eyes filled.
“I’ve never seen myself like that before,” she said. Not sadly, but more like she was meeting someone she’d been looking for.
This happens more than I can explain. Not always with tears—sometimes with laughter, sometimes with a long exhale, sometimes with a silence that fills the room. But there’s almost always a moment. A moment where someone sees themselves without the filter of their worst days, their most critical inner voice, their longest-running story about who they are and what they’re worth.
And in that moment, something simple and enormous becomes possible: they can choose to be kind to what they see.
We talk a lot about self-love in wellness circles. We have rituals and routines and journals and mantras dedicated to it. But I’ve noticed that most of those practices are asking us to perform self-love—to act as if it’s already there. What I watch happen in session is something quieter and more radical than that. It’s witnessing. Just…looking, clearly, without flinching away.
The technology I built, aura videography, maps biofeedback data to color frequencies and energy zones in real time. It is, at its core, a mirror. A more complete one than most of us have access to. The colors reflect the state of the autonomic nervous system. The zones reveal where energy is flowing and where it’s contracting. The whole image shifts as the person sitting in front of it shifts—breathes deeper, relaxes a shoulder, laughs at something.
What it cannot do is lie to us. And for a lot of people, that turns out to be exactly what they needed.
There’s a word I’ve started using for what I’m really offering in these sessions: radical witnessing. Not analysis. Not diagnosis. Not advice. Just a clear, unmediated image of someone’s energy field, held in front of them, and an invitation to look without running.
What I’ve learned from thousands of readings is that we are almost universally more beautiful than we believe ourselves to be. That the people who feel the most depleted often carry the most luminous fields. That grief shows up not as darkness but as depth. That the parts of ourselves we’ve been trying to fix or hide are often the most alive.
The radical part isn’t the technology. It’s deciding to look. And then deciding—just once, just here, just now—to let what we see be enough.
I didn’t set out to build a technology company. I set out to process a grief that had turned my life inside out, a series of losses that cracked my skepticism open and left me genuinely unable to dismiss the idea that we carry more than we can see.
The camera came later, out of necessity. I couldn’t find a tool that matched what I was perceiving, so I built one.
But the part that still moves me, after everything—after all the late nights of software development and the 4 a.m. van drives to set up at markets across the country—is that corner of the room. The moment when a stranger sits down across from me and sees themselves for the first time.
And chooses to stay.
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