Erin Coyle
Writer | Educator | Embodied Coach
Once upon a time you didn't have to find your voice. You had it.
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Singing in front of the mirror to your adoring fans (or your patient dog, Dean).
Sketching animals with too many legs and purple ears. Telling stories about living in the roots of trees or having a helicopter tail.
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​You weren’t editing yourself yet – you were just playful, silly, and alive.
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Then came the turning point.
The music teacher who said you couldn’t sing.
The rejection letter with your name spelled wrong.
The parent who whispered, be nice.
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Little by little, you got quieter.
And then came adulthood — clients, caregiving, illness, inboxes.
Underwear-inside-out kind of days. Full-on survival mode.
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Here's the thing – you haven’t lost your voice.
It’s just been busy surviving.
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I get it. I've lived it.
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When the body says– nope.
​I've spent more than two decades helping people come home to themselves – first through the body, now through story. But before I did this work, I was a massage therapist, yoga teacher, and somatic educator, running a wellness center while caring for my parents and finishing a in B.A. in Creative Writing with a focus on Myth, Somatics, and Healing.
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Then my own body staged a full-on rebellion: fatigue, brain fog, a constellation of weird symptoms that didn’t care how many certifications I had.
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One day a longtime client looked at me and said,
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“I think you’re the one who needs the massage.”
She paid me double.
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That was the beginning of the unraveling — and the return.
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Maybe you’ve had your own version of that moment — when the body says no, (you ignore it, because you’re busy and there’s stuff to do, damnit), then your ten-year plan dissolves and the only thing left is the painful truth. You can't go on like this.
When words became the way back.
I closed my practice. My identity as a healer, helper, and teacher? Gone.
I couldn't even help myself, let alone anyone else.
The only thing that still worked was writing – the one place I could be the great holy mess that was me. (Falling apart? Becoming? Honestly it can feel pretty much the same).
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​I wrote from bed, between flare-ups, in the in-between. When I tuned into my own stories, I found a safe way to listen. Really listen to what my body was trying to say.
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That’s how I discovered what I now call story medicine – the way language, when it comes from you, can begin to heal what thinking, doing, planning, (and even doctors, drugs, or supplements) can’t.
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I wish I’d had a story doctor to guide me through my descent. Now that’s exactly what I do for others.
Who I work with
You’re what I call a Sensitive Integrator – brilliant, empathic, and worn out from holding too much for too long.​
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Like me, you've built your entire career on helping others. You’re one of the ones-who-feel-everything. You’ve tried to “just push through” until your body said, no more.
Now, it’s asking you to do things differently. But what’s it saying?
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Maybe you’re in the messy middle — unsure what’s next. Or you have a dozen ideas but no idea which one to follow.
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When the words stop working — when the website, the book, or the next chapter of life all feel like blank pages —that’s the moment to listen closely. To do what feels hardest when things feel like they're unraveling – soften, breathe, let yourself happen.
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Together, we’ll create a solid container to hold your emerging voice, so you can tune in to the sacred place beneath the burnout. We'll use meditative writing, somatic regulation, small rituals, and guided practices to listen in to the story your body’s been telling. And you'll find out what’s ready to rest, and what’s quietly waiting to grow.
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Even though you're damn good at what you do, you can't do everything alone. The world is changing, it only makes sense that you're changing too.
I’ll help you create the space until the new thing — the new voice, the new rhythm — begins to reveal itself. (Don't worry, it always does. And it may not be what you expected.)
What happens when we work together.
We'll create a plan your body and heart can both get behind.
We’ll find words for what’s next – the offer, the project, the pivot – and a way to bring it forward without sacrificing your health, sanity, or soul.
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We'll write together, do simple embodied practices, and chart a path to steady your system, protect your energy, and speak or write about your work from a place that empowers, instead of drains.
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Let's find a way to work and live that fits your sensitive system.
How I Learned to Listen
(Still learning, BTW).
I’ve spent decades studying the intersection of story, psyche, and soma – including serving on the faculty of the Center for Embodied Education and apprenticing in Celtic and animist wisdom traditions with teachers like John and Caitlín Matthews and R.J. Stewart — as well as somatic study with Richard Strozzi-Heckler, Bessel van der Kolk, and others.
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Each discipline has taught me a different way to listen – to the body, to language, and the unseen worlds that shape how we live and work.
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Somatic & Parts-Work Coaching (ICF-trained)
Translating what’s beneath the words and helping people feel what they already know.
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Myth & Story Apprenticeship (30 years)
Depth study (and whiskey-tasting) with Irish and Scottish wisdom keepers exploring story as initiation and integration.
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Facilitation & Teaching (15 years)
Faculty member at the Center for Embodied Education, guiding practitioners in nervous-system-informed teaching and embodied presence
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Massage & Energy Work (20 years)
Two decades of listening to what bodies whisper (and sometimes shout).
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Writing & Messaging
Helping creatives and healers express the truth of their work in language that feels alive in the body – drawing on training with The Copy Cure and B-School (Marie Forleo & Laura Belgray).
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B.A. in Creative Writing and Holistic Studies
Focus on myth, somatics, and healing — where I first learned that story isn’t just art; it’s medicine.
Each of these languages – mythic, somatic, and creative – taught me the same truth:
transformation begins when we start listening differently.
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Well, you've made it this far so... here's six things about me you might not guess:
I love tea, and if you came to my house, I’d offer you a cup. And keep offering until you said yes. Because saying no isn’t really an option. (It's an Irish thing).
I play fiddle, mandolin, and banjo, mostly in the "old-time" tradition. Think songs about drinking, love, raising a ruckus, and losing an eye—sometimes all in one song!
I’ve lived in an Airstream and a tipi. I spent my 20s traveling around, studying with writers, wild-crafters, nuns, scientists, poets, magic-makers, neurobiologists, and healers. I love meeting all kinds of people.
Yes, that is my natural hair, and yes, it’s naturally curly. I found my first strand of silver at 12. (I’ve been told it’s a sign of wisdom, but I used it to buy a six-pack at 16. So…you be the judge.)
I’m a dual U.S./Irish citizen and a student of Irish Gaelic. While my Irish isn’t perfect, I know “Is fearr Gaeilge briste, ná Béarla cliste”—“Broken Irish is better than clever English.” Translation?
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Perfect or not, your story matters.
So let’s get it out there.