Recovery Is My Greatest Act of Rebellion

From the trauma ward in Cairo to a healing yurt in the Bay

The summer sun in San Rafael reminds me of Cairo—before I became so “productive.” When I first moved to San Francisco, I spent 8 years inside the fog—grinding, hustling, and then dissociating when things got too dreary.

In the fog, we can work on and on and on.
In the sun, we soften. We get playful—or just too tired to stare at a screen all day.

As David Whyte wrote: “The antidote to exhaustion is not rest. It’s wholeheartedness.”

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Last July, as some of you may recall, I was writing from Point San Pablo Harbor and farm. I was living on a bus and had spent my whole summer caretaking for plants and animals.

Richmond is blessed with that same summer shine that San Rafael has. The sun rose at 5.30 am, and turned my big metallic bus into a human toaster. Burnt and bothered, I’d step off the bus, cursing my life.

However, within a few seconds, the whispering winds and beautiful views of the wide open bay would fix my mood — Immediately.

No meditation needed.

Every morning at 9 am, I’d take out the goats and walk them up the hill, naturally getting a free cardio workout. Then I’d walk into the organic farm to water our plant beds and listen to an audiobook by Robert Sapolsky or Gabor Mate or on the impact of work-related stress on the human condition.

I spent a lot of time thinking about how each human is not much different from a seed in soil, or to take it further, a cell in an interstitial fluid. I noted the amount of factors that it took for a seed to grow into a zucchini, or a potato, or an arugula bunch.

In addition to the basics (sun, water and wind), we had to protect it from mould, birds and other predators via nets, enrich the soil with goat manure (aka my strength workout), and finally, be on the lookout for new pests that arise with all sorts of new diseases.

I built fences, dug ditches, and wrestled with the dissident goats. Farm work is tough and endless.

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Reflecting on the Soil we Live In

We all understand this fundamental rule about how plants can only be as healthy as their soil, but then why do we all expect a human working or living in a toxic environment to be healthy on their own?

I’ll tell you why.

For years, I masked my yearning for sunshine with drugs, work, and travel. The wellness industry thrives on this disconnection—selling us our lives back from the corporations we sold them to. I call this the Russian doll of capitalism. Every time you think you’ve reached the end of mindless consumption, another doll is waiting inside.

There is no better market for wellness products than an overachieving population in a toxic system, with Vitamin D deficiency.

Living in nature unearthed a memory I had buried for 12 years: It was the day that I lost my first patient in the surgical Trauma ER in Cairo.

There were five of us trying to resuscitate a patient who had fallen off a tractor at a construction site. He was in his early twenties and his family members sat on the floor of the crowded and dirty waiting room of our public hospital.

Despite our efforts, he didn’t make it.

I walked outside, removed my white coat, and sank into a red plastic chair at a curbside coffee shop. The hospital served one of Cairo’s poorest, most chaotic districts. I ordered a double Turkish espresso, lit a cigarette, and exhaled relief. Watching the endless flow of people leaving the metro station, navigating the marketplace, and flooding into the hospital, I saw a tunnel of lost souls seeking a cure. My job was to heal them, yet I felt utterly lost. I was an imposter to health. A poser in a white coat.

I lit another cigarette and noticed a group of women in black gathering outside the morgue—the “Kiosk of Death,” as we called it. They sat on the curb and began their macabre chorus of wailing, a custom in Egypt’s poorer funerals. Their screams filled my mind, drowning out everything else. Was this the mother of the patient I lost today?

Possessed, I downed my coffee, threw the cigarette, got in my car, and drove with no destination. A bridge, a desert highway, and two hours later, I was in Alexandria, drinking beer by the Mediterranean.

That evening, I drove back home just in time for dinner with my parents.

“How was your day?”

“Good. And you?”

I repeated this ritual for months, finding solace in the drive, the beer, and the sea. Sometimes I screamed in the car. It felt good. Screaming was an excellent supplement to Prozac. No one knew about my secret ritual. I kept showing up at the hospital, doing the bare minimum.

I had reached a point where I had to escape the physical environment I was in.

Hospitals, schools, and jails all look the same—square rooms, fluorescent lights, hard floors. Designed for control, not recovery.

We lack spaces.

Third spaces. Healing spaces. Human spaces.

That memory is why I left Egypt—and medicine—behind.
I became an immigrant instead of staying numb.
I chose displacement over collapse.

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Welcome to the Healing Yurt

Today, twelve years later, I write to you from one of my two Bay Area locations for The Human Dash health program. I sit in a Mongolian yurt designed for healing. The furry carpet beneath me hugs my body as I lie on the ground. In a world that constantly demands more, resting here feels like my greatest accomplishment. Recovery is my greatest act of rebellion.

Bright red poles hold up the roof, decorated with intricate artwork, hand-painted by a Mongolian tribe. Sunlight trickles through a skylight, casting gentle shadows through a macrame basket of purple vines. The scent of eucalyptus from the tree outside blends with the earthy aroma of compost from our organic farm. A propane heater hums, warming the yurt with its neon-orange glow.

I built this space to heal myself and to offer my clients something missing in health coaching—a connection to land and nature. As I lie here, a rooster crows in the distance, a hawk soars above, and through the window, I catch sight of a goat grazing, its square eyes meeting mine.

It smiles.

This yurt is not in a remote jungle retreat or an exclusive wellness center in Central America. It stands right here in the Bay Area, just 35 minutes from San Francisco—where entrepreneurs pitch to VC firms, tech workers are pulled back into offices with little notice, engineers work overtime in fear of layoffs, the unhoused sleep in cardboard boxes, and making plans requires a Google Calendar invite two weeks in advance.

And yet, here in Point San Pablo Harbor and its surrounding organic farm in Richmond, California, I find a unique reality. Here, people have time to stop and chat. Here, I feel safe leaving my car unlocked.

A rolling green hill slopes toward the historic harbor, where colorful floating homes rest on calm waters. My intention for this book is to create a guided experience from this space. I offer you a structured approach to wellbeing, integrating science-backed inner work, lifestyle changes, and clinical data to help you recover yourself from the pressures of the world.

So, welcome to my healing yurt.

If you're in the Bay Area, come by. Bring your story.

The goats and I will be waiting.

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