It feels like I have always been here. Right in this experience, in this knowing, even though I have quite literally just got off of the train. It feels strangely familiar, kind of like putting on a familiar old comfy pair of shoes.
There is a peculiar sense of déjà vu, as though I have stepped into a space I have occupied before, despite knowing full well that this is my first time. It is not just the physical surroundings or the people I meet - it is something deeper, something woven into the fabric of the experience itself. It is as though, on some level, I have been waiting to arrive here, and now that I have, everything fits into place with an uncanny ease.
The weight of my bag over my shoulder, the rhythm of my footsteps as I walk, even the air around me - it all feels oddly known to me, as if I have walked this path before in some other time, some other way. I tell myself it is just excitement mixed with nerves, but there is something else, too - something almost reassuring in this deep familiarity.
Perhaps this is what it feels like to step into a calling rather than simply learning a subject. There is no sense of struggle to adapt, no feeling of being out of place. Instead, there is a quiet recognition, an unspoken understanding that I am exactly where I am meant to be. It is an ease that is both comforting and intriguing, like slipping my feet into shoes that have already molded to me, waiting for my return.
And yet, even in this sense of ease, there is also anticipation. Because while the fit may be familiar, the journey ahead is still unknown. The path is unwritten, the learning yet to unfold. But for now, in this moment, I allow myself to settle into the feeling, to trust it, to acknowledge that even though I have only just arrived, something about this place - this experience - already belongs to me.
From Repertory to Artistry - The Start of My Journey as a Student Homeopath
Studying homeopathy has been a strangely transformative journey - one filled with moments of clarity, deep questioning, and, at times, self-doubt. I have also had some inexplicably profound occurrences which, when I was most in a position of doubt, convinced me of a certain path to take. That path has led me to where I am now as a student of the medical art.
These moments have often felt like signposts, small nudges from somewhere beyond rational understanding, reaffirming my decision to continue down this road. Sometimes, they have come in the form of unexpected confirmations - a stranger saying something that echoes exactly what I had been contemplating, or a remedy suddenly revealing itself by falling off of a shelf amongst hundred of others, in a way that feels too coincidental to ignore. Other times, it has been more subtle - a feeling of alignment, of something clicking into place, even when the path ahead still seems uncertain.
Like many students of this profound healing journey, I began with the structure and logic of repertorisation, only to quickly realise that true beauty in helping someone goes beyond the pages of a book. This journey, however, has not been without its challenges - especially the ever-present imposter syndrome that lingers in the early stages of learning. Yet, as I continue to grow, I see how homeopathy connects with other healing modalities, all seeking the same goal: restoring balance and vitality.
This realisation has been both comforting and overwhelming. On the one hand, it reassures me that healing is a universal process, not confined to one method or philosophy. On the other hand, it reminds me just how much there is to learn - not only about remedies and case-taking but about the very nature of health and disease itself.
Learning the Book-Bound Foundations and Artistic Prescribing
At the beginning of my training (not that I am not still at the beginning, in the true sense of the meaning!), repertorisation felt like an essential but blandly mechanical process. Each case requiring meticulous analysis - matching symptoms to rubrics, cross-referencing remedies, and carefully selecting the most fitting choice based on an arbitrary scoring mechanism. If we dug deep enough then we would begin to unveil some of the personal constitutional factors, and if we were really diligent and followed the rabbit hole far enough we may find hidden traumas and miasms in a case.
There was a certain comfort in the structure of it, in knowing that if I followed the correct steps, I would eventually land on a remedy. It felt logical, methodical - almost like solving a puzzle. But as I worked through cases, I began to realise that the human experience is not always so neatly categorisable. Some cases refused to fit into the rubrics in a way that made sense, no matter how carefully I analysed them. Others seemed to demand an entirely different approach, one that required me to step outside the rigid framework I had been taught and instead rely on something more elusive - perception, intuition, or perhaps just a deeper level of observation. The reality is that something was present that wasn’t there in the books. Some form of unwritten language that was just out of sight, just on the cusp of being remembered, like a lingering dream as you wake in the morning.
This structured approach was invaluable, teaching us the language of homeopathy and allowing me to methodically apply the principles laid out by Hahnemann and later scholars. Ultimately that doesn’t change of course, particularly once you 'think' you know what the rubrics are and what remedy you would choose - the double checking of your guess is then wildly thrown a curveball by that exact book, which you never even considered. That is important as it stops you becoming complacent and it reminds me that I am still very much a student.
And perhaps I always will be. The more I learn, the more I realise that mastery is not about having all the answers at my fingertips, but about being open to constant questioning. It is a humbling process - just when I begin to feel confident in my understanding, I encounter a case that forces me to re-evaluate everything I thought I knew. And that, I am beginning to see, is exactly as it should be.
Yet, I begin to sense the limitations of rigid repertorisation. There are times when a case doesn’t neatly fit within the categories of a textbook, and other times when a patient’s essence seemed to transcend the symptomatic breakdown. Sometimes it is in spoken word, sometimes in the unspoken bit between words, and sometimes it is in the body language or subtle observable physical characteristics. This led me to question: Is homeopathy purely a science, or is it really an art - something one feels and acts on, as opposed to something one follows the instructional steps in order to prescribe a particular case.
I have started to notice the way certain patients carry their suffering - not just in the symptoms they describe, but in their posture, their tone of voice, the hesitation or urgency with which they speak. Sometimes, a key to understanding their remedy seems to exist in something intangible - a feeling I get while sitting with them, a sense of their energy that does not quite translate into words or rubrics. It is in these moments that homeopathy begins to feel less like a science and more like an art - something one feels and acts on, as opposed to something one follows the instructional steps in order to prescribe a particular case.
Over time, I have started to see homeopathy not just as a system of rules and references but as a dynamic, intuitive process. Some homeopaths seem to possess an ability to perceive a case beyond rubrics - to see the person rather than just their symptoms. Artistic prescribing, as I have begun to understand, requires more than intellectual knowledge; it requires a deep engagement and almost etheric entanglement with the patient, a sensitivity to their individual experience, and an ability to recognise the underlying patterns or traumas in their suffering.
This shift isn’t easy. There is a fear of moving away from the safety of repertories and Materia Medica so early, and frankly, maybe it is the wrong choice. What if I get it wrong? What if I miss an important rubric?
That fear is not unfounded. There is something reassuring about the structured process of repertorisation - it gives the illusion of certainty. To step beyond it, even slightly, feels like stepping into unknown territory. But I think I am beginning to see that true homeopathic mastery involves both structure and fluidity - understanding when to lean on the repertory and when to trust a deeper, more intuitive knowing.
And perhaps that is where the real challenge lies - not just in learning the remedies, the rubrics, and the methods, but in learning to trust myself. Trust that even when the path is not clear, even when doubt creeps in, I am still moving in the right direction. Perhaps, in the end, that is what all of this is teaching me: to embrace the uncertainty, to listen carefully, and to have faith in the process of discovery.
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