The short answer?
A healer. A psychic medium. A bone reader. A breaker of generational patterns.
A man who walked away from an eight figure life in aesthetics to answer a call far older, far deeper, and far more powerful than anything the modern wellness world is prepared for.
The long answer?
You're going to want to sit down for this.
I was not born Auric Orion Blackwood. I became him.
I shed the old name, the old identity, the old performance, and what emerged was the truth underneath. A man built from ancestral memory, intuitive gift, and the kind of healing ability that cannot be taught in a certification program or explained in clinical language.
My path did not start in a healing center or on a retreat. It started long before that. In the silent places where my ancestors carried their medicine, their gifts, and their identity quietly, simply to survive.
I did not choose this work. It chose me the second I came back to the land that made my bloodline. And the land answered back. With signs. With bones. With fire. With animals. With dreams.
Some people receive gentle nudges toward their purpose. I get spiritually leveled with confirmations.
Growing up, Melungeon was whispered like something to be ashamed of. Poor, backwoods, forgotten mountain people. The kind of thing families bury, not celebrate.
That was the lie.
The truth? My people were the ones who survived what others did not. Indigenous, African, and European roots braided into something the world had no name for. The ones who healed with roots and hands, read signs in the wind, spoke with spirit, cast bones, divined fate, dreamed messages, and held extraordinary power quietly because extraordinary power got you targeted.
My ancestors were not ashamed. They were silenced. And in my direct line, Solomon Old Sol Collins, my fourth great grandfather, a Native mountain patriarch and medicine keeper, passed his gifts down the bloodline.
They lay dormant. Skipping generations. Sleeping.
Until me.
An eagle appearing the first time I offered tobacco to my ancestors. A bone set clicking like it was speaking a language I forgot I knew. An intuitive knowing that felt older than this lifetime. Ancestral whispers that became a roar.
I did not step into this work. I woke up into it.
What I do now, the psychic mediumship, the bone casting, the emotional alchemy, the energy work, feels less like something I learned and more like something I remembered. My healing ability is the medicine my ancestors practiced long before psychology existed, returned through me, through the bloodline, through the plant medicine that finally cracked me fully open.
The hands I came back with after Ayahuasca are not the same hands I went in with. And the people who receive healing through them feel the difference before I ever say a word.
A lot of healers choose their path. Mine is woven from two bloodlines colliding.
European lineage. English, Irish, Scottish threads. Ritual, intuition, prophecy, ancestral communion, the unseen made tangible.
Appalachian Native medicine. Omen reading, bone throwing, energy extraction, shadow healing, spirit guided work, threshold magic, emotional clearing.
I did not have to choose between them.
I am the crossroads where they meet. The one who translates the unseen. The one who breaks the generational silence and brings the medicine back into the light, not as performance, not as aesthetic, but as the real, living, breathing work it has always been.
Nobody handed me a rulebook that said transformation has to be heavy. That you have to sit in silence and cry quietly and speak in reverent tones about your healing journey. I missed that meeting entirely.
My whole foundation is joy. Real, irreverent, laugh-until-you-cry joy. Because healing does not have to be a funeral. You can do the deepest work of your life and still find things funny along the way. You can sob and then laugh at yourself for sobbing and then sob again and that is not a sign that you are doing it wrong. That is a sign that you are actually in it.
I am a unicorn in the healing space and I know it. Everyone else is so serious. So reverent. So careful. And I am over here pulling bones and cracking jokes and holding the most sacred space you have ever sat in while also making sure you know that you are going to be okay, more than okay, and that joy is not something you earn after you heal. It is the medicine itself.
I am not here to perform healing for you. I am here to walk through it with you, laugh with you, cry with you, and remind you at every step that the whole point of all of this is to come back home to yourself.
And home has always felt like joy.
