We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Kamala Brown. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with Kamala below.

Hi Kamala , thanks for joining us today. Can you open up about a risk you’ve taken – what it was like taking that risk, why you took the risk and how it turned out?

“Had I known the full journey, I wouldn’t have taken the first step. But not knowing was the gift.”

The risk that changed everything was stepping away from a life that made perfect sense on paper—and no sense in my soul.

In 2010, I left my successful career as a chartered town planner. I had a first-class degree, awards, and a stable, respected role. It was a massive professional risk.
“You have a good job,” my mind—and its Indian conditioning—would echo. “Something solid. Something you can hold onto when life becomes uncertain.”
But inside, I felt the hum of misalignment. A quiet ache. A whisper I’d ignored for too long. That whisper came from beyond the mind, beyond practicality or cultural expectation.

In the world I come from—or at least the version of it that shouts the loudest—success is safety. Structure. Respect.
To walk away from that wasn’t just impractical—it was unspoken rebellion.
Approval might vanish. But so might the numbness I’d learned to live with.

I’d always sensed I didn’t quite fit the mould. Even as a child, I coloured outside the lines—softly, but persistently. So when that inner voice rose louder, I listened.
I didn’t have a name for what I was moving toward, only the knowing that staying would cost me something deeper than security.

I began training as a yoga teacher in 2009 while still living in that world of systems and structure—not searching for a new career, but for a deeper truth.
When I left, there was no plan—just trust.

And that trust wavered. I was constantly pulled in two directions.
I’d like to say the path unfolded like peaceful breath… but the truth is, when we step away from certainty, it rarely feels like that.
Looking back, it was more like jumping into a freezing river. The elation of the leap was real—but it was quickly replaced by the shock of the cold.
Breath staggering. Body shuddering.
But I kept moving. I had no choice. I was in the water now.

Grace doesn’t necessarily look graceful.
It was wild and wide open. I often felt like I was skating across ice with no technique, falling through the cracks, unsure if I’d ever land.

I moved through more training—not as achievements, but as ways to remember.
Meditation, energy work, bushcraft, laughter yoga, sound healing, creative writing.
Each layer peeled something back.
Each step, a small surrender.

I remember, in the chaos of those early months after quitting town planning, I made a quiet request to the universe:
Let me teach someone well-known—not for status, but for a sign that I’m seen.
Just a whisper. A seed.

Six weeks later, someone well-known found a little card I’d pinned to a parish council noticeboard. They reached out. I taught them for three years.
It felt like the universe answered—not with thunder, but with a gentle nod: Yes, keep going.
It was what my ego needed.
Some kind of proof.
I was still learning what success actually meant.

And the path kept reshaping me.

In 2013, my marriage ended in betrayal.
But had that not happened, I may never have left.
I was slowly being cracked open.

It was painful—but in hindsight, it was as though life was prising my fingers from the branch of safety I’d clung to at the river’s edge.
I didn’t want to get swept away. But I also couldn’t stay frozen where I was.

Then in 2017, my younger brother Harnaik—my soulmate—was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
I became his full-time carer.
We fought hard to overcome it, until we realised healing isn’t about prolonging life.
It’s about loving, forgiving, understanding, and learning to let go.

He passed in 2019. That time gave me a depth of wisdom I carry to this day.

I came to understand the paradox we all face:
Do what you can, live with intention, but don’t cling to outcomes.
If something doesn’t manifest, it’s not always because you didn’t try hard enough.
Sometimes, it’s divine will.

That’s a hard pill to swallow—especially when you’re watching someone you love slip away.
But in the end, there’s an understanding beyond words.
A kind of surrender that comes not through concept, but through fire.

And yet—it never felt like that at the time.
It hurt.
It stretched me to my edges and carved something deeper in me.

After he died, he left me money. And in my grief, I chose to use it to birth something meaningful.
Something for both of us.

Centred Soul had been circling me since 2012.
By 2016, I had begun dreaming of recording meditations.
But after his passing, the vision rooted.

From 2019 to its launch in 2023, I poured myself into it—slowly, soulfully—letting it shape me as much as I shaped it.

And no, it wasn’t always glamorous.
After the money my brother left me ran out, I took work in a shop. I cleaned.
I did what was needed—quietly, simply—because I didn’t want my energy to be consumed by striving.
I needed to stay aligned with what mattered.

Unless you’re a well-known healer in whatever field, you’re not exactly earning much.
But that journey forced me to redefine success.

My inner world was rich. Still is.
Because what I’ve cultivated inside me can’t be measured in numbers—it’s measured in presence, peace, and the capacity to live in alignment.
For me, that is wealth. That is success.

Don’t get me wrong—my path wasn’t easy.
There were moments when it was hard. Really hard.
It’s difficult to feel secure when you don’t know how you’ll pay your rent.
But somehow, it always worked out.
The money would come—just enough, just in time.

It reminds me of that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where he steps into what he thinks is the abyss.
He believes he’s leaping into nothing—but the path was always there.
He just couldn’t see or feel it until he walked forward.

That’s how it felt.
Like life asking me to trust—even when a big part, maybe the biggest part, didn’t.

That time also taught me the quiet power of prayer.
I remember a morning when I had just £5.93 in my bank account. I woke up terrified.
I got on my knees and prayed—not just with words, but with my whole being.
I asked for help—actually, I correct myself—I begged.

Within 30 minutes, I received news: I had been underpaid £9,500 from something years earlier.
Even now, just writing this brings tears to my eyes.
It reminded me—I’m not walking this path alone.

That help comes in many forms—often from unexpected places.
I had to learn not to limit where abundance could come from, or what it should look like.
The money didn’t always come through my offerings at Centred Soul.
But it came.
And that, too, was part of the surrender.

Since then, I’ve chosen intuition over intellect. Devotion over direction.
The mind wants maps. The soul rides currents. The heart longs for meaning.
And the gut? The gut speaks in pulses—raw, immediate, unmistakable.
It protects. It alerts.
While intuition whispers from a deeper field—guiding not just to safety, but to soul-alignment.

These voices don’t always speak in unison, but they each carry truth.
And when I slow down enough to listen, I can feel who’s speaking—and why.

I’ve written a story about this very tug and pull—between the different parts within us—and I’ll be releasing it later this year.
It felt like a conversation that needed space of its own.

I’ve learned to let that fuller rhythm lead—even when I don’t yet understand where it’s going.
That rhythm—deeply feminine, intuitive, unseen—would eventually become the heartbeat of Centred Soul.

Because when I reflect back at the end—whether tomorrow or in fifty years—I want to know that I lived a life worth living.
I want the minutes to show that I turned up.
That I didn’t just exist—I was present.

If I had known the fear, storms and heartbreak ahead, I might never have leapt.
But not knowing—that was the grace.
The gift that allowed me to begin.
To take a risk that changed everything.

Kamala , before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?

Question 2
Centred Soul is not just an app—it’s a sanctuary.

It was born not from ambition, but from absence.
A hollow space I couldn’t fill in the world around me.
I wanted a place that honoured the slow, sacred rhythms of healing.
A space where the nervous system and the soul could exhale together.
I created it for the version of me that was overwhelmed and searching.
And for the woman I am now—rooted, cyclical, listening.

The name came in 2011, when I felt broken and sobbing to my friend Natalie.
She reflected back the space I longed for.
She said, “It sounds like you want a space to centre your soul?”
That moment was like a thunderbolt. And the name stayed.

In 2016, the idea of recorded meditations began to flicker. But it wasn’t until 2019, after my brother passed, that I answered the call fully.
I used the money he left me to bring the vision to life—not as a product. As a prayer.
I don’t even see it as a product, really. It’s something alive.
A space that’s held—not just by code and content—but by presence, and by different levels of reality.
 The seen and unseen. The grounded and the energetic. The personal and the universal.
It moves with me. And I move with it.

Though it has the structure of a brand, I’ve never treated it like one.
I don’t strategise (my mind still flips out at this). I listen.
I don’t hustle. I tend.

Centred Soul is a living garden. It grows with the seasons of my own becoming.

Inside the app, you’ll find over 250 moments of soul care and it continues to grow. I call them Centred Soul Moments. 
Each one is an offering. A pause. A space of return.
They span crystal sound journeys, energy work, lunar rituals, breath practices, journaling, prayer, and meditations—each created with sacred intention. There’s also a space called Prayers of the Soul—a quiet noticeboard where a few healers I love and trust offer their work – to remind us we’re not walking alone.

These aren’t structured steps. There’s no linear path.
The app is intuitive by design and even features an oracle section.

You’re invited to move through it like a honeybee—drawn to what calls you, cross-pollinating between offerings in your own rhythm.
It’s a unitive space—not fragmented by goals or comparison—but rooted in trust.
Trust that you’ll land where you need to. That your soul knows the way.

Every Centred Soul Moment is paired with a Visual Transmission—a symbolic image that holds its own frequency.
They’re not icons. They’re doorways.

The visual transmissions were created in ceremony, inside the Forestside Healing Lodge—a sacred recording studio I built for this work.
It rests on a crystal grid laid into the earth, and is surrounded by living allies: Grandmother Willow, three Red Cedars, a bamboo tree, and a flowing stream.
This is where all the recordings for Centred Soul are made, held by the energy of this land and the presence of twelve Alchemy Crystal Singing Bowls from Crystal Tones.

The painting process begins in stillness—by offering a sound transmission, setting an intention, and entering an inner, empty space.
From there, I am guided—to colours, forms, and textures—through the same listening that guides me when I play the bowls.
It’s not technique. Its presence.

Each image exists only for a few minutes.
Then, it is ceremonially destroyed.
Letting go is part of the process. A reflection of impermanence, of trust, of the truth that everything is connected, and everything that comes before informs the now.
What remains is a photograph—a visual echo of a moment where sound, spirit, colour, and stillness converged.

I designed the app—not the code, but the feel. The way it’s organised. The way it moves. The energetic pacing.
I chose to use painted visual transmissions as icons. At first, I was afraid. I had no formal training as an artist.
I even asked someone else to create them—about twenty in total—but they didn’t resonate. They were beautiful, but they didn’t carry the frequency.
So I followed the call and began painting myself.
What unfolded was an 18-month journey of not knowing—just painting, listening, surrendering.
And every time I tried to impose a structured process on it, the flow stopped.
I had to let go. Again and again.

Painting still teaches me that.

And truthfully, when I look at the images, I don’t feel like I created them.
I couldn’t have made something like that alone.
The beauty in them reminds me: I’m not working alone.
There’s something wiser at work.
I’m just part of the listening.

The app grows in rhythm with the moon.
With each new and full moon, I paint a new visual transmission and record a sound transmission—anchored in the energy of that moment.
These are added to the app not as updates, but as invitations.
They offer a gentle way to honour the lunar rhythm and deepen your own soul care rituals—whether you follow astrology closely or simply feel drawn to the cycles.

It’s not loud.
It’s not performative.
But for those who feel it—it’s there.
A quiet rhythm holding you.
Even the Centred Soul logo is a visual transmission.
It moves slowly in a circular motion—just like the cycles of life.
It reminds us that life is not static. That perspective changes as we move.
That what we see depends on where we stand—and how still we become.

Some images name themselves. Others stay silent.
But all are invitations—not to analyse, but to feel.
To soften. To open. To remember.

Some of the visual transmissions are gathered into printed collections, for those who feel deeply drawn.
But there is no shop in the app—and that was a conscious choice.
Centred Soul was never meant to become another space of striving or transaction.
It’s not there to spark a sense of lack.
It’s there to hold presence.
To anchor being.

There are no padlocks. No premium areas.
That was another deliberate choice.
I remember how it felt on my own healing journey—coming across something that stirred truth in me, only to be met by a paywall.
I didn’t want that for anyone else.
I’ve also learned to trust the paradox:
If something feels financially out of reach, ask for the money to show up.
If it doesn’t, perhaps the “need” was coming from fear—not truth.
That feeling of “If I could just have that, I would be okay.”
Centred Soul doesn’t feed that wound.
It offers a quieter message:
You are not broken. You don’t need fixing.
And at the same time—here are some helping hands, if you feel drawn.

It’s a paradox. But so is healing.

In time, courses will be added too—and they’ll be included for all.
Because to truly feel safe in a space, you need to know you’re free to explore it.
Without pressure. Without hierarchy.
Just presence.

And the app will keep evolving.
It’s organic. Alive.
There is a story I’ve written—about the inner pulls we all move through—the tension between the mind, heart, soul and gut.
That story wants to become part of the app too.
Not as guidance, but as a mirror. A remembering.

There is a distinctly feminine energy that moves through Centred Soul.
Not just in form, but in frequency.
It’s the energy of listening. Of becoming. Of holding space rather than rushing toward outcome.
It’s devotional. Cyclical. Quietly powerful.
I didn’t try to create that energy—it simply came through.
And I honour it by continuing to listen.

There’s a part of me—my business head—that still struggles with all this. That wants a plan. A strategy. A map.
But I know from experience: when I try to force a conventional model, the energy dims.
And I refuse to trade sacredness for structure.
An apple tree doesn’t question the worth of her fruit.
She simply offers it .
She trusts the sun will shine. The rain will come .
She gives because it’s her nature.

I’m learning to live that way too.

Are there any books, videos or other content that you feel have meaningfully impacted your thinking?

I’m not sure I can put my philosophy into words—at least not fully.
Because the truth is, it often lives beyond language.
Words come later.

What I feel first is sensation.
Knowing.
Presence.
What I live becomes what I eventually describe.

So everything I say here is a reflection of something deeper.
This isn’t a method.
It’s a remembering.

My philosophy didn’t emerge from books or boardrooms.
It was shaped in silence.
In heartbreak.
In the flicker of firelight in a cabin where no signal could reach me.
It’s been shaped by breath. By return.

I studied Business Studies and Economics.
I understand how systems are built, how markets move, how strategies scale.
But I also came to realise: just because something works on paper doesn’t mean it works in the soul.
My education gave me a foundation—but my life gave me another kind of curriculum.
One rooted not in profit, but in presence.
In the kind of knowing that doesn’t come through instruction, but through immersion.

The most significant resources in my journey have been the ones that don’t market themselves.
Rivers. Forests. Stillness. Sound. The moon. My own bare feet.
These are not metaphors. They are teachers.
They’ve helped me find my centre more clearly than any management model ever could.

I walk by running water when I’m unsure.
I sing and move when clarity won’t come.
I sit on the earth when I need to remember what matters.
These practices ground me. Reshape me. Resource me.

And they’ve opened me to joy.
Not the loud, performative kind—but joy that rises from alignment.
The kind that dances quietly through my work, that moves through my hands when I paint, or plays through my breath when I sing.
Joy, to me, is presence in motion.
It’s a frequency of aliveness.
And it reminds me that devotion doesn’t have to be heavy.
It can be light. Lyrical. Free.

Stillness has taught me more about timing than strategy ever has.
It reminds me: the pause is not the opposite of progress—it’s the wisdom beneath it.

I come from a lineage of landowners and warriors—people who held ground with quiet fire.
That steadiness is in me.
But so is softness.
So is wonder.

For a long time, I stayed distant from my history my ancestral lineage and see I needed to, to be able to return.
In recent years, I’ve felt the call to remember—not out of nostalgia, but necessity.
As though I couldn’t root deeply until I understood the soil I came from.

Because growth isn’t about how high we reach.
It’s about how deeply we return.

Until we tend to our roots—ancestral, cultural, emotional—any upward expansion will always feel unsteady.

In a way, I’ve come full circle.
I began my career working with land through planning regulations and policy.
Now I return to the land—but from a more evolved perspective.
Not only can I navigate the structures that govern it—I also listen for the spirit that holds it.
I work with the guardians of place, with the deeper energies of the earth.
I notice and see fractures in energy and where it wants to flow.
Where once I looked at maps and zoning, I now sense story and presence.
It’s not one or the other.
It’s both.
Practical stewardship and sacred relationship.
And that integration feels like home.

Perhaps that’s what home really is—something deeper than location or role.
It’s a belonging that rises from within.
And in many ways, it was my mother who first showed me what it means to belong to something greater than yourself.

My mother taught me devotion—not by word, but by essence.
She moved in bhakti without naming it.
From her, I learned that spirit moves through me, not around me.

She also showed me, through her pain, that sensitive souls need to protect their energy.
She never said it aloud—but I saw it.
And I took it in:
Stay close to your centre, even when the world tugs at your edges.

My father taught me patience.
Equanimity.
I once asked him if he prayed for problems to go away.
He said simply:
“No. I ask to be shown the way. And then I wait.”

That steadiness changed my inner landscape.
I’m still letting it settle.

Over the years, I’ve woven wisdom from many lineages.
I’ve sat in ceremony.
I’ve learned icaros—medicine songs passed through lineages like living breath.
I’ve sat with kambo, and with plants that teach not through theory, but through encounter.
Crystals are close allies in my work. I feel their presence. They speak to me—not in words, but in sensation, image, and vibration.
They’re part of how I navigate, how I remember, and how I offer.

I don’t follow a single path.
I listen for resonance.
I watch for what harmonises—not to collect teachings, but to live them.
To embody them.
To let them shape how I serve, how I show up, how I hold space.

Because knowledge can be gathered.
But wisdom must be lived.

And when knowledge is offered through wisdom—when the mind serves the soul—then healing happens.
Not just achievement.

I’ve read books. I’ve heard talks. And yes, I’ve absorbed fragments of insight from them.
But the real shifts—the ones that have shaped how I create, what I hold, why I offer—have come from living close to what is real.

I’ve never quite resonated with traditional marketing strategies.
The push. The noise. The constant striving to be seen.
That’s never felt like home to me.

Being asked to do this interview felt different.
It felt aligned. Natural.
I know I’ll speak more about what has been created with Centred Soul—and I know that will come in its own time.
Not out of pressure, but out of ripeness.

Everything I create comes from listening.
And everything I offer is an invitation.
Not to perfect. Not to fix.
But to return.
To the rhythm of your own remembering.

This might not make sense to your mind.
But I’m not speaking to your mind.
I’m speaking to your soul.

And from that place, I want to say this clearly:
A meaningful life does not have to be a hard one.

That old image of the “spiritual” person as someone who gives up everything and lives in quiet poverty—it’s outdated.
We are allowed to thrive.
We are allowed to live creatively, consciously, and with dignity.

A soulful path isn’t about bypassing reality.
It’s about rewriting it.
From the inside out.

And sometimes, when we choose to live this way—soulfully, creatively, in trust—life responds in ways we don’t expect.
Not always with thunder.
Often with a whisper.

After my divorce, I bought a painting called Eve’s Garden and hung it above my bed.
Years later, I recall looking in the mirror one evening, after realising I wanted to share my life with a man who had grown so dear to me.
As I looked at myself with a deep sense of love, I saw the reflection of Eve’s Garden—and it dawned on me: the man in my life was called Adam.
That wasn’t coincidence. It was synchronicity.
That was spirit.
That was the universe whispering:
“I’m still here. I’m still listening.”

Something wiser is always walking with you.
You just have to slow down enough to hear it.

Training and knowledge matter of course, but beyond that what do you think matters most in terms of succeeding in your field?

Not just for my field but any field – To find your own definition of what a centred soul is – what does it mean to you? how can you tend to your spirit and allow that to be the foundation from where all that you offers comes from. With love and gratitude Kamala

Contact Info:

• Website: https://centredsoul.com
• Instagram: @centredsoul
• Other: App links: Apple – https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/centred-soul/id1613819198
  Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.centredsoul.app&pcampaignid=web_share

  Linktree: https://linktr.ee/centred_soul

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