INTERVIEW BIO WITH Katrina Ramirez
Do you mind telling me a little bit about your family and culture of origin?
My dad was born in the Philippines and moved here around the time he was nine, and my mom, I believe, is third-generation Italian, and we found out recently I am a little bit more Irish than I thought. That's from my grandma, her mom. My grandpa was born in America, and his parents were born in Sicily. So, I'm mostly Sicilian and Filipino with some Irish. I often joke–I belong on an island somewhere. Both of my parents grew up on a farm until my dad moved to America. My mom grew up on a farm most of her life. We used to visit my grandpa twice a year on his farm. I often find myself daydreaming about my life on a farm where I can live off the land, have chickens, create art, and exist.
What is the purpose of culture in therapy for you? How is culture embodied in your work?
Where isn't culture involved? That’s such a great question—it’s hard to know where to start. I don’t believe we can truly heal while ignoring any part of ourselves. Culture shapes how we communicate, how we express ourselves, and how we connect with the world. And culture isn’t just about ethnicity or race—there are generational cultures too. Sometimes, younger clients use words I don’t even recognize, and that’s part of their cultural expression. Culture is essential in the healing process because it helps provide clients with care that truly works for them—in a way that resonates with their experiences and identity.
Is there any overlap or connection between photography and mental health and being a therapist?
One of the main theoretical approaches I use is Gestalt, which is a lot of observation and noting—like the movements people make, the shifts in their body. When I do my photography, I engage in it in a lot of different capacities, but the two main ways are through nudes and documentary work. The main objective of me being an artist is to invoke an emotion—regardless of what that emotion is—and I often aim for something more raw. A lot of my photography is based in sexual violence and recreating that experience in the most raw form. I also do a lot of documentary photography and have a couple of years of experience with that. I love watching people.
There’s this word that me and my good friend talk about a lot—sonder—which means to ponder other people’s lives outside of how you experience them. I think when I do photography, I get a glimpse of how people are more than just another person walking by; they have this whole life behind them. And I think, as a therapist, I get to witness that in a very raw, vulnerable space. It just feels so connecting, not like we’re just passing each other.
What clients would benefit from this kind of here-and-now, challenging, and seemingly intense approach?
It can be intense if you go there, if you sit with it, for sure. But I do think the clients who benefit most are those who share similar values to me—they want to change, they want to grow. They’re not willing to settle for their current experience because they know things can get better. These clients often come with a lot of resilience and are ready for the next chapter in their lives. Those are the clients who tend to do best with this approach.
You've mentioned your interest in supporting and working with those who have experienced sexual assault and violence. How do you approach this delicate and significant work, especially given its prominence in our society?
I come at it with a lot of self-compassion. I don’t even get into the work until we create a self-compassion plan for the mind, body, and soul so that once we do start talking about things that are heavy, clients can engage in aftercare. I often let them know, “You do not have to share details of your story. I do not request that you share that, and we're going to do this nice and slow so that it feels like you're in charge.” I kind of give them everything I never got during my healing journey and really just try to give them as much power as they can in that process.
What is a self compassion plan?
I don't believe in the term self-care—I feel like it has been commoditized.
I feel like it's been thrown around so much that no one knows what the hell it means, except for a bubble bath.
And I really think what we're looking for is self-compassion.
So, a self-compassion mind, body, soul safety plan—what I call it—is similar to a safety plan in the sense that it's written. We go through each section—mind, body, soul—and write down things that make us feel good, things that make us feel like we're caring for ourselves, things that make us feel recharged and rested. Sometimes these things overlap. I often show a diagram that’s almost like a three-dimensional Venn diagram—sometimes things that help your body will help your soul, or all of the above—but the question is: What works for you? I let them choose which area they want to start with, and we explore different options. When we first do it, they often notice that some sections only have two or three things listed while others have a bunch, which helps us see where we can add more skills.
What brought you to exploring your own ancestral lineage?
COVID, sitting with myself in a studio apartment with a cat, watching the George Floyd riots, and experiencing overstimulation in grad school made me think there has to be other ways to heal besides IFS and talk therapy. I was watching a movie, and it made me realize punk music was there to help Indigenous folks. I went into a deep dive into that and wanted to find what my healing and ancestral connection is.
Tell me more about how you noticed punk as a form of ancestral healing.
There is a part in SLC Punk where the main guy has a mohawk and is talking to his dad about college. The main character kept saying, “I am here to help my brothers.” I wondered, what’s up with that? So, I started looking up where punk started. Punk came from Black men who were denied access to other music spaces because they named their band, Death—which was the “worst” thing you could name it at the time. If everything is a cover-up, then there has to be something beyond that.
That’s when I started deep diving—looking into where punk started and what’s behind all this colonized information. It’s really hard to find that healing because it’s been burned, buried, or forgotten.
But as long as I stay curious and keep talking, there are ways to heal.
My body tells me to run into a mosh pit, to run into music.
It all started by paying attention to the cues I might have missed.
What is your universal piece of advice?
Everything has a balance.