There was a point early in my career where I was saying yes to everything and everyone.
Neck pain? Sure. IVF support? Got you. Kids with eczema, post-stroke paralysis, your cousin’s best friend’s insomnia? Bring ‘em in.
I called it “being versatile.” What I was really doing was flailing.
What I didn’t understand back then—when I was still running on hopium and student loan panic—is that treating everyone isn’t strategic. It’s reactive. It’s what you do when you don’t yet know who you are as a practitioner. It’s like being a restaurant that serves sushi, burgers, and falafel: nobody trusts it, nobody raves about it, and your kitchen’s a disaster.
Your patients can feel that lack of clarity. And more importantly, you can feel it. It shows up as burnout. Impostor syndrome. Clinical stagnation. That gnawing feeling that you’re busy but not actually building anything.
Let’s be real: you didn’t go through thousands of hours of training just to be a generic acupuncturist/massage therapist/ND who’s just another “me too car” on the healthcare highway. You trained to make a real f**king difference. But to do that, you need to get specific.
Finding your niche isn’t a limitation—it’s a declaration.
It says, “This is who I serve. This is what I’m amazing at. This is the transformation I deliver.”
And that kind of clarity? That’s what builds trust. That’s what draws the right patients to your door. That’s what lets you charge appropriately, streamline your messaging, and stop wasting time on SEO rabbit holes that don’t move the needle.
I know some of you are still scared. You’re thinking, “But what if I choose the wrong thing?” Good news: nothing is permanent. Your niche isn’t a tattoo—it’s a focus point. It’s what lets you develop mastery, craft better patient outcomes, and build a reputation in your community.
And here’s the wild part: when you niche down, your referrals go up. Why? Because people finally know what the hell to refer you for. No one remembers the generalist. But everyone remembers the pelvic pain specialist who helped their sister walk again, or the skin expert who finally cleared their kid’s eczema.
So here’s your challenge: stop trying to be everyone’s practitioner.
Go back to your “Dungeon Dojo” moment—get quiet, do the damn exercise. What kind of cases do you love? Who are the patients you feel called to serve? What work leaves you exhausted in a good way?
Find your North Star. Name it. Own it.
Because the sooner you stop treating everyone, the sooner you’ll start building something real.
