Classroom for Consciousness: A Practical Workbook for Collective Growth

Why We Wrote This

Those wide bumpers weren’t just chrome—they were plastered with sticker spells for justice, love, global policy, and your 16-year-old vision of what peace might look like if someone would just listen.

Powder blue side panels. A few rust spots. Sacred imperfections. This was your personal land yacht. A peace vessel. A powder-painted declaration that you weren’t trying to blend in.

The tape deck screeched and celebrated—sometimes it was "Walk Like an Egyptian." Sometimes *NSYNC. Sometimes Zeppelin. The system didn’t care. You played what stirred your spirit and cracked the windows to let it spill into the world, along with your full-bodied laughter.

The caboodle rode shotgun, full of whatever you needed to resurrect your mood or reshape your eyeliner. Snacks in the glove box. Protest flyers in the backseat. Maybe a mixtape someone made you that you never played again—but never threw out, either.

You were idealistic. And let’s be honest—you were electric. Fired up on ambition, rage, and OG Diet Coke, you didn’t need permission to care. You just did.

People might’ve laughed and rolled their eyes. But deep down, they knew: You were driving more than a car. You were delivering a message.

And in some strange way, you still are. This workbook was made for that version of you. And every version since.

• The one who still feels the temperature in the room before anyone speaks.
• The one who holds shape when others break down or act out.
• The one who knows when a group is drifting from purpose, and tries—quietly, skillfully—to call them home.

Classroom for Consciousness is what happens when that person grows up, sharpens her tools, and refuses to give up on coherence or community.

It’s not a performance. It’s a practice. It’s not a takedown. It’s a toolkit. It’s not a movement. It’s the moment before one begins.

This is for the ones who still show up, even when the room forgets how to be kind. The car is more sensible these days, but the music is still bitchin’.

We made this so you could carry your old fire—with new language—into the volatile spaces of adulthood, and still be heard.