About Kirk Love, Psy.D.

There was a version of my life that looked like success.

All-state athlete. Brown University. A doctoral degree in psychology. A thriving private practice. President of national organizations. By almost any measure, I was doing it right.

And still — something kept asking.

I spent the first half of my career pursuing excellence the way I had always known how: through effort, achievement, and mastery. I became deeply skilled at understanding how people work — their neurology, their patterns, their pain. I helped people. I was good at it.

But somewhere around 50, the scaffolding came down.

My mother and my father both died in the same year. I turned 50. I walked for three weeks alone in the Himalayas on the Annapurna trail — not because I planned something profound, but because something in me needed to move.

I had been exploring non-ordinary states of consciousness quietly for years — with rigor, with care, and in private. What I was discovering didn't fit neatly inside the psychology I had been trained in. It was pointing somewhere older and simpler.

In the spring of 2017, a single experience cracked me open to love — not as a concept, but as the actual fabric of things. I resigned my board positions and began following something I couldn't fully explain but couldn't ignore.

A few weeks later I attended a retreat with Rupert Spira, one of the most respected teachers of nondual philosophy in the world. I became his student in earnest and have sat with him in week-long retreats twice a year for the better part of a decade.

The work found its form quietly. I sat with a physician whose daughter was dying of cancer. I helped them move toward her death together with open eyes and open hearts. What they told me was that this wasn't like anything else they had encountered — it was something about being deeply, honestly seen, in something that felt like unconditional love.

I have come to understand that love is not something I bring to the work. It is the work. And it is already present in everyone who comes.

Around this same time, I met Cathy. Two years later, on Valentine's Day, we married. We changed our names to Love. We live in Loveland, Ohio. The synchronicities are not lost on us.

Together we hold a space that is both psychologically informed and spiritually alive — grounded enough to be safe, open enough to allow something real.

I am someone who has been through the door I am now helping others find. This work does not ask you to believe anything. It asks only that you be willing to look.