My roots
I live in an old house—cracked, worn, imperfect on the outside—but inside it is alive, full of character and energy. I chose this home as a reflection of the human heart: imperfect, yet beautiful; weathered, and capable of deep feeling and love. Like this house, we are not defined by our trauma, our scars, our past—but we are invited to notice them, honor them, and restore ourselves. This is our own kintsugi: repair with intention, beauty in the mending.
I’ve experienced profound loss—the kind that uprooted the foundation of my being. I lost what I once held close and intimately, and in that grief, I found myself at a crossroads: to keep surviving as I had, or to begin tending to and caring for the parts of me that needed healing.
My nervous system’s wake-up call came through my body—in the form of physical symptoms doctors couldn’t fully explain—along with a fatigue and tension that brought me to capacity. My body was exhausted, asking me to rest, to slow down, to honor what had been neglected. I had to learn how to stop just surviving, and start listening, feeling, and gently restoring myself.
Through resourcing and processing, I began to notice the deep connection and dialogue between the mind and body. I’ve learned that they are constantly communicating, and that the heart, at times having its own language, often feels like a separate entity entirely. Honoring each allows energy to flow organically, teaching us how to show up fully for ourselves and contribute meaningfully to our world around us.
My story grew out of buried grief and years of witnessing how humans carry their stories—not only in words, but in breath, posture, tension, instinct, and emotion. Often, the wound and the balm reside in the same place, if one allows it. This space exists as a salve for those who have carried heavy experiences and are ready to unburden them with care and support. Even the smallest acts of showing up for yourself are acts of courage.
Being seen is at the heart of belonging. I carry a deep belief that healing begins when we feel safe, held, and truly acknowledged. Trauma doesn’t have to define your future. You are not “too much.” Nothing about your experience is wrong or broken. When you’re ready, I’m here to witness your story with the same care and tenderness that has helped me reclaim my own.
I’ve experienced profound loss—the kind that uprooted the foundation of my being. I lost what I once held close and intimately, and in that grief, I found myself at a crossroads: to keep surviving as I had, or to begin tending to and caring for the parts of me that needed healing.
My nervous system’s wake-up call came through my body—in the form of physical symptoms doctors couldn’t fully explain—along with a fatigue and tension that brought me to capacity. My body was exhausted, asking me to rest, to slow down, to honor what had been neglected. I had to learn how to stop just surviving, and start listening, feeling, and gently restoring myself.
Through resourcing and processing, I began to notice the deep connection and dialogue between the mind and body. I’ve learned that they are constantly communicating, and that the heart, at times having its own language, often feels like a separate entity entirely. Honoring each allows energy to flow organically, teaching us how to show up fully for ourselves and contribute meaningfully to our world around us.
My story grew out of buried grief and years of witnessing how humans carry their stories—not only in words, but in breath, posture, tension, instinct, and emotion. Often, the wound and the balm reside in the same place, if one allows it. This space exists as a salve for those who have carried heavy experiences and are ready to unburden them with care and support. Even the smallest acts of showing up for yourself are acts of courage.
Being seen is at the heart of belonging. I carry a deep belief that healing begins when we feel safe, held, and truly acknowledged. Trauma doesn’t have to define your future. You are not “too much.” Nothing about your experience is wrong or broken. When you’re ready, I’m here to witness your story with the same care and tenderness that has helped me reclaim my own.
I live in an old house—cracked, worn, imperfect on the outside—but inside it is alive, full of character and energy. I chose this home as a reflection of the human heart: imperfect, yet beautiful; weathered, and capable of deep feeling and love. Like this house, we are not defined by our trauma, our scars, our past—but we are invited to notice them, honor them, and restore ourselves. This is our own kintsugi: repair with intention, beauty in the mending.
I’ve experienced profound loss—the kind that uprooted the foundation of my being. I lost what I once held close and intimately, and in that grief, I found myself at a crossroads: to keep surviving as I had, or to begin tending to and caring for the parts of me that needed healing.
My nervous system’s wake-up call came through my body—in the form of physical symptoms doctors couldn’t fully explain—along with a fatigue and tension that brought me to capacity. My body was exhausted, asking me to rest, to slow down, to honor what had been neglected. I had to learn how to stop just surviving, and start listening, feeling, and gently restoring myself.
Through resourcing and processing, I began to notice the deep connection and dialogue between the mind and body. I’ve learned that they are constantly communicating, and that the heart, at times having its own language, often feels like a separate entity entirely. Honoring each allows energy to flow organically, teaching us how to show up fully for ourselves and contribute meaningfully to our world around us.
My story grew out of buried grief and years of witnessing how humans carry their stories—not only in words, but in breath, posture, tension, instinct, and emotion. Often, the wound and the balm reside in the same place, if one allows it. This space exists as a salve for those who have carried heavy experiences and are ready to unburden them with care and support. Even the smallest acts of showing up for yourself are acts of courage.
Being seen is at the heart of belonging. I carry a deep belief that healing begins when we feel safe, held, and truly acknowledged. Trauma doesn’t have to define your future. You are not “too much.” Nothing about your experience is wrong or broken. When you’re ready, I’m here to witness your story with the same care and tenderness that has helped me reclaim my own.
I’ve experienced profound loss—the kind that uprooted the foundation of my being. I lost what I once held close and intimately, and in that grief, I found myself at a crossroads: to keep surviving as I had, or to begin tending to and caring for the parts of me that needed healing.
My nervous system’s wake-up call came through my body—in the form of physical symptoms doctors couldn’t fully explain—along with a fatigue and tension that brought me to capacity. My body was exhausted, asking me to rest, to slow down, to honor what had been neglected. I had to learn how to stop just surviving, and start listening, feeling, and gently restoring myself.
Through resourcing and processing, I began to notice the deep connection and dialogue between the mind and body. I’ve learned that they are constantly communicating, and that the heart, at times having its own language, often feels like a separate entity entirely. Honoring each allows energy to flow organically, teaching us how to show up fully for ourselves and contribute meaningfully to our world around us.
My story grew out of buried grief and years of witnessing how humans carry their stories—not only in words, but in breath, posture, tension, instinct, and emotion. Often, the wound and the balm reside in the same place, if one allows it. This space exists as a salve for those who have carried heavy experiences and are ready to unburden them with care and support. Even the smallest acts of showing up for yourself are acts of courage.
Being seen is at the heart of belonging. I carry a deep belief that healing begins when we feel safe, held, and truly acknowledged. Trauma doesn’t have to define your future. You are not “too much.” Nothing about your experience is wrong or broken. When you’re ready, I’m here to witness your story with the same care and tenderness that has helped me reclaim my own.
