On the surface, life looked good.
I was successful, responsible, reliable. I showed up and was doing everything “right.” My days were full working as a massage therapist and strength and conditioning coach. I was helping others, checking off goals, and always striving to be better.

But inside, there was a quiet ache I couldn’t name. I was exhausted, disconnected, and restless. No matter how much I accomplished, it never filled the void. I was surviving through motion, not living with meaning.

I remember lying awake at night wondering, “What’s the point of all this?”

My change didn’t come all at once. It came as a series of cracks.
Traumatic events began to shake the foundation I’d built my identity on: a series of losses, a career change, the strain of returning to school, and a divorce that was far from amicable. The version of me who once had it all together began to unravel.

At first, I tried to outrun it by working harder, helping more, fighting to restore what was lost. But nothing worked. It felt like running against a resistance band. The harder I pushed, the more effort I exerted, and the less I moved. The strategies that once kept me safe now felt suffocating.

The truth finally hit me: I wasn’t just burned out. I was completely disconnected from myself.

When I finally stopped running, I had to face everything I’d avoided: the grief, the shame, the emptiness, and the fear of being alone. It felt like an EF5 tornado had swept through my life, leveling everything I thought I was. I stood in the ruins of my old identity, without a manual or a map to guide me forward.

So I began the slow, deliberate work of rebuilding. I turned to therapy, meditation, and deep introspection. I dismantled old constructs through psychedelic work and learned to sit in silence. I started listening to the wisdom of my body through somatic practices, understanding how trauma lives in the nervous system. And through Internal Family Systems, I met the inner parts of myself that had carried pain, perfectionism, and protection for decades.

There were nights of tears, days of resistance, moments I wanted to give up, but something deeper was awakening.

The biggest risk wasn’t financial or physical, it was emotional surrender. It was my vulnerability that I spent my life protecting.
I had to let go of the identity I’d built around being strong, capable, and in control.

I stopped performing. I learned to listen, to validate, to be present. I faced the terrifying question: Who am I?

Letting go meant stepping into uncertainty, into the raw, unfiltered truth of Self.

As I reconnected with my body, I began to feel again. Not just the pain, but also the lightness. I stopped searching for meaning outside of me and began to find it within: in breath, stillness, self-compassion, and presence.

I became my own healer, my own witness. The parts of me I once rejected became guides. The body I once ignored became home.

That’s when I realized: healing isn’t becoming someone new; it’s remembering who you are.

My breakthrough came when I stopped trying to “get back” to who I was before the traumas. Instead, I allowed myself to become who I was meant to be after it.

I found a sense of purpose that wasn’t tied to performance, but was rooted in presence. And from that clarity, my work was born: helping others reconnect to themselves, not through fixing, but through feeling; not through achievement, but through embodiment.

Today, my life feels aligned, peaceful, and deeply real. I still have challenges, and I meet them from a place of connection, not survival.

My “victory lap” isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence. It’s waking up each day knowing who I am and helping others find that same home within themselves.

Because I’ve lived the ache of disconnection,  I know the courage it takes to find yourself. My mission now is to guide others through that journey; from emptiness to embodiment, from trauma to truth, from performance to peace.