I grew up in a home where fear felt normal. My dad used meth to cope with his mental health struggles and the pain of losing his father, but it came out as anger. He lashed out at my mom constantly, and I was surrounded by yelling, chaos, and instability. I never felt safe. By the time I was a teen, I had turned to drugs myself—starting with marijuana at 13, then cocaine, and eventually meth by 1-It felt like the only way to numb everything I had absorbed growing up. At 23, I hit a breaking point and made the decision to leave hard drugs behind. A few years later, becoming a mom gave me a new purpose. I looked at my children and knew I had to give them something different. That meant healing, taking accountability, and learning how to parent with love instead of fear. I’ve worked hard to break those generational patterns, and I’m proud of the mom I’ve become. Now I support others who are trying to rewrite their family story because I know what it means to grow up in pain and still choose to build something better.

I was faced with making a decision about an unexpected pregnancy twice in my life. Once at 17 and again at 25. The circumstances were different each time. At 17, my parents chose for me and at 25, I had to go through my own process to choose what was best for me. Both times, the choice was to terminate the pregnancy. It was the right decision for me each time. Both experiences had significant influence on my life and choices moving forward. I had to go through different grieving and healing processes for each termination. One thing I would have benefited from is someone to talk to who had been there.

I’m a neurodivergent adult who has spent years overwhelmed by productivity systems that promised clarity but instead added pressure, guilt, or complexity. I’ve tried many approaches that looked good on paper and failed in real life because they didn’t account for fluctuating energy, executive dysfunction, or the realities of living in a demanding world. Over time, I’ve learned to focus less on “the right system” and more on building something that is good enough to support me where I actually am. That usually means simplifying, reusing tools I already have, and letting go of expectations that a system should work perfectly or consistently. This isn’t about optimization, discipline, or becoming more productive. It’s a working session with a peer who understands executive dysfunction firsthand and can help you think through what might support you without adding more to manage.

Self harm was my way of feeling something real when the emotional pain became unbearable. The physical act became a language for the chaos inside, a release of pressure from The unseen weight of trauma, addiction, and depression. I lived in fear - hiding scars, adjusting clothing and managing judgment from those I loved. Pain cause more pain; the cycle felt analyst. Yet, through recovery, I learned that self-harm does not define my worth. It taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of being seen and heard. Now I got others through the darkness helping them understand their triggers, look for glimmers, find healthier outlets, and reclaim their life with hope, compassion, and self-love.

For most of my life, it felt like I was trying to fit into a role I was never meant for. I was always the "black sheep" in my family or the "weird" one, which left me feeling disconnected and unsure of myself. That path led me through some really tough times with depression, not knowing where I'd live, and the quiet pain of friendships just fading away. Through all of it, I fought with that constant feeling of being an imposter, like nothing I did was ever truly good enough. A crisis that left me homeless for a second time forced me to start completely over, but it actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise. In that quiet space of rebuilding, I finally learned how to set real boundaries, manage my own emotional stress, and find my way back to creating music. I also realized that helping other people feel seen is one of the most powerful ways to heal. So now, I'm here to offer a listening ear and a steady presence for anyone navigating their own tough challenges.

I’ve experienced various kinds of grief. The kind that has you saying goodbye to loved ones that have passed, the kind that asks you to mourn people who are still alive, to sit with spiritual disillusionment, and to reckon with endings that don’t offer clean closure. Divorce and breakups can fracture shared meaning, routines, and support systems. Community loss can leave you questioning where you belong and whether it’s safe to trust again. Losing a loved one, a community, a spiritual home, a marriage, or long-term relationship can feel disorienting because what’s gone isn’t a person—it’s belonging, identity, and the life you imagined living inside that space. Finding meaning after this kind of loss is about allowing grief to be honest and layered. It’s about honoring what was real, naming what caused harm, and slowly rebuilding a sense of connection that’s grounded in truth rather than nostalgia.

I’m an autistic adult who has experienced long-term burnout and chronic exhaustion, including the kind that doesn’t resolve with rest or time off. For me, burnout wasn’t just about doing too much — it was about mismatches between expectations, capacity, sensory load, and the ways I was taught to push through instead of notice limits. Over time, I’ve learned to recognize burnout patterns, early warning signs, and the difference between being tired, being overwhelmed, and being genuinely depleted. I’m not here to offer fixes, productivity hacks, or positivity. This space is for talking with someone who understands burnout as a nervous-system and systems-level experience, not a personal failure. If you’re burned out, unsure how you got here, or trying to understand what your exhaustion is actually telling you, I offer peer support grounded in lived experience.

Friendship has been one of my greatest teachers. And chosen family has been one of my greatest resources both in the good and bad times. I’ve navigated friendships that deepened, friendships that changed, and friendships that needed to end with care. I have learned community is something you practice. It requires discernment, boundaries, and the courage to show up as yourself while allowing others to do the same. I want to come along side those who want more than proximity or shared history. People who want friendships rooted in mutual support, accountability, and respect. Healthy community isn’t about perfection. It’s about learning how to relate, repair, and belong without losing yourself.

I discovered my purpose by getting honest about what fear was trying to protect. For years, imposter syndrome kept me circling the edges of my own life. I questioned my voice, minimized my gifts, and waited for certainty before taking up space. What I eventually realized was that fear would continue to have me fall short of my dreams if I didn't learn to sit through the fear to arrive at something meaningful. Purpose became clearer when I stopped trying to outrun fear and started understanding it. Through self-awareness, I learned to notice my patterns instead of ignoring them. Through curiosity, I began asking better questions—about my values, my instincts, and the parts of me that wanted to be expressed but hadn’t felt safe yet. This work isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about recognizing who you already are beneath the doubt and noise. I help people slow down, listen inward, and build a relationship with themselves that’s rooted in curiosity rather than self-c

Becoming a parent completely shifted my world. Before my son was born, I was just living life moment-to-moment, but parenting pushed me to grow in ways I hadn’t imagined. Diagnosed as autistic in adulthood, I had to learn how to advocate not just for myself but also for my child, who is autistic and has ADHD. Our journey hasn’t always been smooth, especially when navigating systems or other adults who had negative views about neurodivergency. I’ve learned to set aside traditional expectations and instead celebrate my son’s unique way of being in the world. Through our gentle parenting approach, I’ve developed strategies for communication, collaboration, and skill-building that respect both of our needs. Parenting helped me find my voice and deepen my empathy, both for myself and others. I know how isolating and overwhelming this path can feel, and I’m here to offer support, validation, and real-world tools to anyone walking a similar journey.

I’m neurodivergent myself, and I know how exhausting it can be to hold too many thoughts at once—especially when most advice assumes unlimited energy or a single “right” path. In this session, I show up as a thinking partner. We take one situation, decision, or problem and make it more explicit: what’s actually going on, what constraints are real, and what options exist once those limits are acknowledged. This is a conversation. There’s no expectation of follow-up or ongoing work. The goal is clarity and relief from mental overload, not motivation, fixing, or self-improvement pressure.

I’m an autistic adult who was diagnosed later in life. Like many people, the diagnosis didn’t immediately bring relief—it raised questions about my past, my limits, my work, my relationships, and how much of my struggle was personal failure versus unmet needs. Over time, I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to make sense of that information in a grounded, practical way: what autism explains, what it doesn’t, and how to live with more clarity and less self-blame. I’m not a therapist, and this isn’t about fixing or reframing everything positively. It’s about having space to talk with someone who understands what it’s like to integrate this kind of information into a real adult life. If you’re looking for a peer with lived experience—someone to help you sort through thoughts, reactions, and questions at your own pace—I offer that space.

I started by noticing the patterns I kept repeating. I was familiar with miscommunication, over-giving, unspoken expectations, and fake forgiveness. I called it love, loyalty, or patience, but underneath it was fear—fear of asking for more from others and myself. Breaking toxic patterns meant evaluating how I participate. I learned how to communicate directly and clearly. I learned that trust is built through consistency, boundaries, and follow-through. I learned that forgiveness must have accountability and behavior modification, first off beginning with myself. I became clear about my needs. Clear about my limits. Clear about what I would and would not participate in. These foundations apply to every relationship-Romantic, friendship, and family. I help others not to fix relationships at any cost, but to create healthier ones or walk away with integrity when that isn’t possible. Breaking patterns is about choices, awareness, and learning how to relate without losing yourself.

I was in an abusive marriage. I was verbally abused daily. My husband was in charge of the money. There was a period of time that he would not buy food for the house. He would always say that we didn’t have any money for food. Later I found out that he had loaned someone $800 during that time.There were a couple of times that he became physically abusive. I got to where I would always have a bag packed. He alienated me from my family and friends. There were a couple times that I thought suicide was the only way out. As a way to stay in control, he would call the police to the house when I was frustrated with how he treated me and showed favoritism towards his kids. His kids are in school. I always found it odd that he would always want to sleep with them, especially after learning of his childhood abuse. He had everyone around us fooled, keeping a perfect image in front of all of his friends. I want to be a help to abuse and trauma survivors.

During a season of vulnerability I connected with beliefs that taught me to override my body, silence my questions, and call obedience “faith.” I learned how to how to spiritualize pain, how to prioritize loyalty to titles when something inside me could no longer stand the hypocrisy. I eventually UNLEARNED how to trust myself. Recovery started when I let myself question without shame. When I stopped forcing belief and started listening to what my body, my spirit, and my lived experience were telling me. Spiritual healing, for me meant no more doctrine and more discernment; rebuilding trust—with myself. As I unlearned fear-based frameworks, my nervous system softened. My intuition sharpened. My spirituality became embodied instead of enforced. This is how I support others now. Not by telling them what to believe, but by helping them come home to themselves. Spiritual recovery isn’t about losing faith. It’s about

There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself after years of surviving instead of living, supporting my family from a young age, navigating grief, motherhood, and losing a child. I know what it feels like to wake up and feel disconnected from your own body and identity. Through slow healing, therapy, community, and remembering my voice, I rebuilt myself piece by piece. Now I hold space for others walking that same path back home to themselves.

I've always believed that being a parent is one of the hardest things to do. No one has a guide or manual for parenting; every child is different, and you no longer think only about yourself. Every decision you make will impact your children. That said, I realized that working all day and having only a few hours to spend with my kids wasn't the reason I became a parent. I wanted to build a bond and raise amazing human beings, but I couldn't do that with just the limited time we had after school and work, so I decided to resign from the medical field and homeschool my children. I'm able to build the bond with them that we desire to have, control their environment, what influences them, and give them the opportunity to succeed at their own pace. The things that I couldn’t do while working in the medical field. There are challenges, but everything has challenges. I believe the rewards are worth the challenges.