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.

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 grew up surrounded by pain and fear, carrying the weight of childhood trauma and later surviving domestic violence. For years, I stayed quiet and focused only on surviving. But healing began when I decided to reclaim my strength — through therapy, faith, and martial arts. Martial arts taught me discipline, confidence, and calm. It reminded me that real strength isn’t about fighting others — it’s about mastering yourself and protecting your peace. Now, I use what I’ve learned to listen and hold space for others who need to vent or heal. I know what it’s like to feel powerless, and I also know what it’s like to rise again. If I can help someone feel seen, safe, and hopeful, then my pain has purpose.

I've been in relationships where I was cheated on, lied to, and replaced quickly in both emotional and physical affairs — where someone moved on to the next person before I could even understand what went wrong. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt; it was the feeling of being discarded, like my heart was something people could use and then rush to the next person with no pause or care. Those experiences left scars, but they also taught me about patterns, self-worth, and what real emotional safety looks like. I learned how to stop blaming myself for other people’s choices and how to rebuild confidence after someone else’s actions made me question everything. If you’ve ever felt confused, rejected, or humiliated after an ex moved on fast, I understand that pain deeply — and I know how to help you move through it without losing yourself.

I spent over 35 years using porn and, for most of my life, I couldn’t stop. It was something I hid, justified, and returned to whenever I felt overwhelmed, disconnected, or alone. I didn’t realize how much it shaped my self-esteem, my intimacy, and the kind of partners I chose—including partners who also struggled with porn addiction. For years, I felt trapped in a cycle I couldn’t break. What finally changed was learning how my nervous system worked, healing the emotional wounds I kept soothing with distraction, and rebuilding real connection with myself. I stopped through daily regulation, accountability, and replacing the coping pattern—not through shame, fear, or willpower. Now I help others find that same freedom, clarity, and self-respect without judgment or pressure.

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

I lost my dad when I was in my early 20s — he was still young as well. Seven years later, I lost my sister too. Then, came my grandma and three aunts and an uncle. These losses shaped how I understand grief, family, and emotional survival. I know what it’s like to keep going when your world feels smaller, to carry memories while still trying to build a life, and to navigate the quiet moments when grief shows up again. Because of that, I’ve learned how to support others who are dealing with heartbreak, complicated family dynamics, and the long-term waves of grief.

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’ve been married twice—both to military men—and I’ve lived through the parts of marriage most people never talk about. I’ve faced infidelity, addiction, domestic abuse, emotional neglect, and the tangled layers of narcissism, sociopathic traits, and untreated PTSD. I know what it feels like to fight for connection with someone who’s distant, overwhelmed, or destructive. I know the confusion of loving someone while trying to protect yourself at the same time. Because I’ve lived it, I now help others rebuild what trauma tries to destroy.

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’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’ve been fired, overlooked, pushed out, and talked down to. I spent 17 years in and out of retail management, leading teams while surviving toxic work environments and people who thrived on intimidation. I know what it feels like to give everything to a job and still be treated as disposable. I’ve had to rebuild my career more than once, start over in new fields, and fight my way back into society when I felt judged, underestimated, or broken. Because of that, I help others navigate job loss, career transitions, leadership challenges, and workplace toxicity. I offer guidance on reclaiming confidence, finding direction again, and stepping into roles where you can actually thrive—not just survive.

For 12 years I was a single mom, learning to carry the weight of two parents while protecting my child’s peace. I learned to handle life in the military since both parents were active duty. Co-parenting with a narcissist taught me more about resilience than any book ever could. I learned to navigate manipulation, silence, and blame while trying to give my child stability and love. Those years taught me how to set boundaries, stay grounded, and rebuild my voice after it was constantly challenged. Now I help others who are walking the same path—so you don’t have to feel alone, confused, or unheard. Healing is possible, and your child can thrive even when the other parent won’t change. Let me show you how.

As an adult, my family dynamic escalated—especially when I set boundaries to protect my son, my partner, and myself. I was accused of things that weren’t true, publicly shamed, and targeted as the problem whenever I didn’t fall in line. Even after I stepped back, my family continued using guilt, rewriting history, and turning others against me. They cut down so I cut them out. Walking away was painful, but it also became the start of healing. I learned how to break free from the scapegoat role, how to regulate my nervous system, and how to create a stable, loving environment for my own family. Now I help others who feel stuck in cycles of family chaos, manipulation, or emotional abuse reclaim their identity, confidence, and peace.

I grew up without the kind of childhood most people recognize. Because my parent was running from the law, we constantly moved — new towns, new situations, even new countries. There was no stability, no routine, and no school. I learned early to adapt fast, stay quiet, and figure things out on my own. Not having a steady education wasn’t the hardest part — it was the sense of never belonging anywhere, never feeling safe, and never knowing what would happen next. I had to teach myself what others learned in classrooms, and I had to build emotional stability from scratch. Those years gave me a deep understanding of resilience, survival mode, and what it means to rebuild a life that never had a solid foundation to begin with.

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.

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.