In 2016, I met someone who appeared to be the man of my dreams. In 2017, just after we got engaged, my partner came out as a trans woman. I supported and aided her throughout her gender transition journey and I would love to help others navigate this process and feel properly supported themselves.

I’ve never led a double life or pretended to be someone I’m not — but for many years, I also didn’t speak openly about my sexuality at work. It wasn’t a conscious choice to hide so much as a quiet calibration of comfort: Was this a place where I could be vulnerable? Did I feel safe enough to be fully myself? In the performing arts world, being out was more normalized, almost expected. But in more traditional or corporate settings, I found myself making a series of micro-decisions — a mention of a boyfriend here, a reference to my husband there — slowly allowing more of myself into the room. I’m lucky in many ways: I live in a progressive part of the country with legal protections and a generally inclusive work culture. For me, coming out at work wasn’t about fearing repercussions. It was about growing into my own sense of authenticity and letting go of the long-held instinct to self-edit — an instinct shaped by childhood messages that told me I was “too much” or too expressive. That fear of being “found out” lingered in the background, not as a threat but as a habit — one that’s hard to shake, especially in professional settings where scrutiny and performance go hand in hand. There were no dramatic coming-out moments for me — just a steady unfolding. Supportive colleagues helped. So did jobs where I felt psychologically safe, where I didn’t have to compartmentalize to survive. Still, there were times I felt like an outsider, particularly in male-dominated or heteronormative spaces. The difference wasn’t always spoken, but it was felt — in conversations I couldn’t quite join, or camaraderie I wasn’t sure how to access. These days, being out at work feels less like a decision and more like a given. I don’t feel a line between being “in” or “out” — I just am. For anyone else weighing whether, how, or when to come out at work, I don’t have a script. But I do know most imagined fears are harsher than the reality, and that living more fully into yourself — even in quiet, gradual ways — can offer a huge lift to your sense of well-being. If you’re looking to talk it through, I’d be honored to help you find a path that feels natural, grounded, and fully yours.

I came out in 2012. There weren't many resources at my disposal and I often wished someone could walk me through the process of exploration, or just listen to me figuring it out. Instead, I navigated a lot of it on my own. Finding myself took a lot of trial and error. There's so much to learn, but not enough research. Soon, others began asking me to guide them. I have always been happy to take on that role in such a vibrant community. Questioning leads to discovery, healing, strength, and community.

A few years ago, I had a close friend I’d known for four years, and a misunderstanding between us led to silence for three months. It hurt. But I also believed our friendship still had value. So, I took the first step and reached out. We talked through what happened, shared our perspectives, and slowly started to rebuild. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. That experience taught me that relationships can be transitional and still be worth repairing—if both people are willing to show up with honesty and accountability. I also center my work around supporting the LGBTQ+ and BIPOC communities because I know how layered and nuanced our experiences can be. If you're going through a tough time in a relationship—romantic, platonic, or family-related—let’s talk it out.

When my daughter was less a year old, her father and I decided to separate while I was simultaneously going through the process of coming out as queer. It involved a lot of conflict, internal deep-diving, and mediation. Within a year, both of us had remarried new partners, and our family dynamic quickly shifted. Co-parenting in that kind of emotional whirlwind came with serious challenges: communication breakdowns, legal struggles, and learning how to put our daughter first while still honoring who we were becoming. On top of that, we learned she had ADHD, like me, which added another layer to how we had to show up for her. I was trying to parent her the way I wished I had been parented: compassionately, with curiosity and support for her differences, but that wasn’t always easy with two households and differing parenting styles. As a former special ed teacher and current interpreter, I leaned on my background in advocacy and education to create stability where I could. Therapy, humor, and community were key for me. Now, I want to be a steady hand for anyone else navigating this emotional maze. You don’t have to figure it all out alone.

I was married when my husband told me he should have been a woman. That revelation cracked open everything I thought I knew—about my marriage, my sexuality, and my worth as a woman. I questioned my desirability, my femininity, and whether my needs even mattered. I attempted to go along with this change for about a year but divorce was the end result. I walked through a storm of emotions that most people never talk about. It's affected me in surprising and lasting ways. I'm very liberal and have many trans and queer friends but having my partner want that within our relationship was really something I never thought i'd have to navigate. More then anything tho, i yearned to find someone who had gone through what i was going thru. It was incredibly isolating.