As a daughter of traditional South Asian immigrants, my upbringing was quite different than my American peers. I still hesitate to share if I'm hanging out with a male friend, even though I am pestered about marriage. Getting older has also involved outgrowing attitudes about myself, family, and relationships that hold me back, guilt included. I've worked to find my authentic self and accept occasionally being the black sheep in my close-knit family whom I love being near, but still need to enact boundaries with or know when to deep breathe instead of react. This also involves understanding the challenges with comparing to cousins in India, or peers whose parents grew up in America. If you've been stressed by the conflict of the third-culture sandwich, I'd love to chat.

For years, I believed I was “too much” and “too difficult” to befriend. I know the exhaustion of masking; rehearsing laughs, rewriting texts, and how that burden doubles when navigating stereotypes as a Black woman. When the burnout hits, the guilt convinces you that isolation is the only safe option. I’ve been there. I learned that the loving, safe friendships I longed for were waiting on the other side of setting boundaries and unapologetically being myself. No, it's not all in your head. I created this space to help you find your people, trade the performance for true connection, and build friendships that finally feel like home.

I know that exhaustion. That feeling of being the "only one" in a room and feeling the pressure to code-switch, to "mask," to perform in a way that makes everyone else comfortable. I know the burden of navigating stereotypes and microaggressions and the isolation that comes with it. As a Black woman, I've lived this. I've been there. I created this space to help you find the confidence to unmask, to show up as your authentic self, and to navigate these spaces without losing your peace or your identity.

For much of my life, I faced challenges that tested my emotional resilience and sense of self. Through my own healing journey, I learned the value of slowing down, reflecting, and developing healthy coping tools. Over time, I became the friend and support system others could turn to during their hardest moments. My experiences have taught me the importance of listening with compassion, respecting each person’s unique story, and creating a safe space where people feel truly seen. Now, I want to share that same steady presence to help others navigate change, rebuild confidence, and discover their own inner strength.

I was diagnosed with Autism in my 40s, after a lifetime of misdiagnoses -- and an adulthood building a professional career. My diagnosis brought with it the chance to build skills in ways best suited for my neurodivergent brain, as well as the knowledge and capacity to ask for accommodations in my personal and work life. Disclosing your Autism, ADHD, or AuADHD has impact, both positive and negative. I've lived through both! Let's talk through the potential benefits and challenges of disclosure, the different "levels" of disclosure (to HR, to colleagues, to your boss, to your customers) to help you decide if, when, and what kind of disclosure (if any!) would best support your needs and goals.

Over a span of 30 years, I encountered cultural differences with 3 different partners. Each partnership faced both internal and external cultural bias, stigmas, and discrimination based on societal stereotypes. I went through cognitive therapy with my husband to learn how to communicate effectively with someone who not only learned English as a second language, but who was holding long-engrained beliefs about our respective countries and societies. We also worked on how to present a united front to outside disruptors, often family and friends bringing in their own bias that stirred the pot of misunderstandings and underlying the need to learn straight-forward communication. Even if your partner is unsure how to, or unwilling to, communicate their own feelings, you can still enhance your own communication style in an open, compassionate manner that exudes respect and honesty to yourself and to them.

For the ones carrying the unspoken weight of being “the first” or “the only” on their team. When you’re the one who stands out because of your identity, suddenly everything you do gets magnified. Your cultural expressions get misread as negative, you’re held to tighter deadlines, or more work lands on your plate than on your peers’. And when you try to speak up, leadership dismisses your concerns as “too sensitive.” Do you ever feel like you’re constantly proving yourself while being treated differently anyway? That no matter how much you give, it’s never seen the same way as others on your team? If you’re exhausted from navigating a workplace that feels more toxic than inclusive, let’s talk. I know how it feels to be labeled instead of listened to. Here, you don’t have to shrink, code-switch, or over-explain—you get to be fully seen and heard.

As a first-generation college student and first-generation corporate worker, I had to figure everything out on my own, from applying to schools and building a resume to opening a 401(k), choosing an HSA, and learning how to navigate the world of corporate benefits and workplace etiquette. Watching my parents hustle through the 2008 recession taught me early on that I deeply value stability—and for me, that has come from a 9-to-5 job. That stability has allowed me to take control of my finances and start building the kind of security I’ve envisioned for years. Now, at 26, I’m often the youngest person and only woman in the room, especially in my male-dominated corner of tech. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s pushed me to learn how to advocate for myself, make the most of every opportunity, and be proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve become the friend who loves to talk openly about jobs and money, and I’d love to help others just starting their own path (especially those going to college and trying to break into the 9-to-5 world with no roadmap!)

When I first began navigating my own mental health challenges, I realized quickly how hard it can feel when the people closest to you don’t understand—or even dismiss—what you’re going through. As a Black woman, I know the weight of stigma and silence in our communities around mental health. Family and friends may mean well, but when support is missing, it can leave you feeling isolated and unheard. I had to learn how to honor my truth, even when others weren’t ready to. That meant finding safe spaces to talk, educating myself about my diagnosis, and practicing radical self-care while setting boundaries with those who didn’t know how to support me. Through this process, I discovered that healing isn’t about convincing everyone else—it’s about affirming yourself and connecting with people who do understand. Now, I walk with others who are on this journey, offering support and strategies to help you stand in your truth, even when it feels like you’re standing alone.

Breaking up with someone in college hits differently. You’re juggling school, figuring out who you are, and trying to hold it all together while your heart feels like it’s falling apart. I’ve been through that (more than once) and I remember feeling like I had no one to really talk to. I didn’t want to burden my friends, and sometimes I even questioned whether what I was feeling was “that big of a deal.” But it was. That pain pushed me toward something more meaningful. I started volunteering for a crisis text line, and over time I’ve supported hundreds of people. Many of them were students just like me, trying to make sense of love, heartbreak, and everything in between. I listened as they cried over situations that felt impossible. I helped them find words for their feelings, breathe through the anxiety, and take small steps toward feeling whole again. Now, as I study behavioral health and counseling, I’m more certain than ever that breakups aren’t just about relationships ending, they’re about rediscovering who you are and what you deserve. I’m here to talk with anyone feeling stuck, confused, or heartbroken, because I know how healing it can be to have someone just listen and get it.

I moved to the United States from Serbia with my ex-husband, who was a scientist pursuing his education. We started our family here, but over time, it became clear that he wasn’t as involved as I was. Our communication issues began to grow, and as the years passed, I started to recognize signs of narcissism in him. The verbal and emotional abuse took a toll on my self-esteem, and things got worse when he had an affair. The affair was incredibly painful, especially since we lived in a small town where everyone knew. The stress was overwhelming, and although we tried to reconcile, a family psychologist advised me to leave him. Two years later, I met my current husband, a psychologist, who helped me realize that I was a survivor of a narcissistic relationship. Now, I’m passionate about helping others who are navigating similar struggles, offering a compassionate ear and the support that I wish I had during those difficult times.

In 1991, I moved to the United States at age five from Russia as a Jewish refugee. I was part of a large wave of Russian Jewish refugees from the Soviet Union, and was one of the only Russians in my class at first. The area, which was predominantly Italian American, suddenly had a Soviet contingent, and some of the locals didn't like it. I was bullied for being Russian. Later in life, I joined the Peace Corps, and they decided to send me to Ukraine. Being a Russian Jew in Ukraine brought its own challenges, and in 2022, when the war with Russia started, I felt a strong need to go and volunteer. But being Russian in Ukraine was even more uncomfortable, and I had to explain myself constantly. I was also questioned by the authorities and even detained. I've been called a Russian spy my entire life. There were times when I wished I had been just born American, and at times I lied about my heritage, but I have since learned that having an outsider's perspective can be powerful.

I lost my father at a young age, and growing up in a single-parent household as the youngest of four siblings, I had to step up in ways I didn’t expect. I became the listener in the family, learning the importance of being there for others when they were struggling. My own grief journey was difficult, and it took me a while to understand how to process my emotions. Over time, though, I realized that my struggles could become a source of strength for others. As I volunteered with the Crisis Text Line, I supported people who were grieving or in emotional turmoil, including someone whose father was on life support. She was in deep denial and didn’t know how to navigate the situation. I helped her process her emotions and guided her through the steps of accepting the reality of her father’s condition. Through experiences like these, I’ve learned how vital it is to hold space for people, listen to their pain, and offer hope. Grief is a difficult journey, and if you’re feeling lost in it, I’m here to help you find your way through.