I grew up believing that strength meant being able to take harsh words, pressure, and negativity without breaking. If I crumbled under cruel or brutal talk, I thought it meant I was weak. Over time, I internalized that message and spoke to myself in the same harsh way, thinking it would make me stronger. But instead, it wore me down and made me feel small. Through practice, I’ve learned that positive self-talk isn’t weakness—it’s courage. Choosing to speak to myself with compassion instead of criticism has helped me build true resilience and self-acceptance. Now, I use gentle, encouraging words to remind myself that I am worthy, capable, and human. Practicing positive self-talk has been a big part of how I continue to heal and grow, and it’s something I’m passionate about sharing with others.

Living with depression can mean that there can be periods of time where it is difficult to do everyday mundane tasks that seem easy to do. For me, these things include but are not limited to, getting out of bed, socializing, personal interests and hobbies, drinking water and the list goes on. Over time I noticed that those things were easy to do when I was feeling good but when I was feeling bad I couldn't figure out what I did when I was feeling good to make things so easy to do! That struggle only added to the depressive downward spiral because all I wanted was to figure this out. Now that I know that I experience depressive episodes and I experience them a lot more intensely during the winter holidays, I started to build a depression toolbox for myself in the fall to prepare for the Winter season. I know that my depressive symptoms are around grief, and it's easy to experience more Isolation during this time for me. So I create a literal container of things to help me.

I thought resilience meant pushing through—gritting my teeth, swallowing feelings, and forcing myself to ‘just deal with it.’ But that left me drained and butting against as brick wall. You see, strength isn’t just enduring struggles; it’s about adapting, processing, and allowing yourself space to heal. Self-compassion was the hardest piece. I didn’t realize how much I held myself to unrealistic standards, expecting perfection where I should’ve offered myself grace. Over time, I started embracing the idea that strength isn’t about ignoring pain—it’s about acknowledging it and choosing how to move forward with care. Through my work in peer support, I’ve helped others cultivate resilience in a way that feels sustainable—balancing the need for self-protection with the power of self-kindness. If you’ve ever felt like you’re being too hard on yourself or struggling to recover from challenges, I get it. Let’s explore ways to navigate life with strength and softness.

I've battled knowing who i am for a long time, and after years of continuing to work on myself i found skills that have helped me to be more readily willing to share and open up, and to know and believe in my self worth and to overcome negative self talk and feelings of unworthiness, and feeling unloved, and ashamed. i found the strength to see myself for who i am through my own eyes instead of the eyes of others.

I've always been "plus-sized." Even as a teenager in size 12 jeans, it was still "more than" the other girls my age. Regardless, I had a vibrant single dating life, I had a loving married life, and I had a post-divorce dating life. Throughout it all, I remained plus-sized in clothing, seating, and life in general. I've dated men who accepted me just as I was, men who slapped tortilla chips out of my hands at a restaurant, and men who told me they'd love me more if I just weighed some ideal number in their mind as well as every nuance inbetween. What I learned early on was that their opinion didn't really matter; how I felt about myself is what made the experience what it was. It takes some mindset shaping to reach the "Let Them" stage, but once you've reached it, the view is great.

I've restarted more than I can count: education, career, marriage and divorce, new dreams and new places. I've gone through tough periods of not knowing where to turn, poverty, disability, grief and parenting. Somehow I have managed to build a life that looks like mine. Not perfect. It's got a little edge. But...it's mine. This came from the lessons I learned trying to earn my worth through productivity, perfection and trying to be the person everyone else needed. The burnout came and I unraveled, which is what I needed. I know what it's like to feel behind, broken and wondering if you'll ever want anything again. Let me meet you there and hold a light next to you. You got this.

For years, I struggled with clothes. I never fit the mold, always feeling like I had to hide my body, my neurodivergent sensory quirks, my real self. Growing up in rural Appalachia didn't help either. The game changed when I started using fashion as a tool for self-discovery and self-compassion, not just “looking good” for someone else. If you’re curious how clothes can help you embrace your neurodivergent identity, practice more kindness with yourself, or just figure out what feels good for you (not the algorithm), let’s talk. I think style is a core part of neurodivergent identity and can be a powerful tool to feel more yourself and at home in your own skin. That can look like maximalism or wearing the same thing every day. Bring your closet wins, fails, weird questions, and hopes for self-acceptance.

I didn’t grow up in safety—I grew up surviving systems that were never designed to hold me. I was a foster youth, raised without a reliable mirror, without the language for my pain, without the certainty that I belonged anywhere. And yet—somewhere deep within—I always believed I was meant to become somebody. Not somebody famous, not somebody praised, but somebody whole. That belief carried me through institutions, loss, abandonment, and the kind of betrayal that teaches you to disappear yourself just to stay close to love. I went on to become an author, speaker, Executive Coach, and Senior Teacher at the Hoffman Institute—where I later created one of the first BIPOC-centered emotional healing modalities in that organization’s 50+ year history. But before any of those titles, I was just a girl trying to find her way back to her own name. What I bring to others now isn’t just training. It’s hard-won insight. I know what it’s like to feel emotionally homeless. Let's just start here.

For years, my mental health was like a storm I was expected to weather alone. I lived with the weight of PTSD, anxiety, depression, and trauma — often while trying to show up for others, keep a roof over my head, or pretend I was “fine.” On top of it all, I was navigating sobriety, chronic illness, and the emotional wreckage of abuse and loss. What I didn’t know back then was that struggling doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I’ve been through things that require care — not shame. Over time, I learned how to advocate for my needs, recognize when I was in survival mode, and build mental health routines that actually supported me, not just masked symptoms. Mental health is a journey — not a checklist. And if you’re somewhere in the middle of that journey, I want you to know you don’t have to figure it all out alone. Whether you’ve been dismissed, misdiagnosed, or overwhelmed, I’d be honored to talk with you about how to find your way forward.

I used to carry my past like a chain — every mistake, every bad relationship, every moment I wasn’t proud of. I let those moments shape how I saw myself. I let the opinions of others — especially the ones who hurt me — convince me I wasn’t enough, or that I was too damaged to ever rise above what I’d been through. But over time, recovery taught me something life-changing: my mistakes don’t define me — how I grow from them does. Every stumble held a lesson. Every failure shaped the strength I carry today. And the very things I once hid in shame? They’ve become the foundation of the wisdom and compassion I now offer others. I am not my lowest moment. You are not your worst day. You are not the version of you that didn’t know better yet. You’re growing. You’re learning. Vulnerability is key. And that is brave. If you’ve been letting your past define your worth, your identity, or your future, let’s talk. You deserve to see your journey through the lens of growth, not judgment.

After five years of celibacy and deep self-reflection, I re-entered the dating world only to realize healing is not a one-time destination, but it’s a continual journey. I had to unlearn patterns, recognize my attraction to emotionally unavailable partners, and slowly open myself up to love again without losing myself. What I discovered is that healed dating is about discernment, boundaries, and emotional safety. It’s about recognizing your worth, refusing to settle, and creating the type of love you once thought you couldn’t have. I look forward to helping you navigate the same space.

Growing up in the early 2000s, diet culture had a very negative impact on my relationship with food and my body. Societal pressure and generational trauma ingrained in me that I was better off small and frail, rather than confident and healthy. Once I grew into adulthood, I was not prepared for the changes my body would undergo, and did not know how to properly fuel and move my body. This caused me to overcorrect and dive head first into an eating disorder to lose weight that was never a problem in the first place. Over the next ten years, this tapered off rather than came to an immediate end. Eating disorders are years long battles, and sometimes never go away completely. Relapses happen along the way, and what matters more is changing how you react to them. I am fortunate that I have reached a place of self care and acceptance, but this did not come without incredibly hard work and reflection.

Living with ADHD is like running a marathon with your shoes tied together. My brain doesn’t move in a straight line. It zigzags, leaps, crashes, and forgets why it entered the room. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been called “lazy,” “scattered,” or “inconsistent.” But the truth is, I’m doing my best in a world that wasn’t built for brains like mine. ADHD isn’t just being distracted. It’s the shame of missed deadlines, the overwhelm of executive dysfunction, the paralysis when you know what to do but can’t do it. It’s the highs of hyperfocus, the lows of burnout, and the constant inner monologue telling you you’re never doing enough. But ADHD isn’t a flaw. It’s a different operating system. And once I stopped trying to force myself into neurotypical molds, I started to find a rhythm that worked for me. It’s still messy. But it’s mine. If you’re feeling misunderstood, exhausted, or ashamed of your scattered mind, I see you.

Talk with me about the ups and downs of living with bipolar: especially the crashes that can feel heavy, frustrating, and out of your control. I’ve been there myself. Over time, I’ve learned to see those crashes not as personal failures, but as my body’s wisdom calling me to rest and restore. In this session, you’ll have a safe space to process what you’re experiencing, release self-judgment, and begin to reframe your relationship with your cycles. Together, we’ll explore gentle ways to honor your body, stabilize your emotions, and move forward with compassion for yourself.

I’m the guy who sold his agency before the AI tide crested, not because I’m risk-averse, but because I felt called to build alternatives to extraction. Oh, and I learned to write poetry, break free from T.V. got baptized, and now struggle with finding people to help. Let me help you! I do deep research, turn chaos into sharp playbooks, pressure-test assumptions, and ship tiny proofs that real people can touch. I’ve broken free from pornography and stimulant abuse, and I’m learning to unclench—practicing rest, lowering the voltage, reclaiming attention—while still staring down what looks like a looming economic unravelling that I both dread and prepare for. I train my body, cultivate community, and prefer barter-like reciprocity to metrics theater. I’m suspicious of hype, committed to candor, and more interested in building quiet retreat.

Through years of mental rewiring, I practice mindful living. This comes with the often loud voice of self-awareness, as well as presence and acceptance. Mindfulness is the difference between mindlessly binge watching tv that harms your sleep to numb against upset, versus enjoying one cookie. And I obviously still struggle! Acceptance also involves loving your true self and knowing your worth. I'd love to share tips and challenges as we go on a mindful journey together.

There was a time my body felt like a stranger—unpredictable, weak, and disconnected from the version of me I used to know. I wanted to show up in the world like I used to, but chronic fatigue and recurring health issues made even simple things feel exhausting. People would say, “But you look fine!” and I’d smile while quietly spiraling inside. It took time to learn how to befriend my body again. I started listening to it instead of fighting it. I gave myself permission to rest, to say no, and to ask for support—even when it felt uncomfortable.

It’s not always easy to say what we really feel. Sometimes we hold back out of fear of being misunderstood, rejected, or starting conflict. I know how heavy it can feel to keep things inside, and how freeing it can be when you finally share your truth in a safe space. Over time, I’ve learned that open, honest conversations don’t have to be perfect—they just need to be real. They’re about listening, speaking with kindness, and allowing yourself to be seen. Now, I offer space for others to practice this skill: to explore their voice, to untangle what they want to say, and to build confidence in expressing themselves with clarity and care.

Growing up, I didn’t always get the emotional support I needed. I took on the needs of others, which caused me much anxiety. As a child, I internalized the idea that my feelings were too much—or not important at all. This left a lasting impact that followed me into adulthood. I became extremely self-critical, anxious, and constantly sought validation from others. As I began healing from anxiety and addiction, I realized that part of my recovery involved going back—not to relive the pain, but to offer my younger self the care I never received. Through inner child work, journaling, and self-compassion practices, I started to “reparent” myself: validating my emotions, setting healthy boundaries, and learning to nurture myself like a loving caregiver would. This shift was life-changing. I stopped chasing external validation and started showing up for myself with kindness and patience. Reparenting helped me feel whole and safe in my own body—sometimes for the first time.

For years, I was my own worst critic. I judged myself harshly, compared myself to others, and silenced my inner voice with substances. I didn’t realize how deep my self-abandonment ran until I began the healing process. The turning point came when I learned that no one else could give me the love I was starving for—not in a lasting way. I had to learn how to offer it to myself first. In recovery, I began treating myself like someone I actually cared about. I practiced speaking kindly to myself. I explored therapeutic art, forgiveness practices, and daily rituals to reconnect with the parts of me that had been ignored or shamed. Slowly, I began to like myself—and eventually, I became my own best friend. This wasn’t just a mindset shift—it was a full transformation in how I related to myself. I stopped abandoning myself when things got hard. I stood by myself in the storm, and that’s what helped me thrive. This also slowly reduced my anxiety and stress levels over time.