I am no stranger to stress! My background in health psychology and experience with the therapeutic process can help you achieve your goals of managing and coping with stress, in addition to regulating emotions. The mission isn't to rid our lives of stress - which is impossible - but to develop a healthy relationship with life's challenges and ourselves, and feel comfortable facing unpleasant emotions.

I didn't expect to spend so much time with myself in my 30s. Without a childhood bestie and/or long-term partner, the pandemic and associated remote work heightened the challenges of transient adult friendships and seeking a relationship offline. Bandage advice like joining Meetups may not work for the sensitive introvert. I'd love to help you navigate feelings of loneliness and share strategies for living contently and hopefully.

Leaving graduate school early, job loss, poor fits - all traumas I've had to navigate through. Whatever nebulous point represented my dream career now has a circuitous route to get there. Add to that the mental toll that professional, financial, and social shifts take on our well-being, especially when we don't learn "corporate speak" in school! I'd love to share ways that I've handled these setbacks - such as becoming a content creator - as well as practical ideas for job seeking. As important as our careers are, they don't represent our entire identity.

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.

Everyone said certain health challenges that started in graduate school would go away once I left the stressful environment. But they were here to stay. While peers spend their vacation leave and money on trips, I spend my sick leave and funds on doctor's appointments and interventions - all while managing conditions and treatments discreetly for co-occurring conditions. If you struggle with sleep, pain, anxiety, or GI issues - as well as as "gymtimidation," or having to choose sneakers over cute heels - I'm here for you.

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 in my life when everything felt paused. I was between jobs, unsure of my next step, watching others move forward while I sat still. People would say, “Something will come along,” but the waiting felt like slow erosion. My self-worth was tied to progress, and without it, I felt small. I learned how to sit with the discomfort, how to extract meaning from stillness, and how to build a life that didn’t depend on a clear next chapter. I began to ask myself deeper questions about purpose, identity, and what truly mattered.

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.

I've often felt like an outsider in social settings. I’d overthink every word I said, replay conversations later, and wonder if I came off as “too quiet,” “too intense,” or just... off. Parties drained me. Small talk felt like a performance. I used to beat myself up for not being more "normal" in groups. But slowly, I started to understand that awkward doesn’t mean unworthy. I began leaning into my natural rhythm—deep, thoughtful, intentional—and started forming fewer, but truer, connections.

My Story: There were long stretches when I didn’t have a job. The silence from applications was deafening. I felt like I was falling behind, especially when friends were getting promotions or buying homes. I tied my worth to my output—and when there was no output, I felt invisible. Eventually, I started asking myself: Who am I without the title? It was painful but liberating. I started separating my identity from productivity. Now, I hold space for others walking through that same fog.

There was a time when Instagram and Facebook drained me. Every scroll showed friends getting promoted, traveling the world, hitting milestones. I began comparing—questioning where I stood. The joy in their lives made mine feel small. Food videos didn’t help either—I’d crave more, eat more, and feel worse. One day, I paused and asked, why am I letting a screen make me feel this way? That moment sparked a shift. I muted accounts that triggered comparison and followed pages that brought peace—dogs, babies, simple joys. Slowly, my feed became a source of calm instead of chaos. Those small changes helped me breathe easier. I learned that managing digital overwhelm starts with choosing what we allow in. I began to feel lighter. The comparison faded. Joy returned. My feed stopped draining me and started healing me.

When I moved from India to Vancouver, BC, there were moments when the quiet felt too loud—when the absence of familiar faces, languages, and places settled into my bones. I missed home in ways I couldn’t explain. Even surrounded by people, I felt alone. The smell of food, the sound of a song, or a festival passing by without loved ones would trigger waves of homesickness. I realized I wasn’t just missing a place—I was missing connection, belonging, and pieces of myself. Slowly, I began finding new ways to anchor—rituals that reminded me of home, small routines that made the unfamiliar feel safe. You don’t have to silence your longing to move forward. There’s space for both healing and holding on.

Grief has touched every corner of my life. I was involved in a tragic accident that took someone’s life and changed me forever. Not long after, I lost my soulmate to suicide. Then I lost a close friend. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t break any more, I lost my son to fentanyl a loss no parent should ever have to survive. Each of these moments shattered a piece of me. The kind of silence that grief creates is heavy, isolating, and sometimes unbearable. There’s no roadmap, no “right” way to move through it. But somehow, I’ve learned to carry it. I’ve learned that we don’t move on we move with it. If you’re living with heartbreak, trauma, or the kind of loss that changed everything, you don’t have to face it alone.

I was in a relationship with a narcissist, the father of my children. What started as love turned into control, manipulation, and constant betrayal. He cheated on me, lied to me, and blamed everything on me. Even after I tried to walk away, he kept a grip on my life through stalking and emotional games. I truly thought I was going to lose my mind. Narcissistic abuse isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet gaslighting, constant self-doubt, and slowly losing your sense of reality. It took me years to finally escape. But I did. I pulled myself out, piece by piece. And now, I know my worth. I’m no longer stuck in survival mode. I’m living, free and stronger than I’ve ever been.

Co-parenting with someone who once abused you emotionally is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The lies didn’t stop after I left, neither did the manipulation, the blame, or the mind games. He used our children to try and control me. He made me question myself as a mom. It felt like I was fighting to protect my peace every single day. I know what it’s like to smile for your kids while silently breaking inside. To send them off to someone you don’t trust. To document everything. To walk on eggshells, even after the relationship ends. But I also know what it feels like to take your power back. Slowly. Quietly. Fiercely. If you're stuck in this reality, I want you to know you don’t have to figure it all out alone. I’ve been there and still standing.

When I got out of prison after a year and a half, I had nothing. I lost my home, my career, and my professional license. I was released on an ankle monitor and didn’t even have a place to go. I had to start completely over with no safety net, no roadmap, and no idea what was next. It was terrifying. I went from having stability to sleeping wherever I could and trying to figure out how to make something of myself again. But I didn’t give up. I found my way step by step. I discovered a new career path. I rebuilt my life from scratch. And now, over 12 years later, I’ve created something solid and I want to help others do the same.

After losing a close friend to suicide, my world cracked open. Then, not long after, I was involved in a fatal accident that changed everything. The trauma didn’t just affect me emotionally, it took over my entire life. I couldn’t leave my room. I couldn’t show up as a mom. I felt like a shell of who I used to be. I was lost, empty, and broken. Eventually, the pain started showing up in ways I didn’t expect. I began hearing and seeing things that weren’t real. My body and mind were screaming for help, but nothing I tried seemed to work. Therapy felt like talking into a void. Medications numbed me. I started to believe I’d never be okay again. And then, something shifted. I started opening up to people who got it. Peers. Survivors. People who weren’t trying to fix me but just to listen. Slowly, day by day, I started feeling human again. Not “healed.” Not “cured.” Just heard. And that saved me. I was diagnosed with C-PTSD. I’m not the person I was before trauma, and I never will be. But this version of me sees the world differently, and with more compassion than ever before.

After I had my baby, I felt like I was supposed to be glowing, full of love, and endlessly grateful. But the truth? I felt like I was falling apart. I was exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. I cried when no one was looking. I felt anxious, overwhelmed, and so ashamed for not feeling what I thought I was “supposed” to feel. I loved my baby. I didn’t love the way I felt inside. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Some days, I didn’t even recognize the person staring back in the mirror. The guilt, the fear, the pressure to hold it all together. I kept pretending I was fine, while quietly unraveling. Eventually, I cracked. And that’s when the healing started, not by being “strong” but by being honest. I started talking to other moms who had been through it. They didn’t judge me. They just nodded, held space, and let me cry. And that was everything. Postpartum is hard. Being a mother is beautiful, yes, but it can also be lonely, messy, and heartbreaking. And if you’re in that place right now, I want you to know you’re not broken. You’re not a bad mom. You’re just human and you deserve support.

I was just 18 when I adopted my first child. Some people told me I was too young. Others told me I’d never love him the same as I would a “child of my own.” But the moment I became his mother, I knew something they didn’t. That love isn’t about blood. Love is a choice. And I chose him, fully. That child showed me what true love is. He softened me. He matured me. He made me want to be better in every possible way. Years later, I gave birth to two more children. I can honestly say this: my love for my adopted son is no different than the love I have for the children I carried. He's not “like” my son. He is my son. Always has been. Always will be. Adoption gave me purpose. It shaped the mother I became. And if you’ve adopted, are thinking about it, or are navigating the complexities of blended or non-traditional families. I’d love to hold space for that with you.

For a long time, I’d set huge goals and then beat myself up when I didn’t reach them. I thought motivation alone would carry me, but when life hit hard, I lost steam, got discouraged, and stopped trying. I didn’t realize I was setting myself up to fail by not having a real plan. When I learned about SMART goals: setting goals that were Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-bound, it changed everything. I started small. I tracked progress. I let go of the idea that everything had to happen overnight. And slowly, I started seeing real change. I built confidence, momentum, and most importantly, self-trust. If you’ve struggled with staying on track, feeling overwhelmed, or not knowing where to start, let’s talk. Setting goals isn’t just about success. It’s about healing and believing in yourself again. What We Can Talk About Together: