I’m what some might call a wounded healer.

My own healing has shaped the ear, voice, and presence I now offer as a psychotherapist, guide, and teacher. I've faced my wounds, brought them to Jesus with the right support, and watched Him transform those broken places into spaces of refuge—for me, and now, for those I accompany. My wounds are now my medicine.

In short: I’ve been through it, myself. More importantly, I know there’s a way—unique to you—to flourishing and wholeness, too.

So why did I become a therapist, a guide—a wounded healer of sorts?

Because I know how trauma can sever connection—within ourselves, with God, and with the people we love most.

And I know, just as truly, the hope of healing those ruptures.

Like every human being, I’ve lived through moments too overwhelming for my nervous system to process—both inside and outside the home. Over time, I carried layers of trauma in my body. Left unprocessed, they activated a web of burdens I’ve had to slowly unlearn, integrate, and release.

And I’m grateful. That path—while hard—led me here.

For a long time, my nervous system did what it knew to survive. I found safety in piety, perfectionism, performance, and a hyper-reliance on the approval of others. These strategies worked—for a while. But they also pulled me away from my inner wisdom: my body, emotions, intuition, and sense of self. The more I tried to control my life, the more it seemed to slip through my fingers.

Still, God met me there.

Slowly, the Holy Spirit drew me into healing—through grounded people and safe places: therapy, mentorship, nature, reconnecting with my body, somatic movement, deep prayer, and meaningful community. Over time, I built a haven within. I learned to listen to my nervous system, release stored trauma, and walk forward with new awareness, skills, and meaning.

By softening in the body, my mind became more spacious—more able to flow with the Holy Spirit’s daily promptings.

All of this unfolded alongside the outer terrain of life: high school, college, marriage, parenthood, and grad school.
Healing and living aren’t separate paths. They’re one.

And I’m still healing (I’d be naive to say otherwise). But I’ve come far enough to walk this road with others—humbly and with courage. Like those who guided me, I now offer a place of rest for the weary and burdened.

Now, I get to witness the mystery of holding space.

Every day, my gratitude deepens—as my pain, and the pain of others, continues to reveal its truest form: not as a curse, but as a teacher. A sacred invitation into what it means to be human—tender, resilient, and always becoming who we are.