My story

I’ve always been a quiet observer, reflecting on life even as a child. My earliest memories are steeped in loss and loneliness.

When I was just a young girl, maybe 5 or 7, I lost a close friend.

I remember the hollow ache of that experience, sitting with his parents as they grieved, while my parents were too preoccupied with supporting them to notice my silent questions and confusion. I heard stories about holy water bringing him brief moments of hope, and I clung to the idea that I might see him again. But I never did. That was my first encounter with the fragility of life, and it left a mark.

My childhood was unstable, I moved through seven schools, always feeling like I didn’t belong. I wasn’t “present” in the way teachers expected. Now I understand I was dissociated, lost in my world, reflecting deeply while others focused on spelling and arithmetic.

Years later, I found myself in a long-term relationship with someone struggling with addiction. I thought I could save him, pouring all my energy into fixing him while abandoning myself. Then, at 18, my world shattered again when another close friend died in a car accident, an accident I survived.

That near-death experience was a turning point. I spiraled into alcohol and unhealthy relationships, desperately numbing my pain. Panic attacks consumed me, and I often found myself in the emergency room, convinced I was dying.

I lived in a fog, unsure if I was even alive. I walked through that fire alone because back then, talking about mental health wasn’t normalized.

While others were building careers and futures, I was grappling with existential questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What is the meaning of all this pain?

During my car accident, I heard a voice. It told me my friend had chosen to leave, but I had a choice to stay or to go. I chose to stay. That voice said, “Good choice. You have work to do.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that work was, but now I understand: it’s this. It’s holding space for others as they walk through their fires, so they don’t have to do it alone.

I began my healing journey with yoga. At first, it was about mastering a headstand. But the moment I flipped upside down, something shifted. I realized it wasn’t just about physical strength it was about perspective. One class, one breath, one trip at a time, I started to rebuild.

Still, something was missing. That’s when I trusted my intuition and met a stranger in Sweden who changed everything. He took me to an untouched forest, where, for the first time, my nervous system shifted from fight-or-flight to feeling calm and safe.

Sober and grounded, I felt something release. I sobbed as years of pain poured out of me. That moment reconnected me with nature and with myself.

I haven’t had a panic attack since.

Nature taught me to slow down, to notice the small things the smell of the earth, the flutter of butterflies, the hum of insects. Without realizing it, I was practicing somatics.

Later, I discovered somatic teachings and realized these were the tools I had been using all along. It was like coming home.

I’ve walked through the fire. I’ve been the lonely child, the lost young adult, the seeker.

I became the person I needed: a space holder, a guide, someone to say, “You’re not crazy. You’re not alone.”

Now, I hold space for others.

In my sessions, I offer pure acceptance. I listen, witness, and feel with you. I help you see that your darkness is not something to fear, it’s the portal to your light. Together, we navigate the pain, because the only way out is through.

If you’re ready to reconnect with yourself, to feel safe in your own body, and to find your way back to the light, I’m here to walk beside you.

Let’s take the first step together.