I have always had a wild heart—one bursting with curiosity, wonder, and an insatiable hunger to experience life in all its messy, beautiful glory. As a child, I would lie awake at night, feeling the hum of something vast and mysterious—a presence I couldn’t name but knew was real. It was as if life itself was whispering to me, inviting me to explore its deepest truths.

From an early age, I was the one asking the big, unanswerable questions. Why are we here? What is beyond this life? How do we touch the divine? I felt the pull of something sacred in the rustling trees, the open sky, the quiet moments when everything felt connected. But even as I sensed this vastness, I also felt how different I was. As a highly sensitive, empathic child, the world often felt too loud, too fast, too much. I absorbed everything—other people’s emotions, the weight of unspoken words, the energy of every room I entered. I didn’t know then that this sensitivity would one day become my greatest gift. I only knew that it made life complicated.

The world doesn’t quite know what to do with someone who feels this much. So, I learned to quiet myself. I learned to fit in.

I did all the things I was supposed to do—built a beautiful life, checked every box. Marriage, motherhood, a home filled with love. And I was grateful for it all. But somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

By the time I turned 48, my body was screaming for my attention. Years of living in a constant state of doing—of keeping it all together, of showing up for everyone but myself—had caught up with me. My days were a blur of to-do lists and obligations, ending in exhausted collapse on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, trying to silence the ache inside me. And then, in the quiet, a whisper rose: Is this all there is?

On the surface, my life looked picture-perfect. But beneath it, I felt disconnected. Muted. Like I had spent years editing myself down to fit the roles that were expected of me, only to wake up one day and realize I no longer knew who I was underneath them all.

And then came the terrifying questions: Why doesn’t this feel like enough? Who am I beneath the mother, the wife, the caretaker? Where did I go?

The answers didn’t come all at once. But the questions cracked something open in me.

That crack led me to Breathwork. And everything began to shift.

For someone who had spent a lifetime battling anxiety, discovering Breathwork felt like stumbling upon a secret door to my own healing. It was the first thing that truly quieted my racing mind—not by numbing it, but by bringing me home to my body. It cracked open emotions I hadn’t even realized I was holding—grief, rage, longing. And as I finally let myself feel them, something miraculous happened: my anxiety began to loosen its grip.

Breathwork woke me up—from the numbness, from the endless cycle of overthinking, from the belief that I had to fix myself. It led me back to a version of me I had never met before—the one who was steady, present, whole. The one who had been waiting for me all along.

From there, Somatic Healing deepened the journey. It helped me unravel years of disconnection, process old wounds, and learn how to live in my body instead of just my mind. Healing wasn’t neat or linear. It was messy. Raw. But every tear, every layer I shed, made space for something new—pleasure, joy, an aliveness I had forgotten was possible.

And now?

Now, I get to do the work I was meant for.

I guide women through their own awakenings—through the sacred unraveling, the messy middle, and the breathtaking reclamation of self. I hold space for the woman who feels like she’s disappearing beneath the weight of expectations, the one who hears the whisper inside her saying There’s more. Because there is more.

I know what it’s like to feel lost in the middle of a life you’ve built with love. And I know what it takes to find your way back to yourself.

So if you’re standing at that threshold, unsure of what’s next but knowing you can’t stay where you are—I see you. And I’m here to walk beside you.

Because it’s never too late.

It’s never too late to reclaim the parts of you that have been waiting in the wings.
It’s never too late to feel deeply, love wildly, and live fully.
It’s never too late to come home to yourself.

If this speaks to you, I’d be honored to journey with you. You don’t have to do this alone.