My own path has been one of individuation — becoming more fully myself with each part I've welcomed home. What once felt hidden or exiled, I've learned to meet with curiosity instead of judgment. Through embodied and communal experience, I've arrived at a way of being that feels like celebration: more myself, and more at home in this world, than I have ever been.

Wholeness begins when what was hidden is welcomed home.

My career has been built on coaching youth, parents, and adults towards understanding their potential and empowering them to bring their presence to their everyday life in order to carve their own path.

I graduated from the University of Notre Dame with a degree in Psychology, and I began graduate study in social work at Rutgers, completing a year of it before recognizing that the education felt hollow to me. I learned that the therapeutic model, for all it offers, carries real limitations, blindspots, and a legacy of pathologizing and colonization that I didn't want to build my practice on top of without question. Leaving that program was its own kind of discernment, to make space for a formal training with a mystery school called Ecstatic Mysticism. This initiatory program synthesizes Western philosophical and therapeutic traditions, mystical practice, and carefully contextualized encounters with Indigenous wisdom traditions and living ceremonial cultures.

Alongside my formal training, I've spent ten years in relationship with various plant and Earth medicines and with the long, unglamorous work of integrating what those experiences have stirred. I've navigated deep grief, sexual shame, disordered eating, depression, rage, religious trauma, and suicidal ideation in my own life. These experiences have taken me to extreme depths, some nightmarish hellscapes, and many profound realizations of the inherent wholeness we have access to when able to welcome home parts that have been pushed into the shadow.

I'm queer, and this work is shaped by my own path toward belonging without having to hide or perform. That's part of why I hold identity — queerness, gender expansiveness, and otherwise — not as a problem to be solved but a path to be celebrated. Integrating our unique elements of individuality is where we find our distinct medicines, gifts, and offerings.

A hearth doesn't create the fire. It doesn't decide what the fire should become, or how long it should burn, or what shape its light should take. A hearth holds the conditions: warmth, containment, a boundary strong enough to keep the fire from spreading and gentle enough to let it breathe.

That's the work here. I'm not trying to produce a particular outcome in you, or move you toward a version of yourself I've already decided on. I'm tending a space steady enough that whatever is already alive in you can be witnessed without being rushed or corrected. To make space for all the things within you to be seen, held, related to. Only then can "letting go" be achieved.

This isn't about intellectual insight alone, though understanding has its place. It's about coming into a lived relationship with what you feel, sense, and carry in your body — and bringing intention to the ordinary and threshold moments of your life, rather than moving through them unattended.