I’m really glad you’re here. If we were sitting together, I’d probably invite you to grab a cup of coffee and just settle in for a bit.
It’s rare that I meet someone and don’t leave feeling like we’ve known each other for a long time—like we’re simply reconnecting. It’s a gift to encounter people this way, and I don’t take lightly the moments when someone shares even a small piece of their life with me.
I learned early on that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Over time, I’ve come to believe that none is more important than the other—each holds its own kind of meaning and gift.
While I’ve done the work, pursued the education, and built a private practice, the depth I bring into the room hasn’t come from training alone. It has been shaped through my own life, and through the privilege of walking alongside others in theirs. If we work together, I don’t sit above your story—I step into it with you, and I remain open to what your story has to offer as well. I don’t believe I am the source of what brings lasting change. I simply create space for it to unfold, trusting that God is already at work in ways we may not yet fully see.
My own life has unfolded in ways that have shaped this deeply. I live in a semi-rural town in the heart of Missouri. In 2022, our family made the life-altering decision to leave Colorado in exchange for a quieter life surrounded by green. What followed was an adventure—one that began in the hayloft of a barn on a farm we purchased, and turned into years of rebuilding, learning, and adapting. Eventually, life asked something different of us, and we made the difficult decision to let that dream go. It was a season that carried both beauty and deep grief.
My life has held loss in many forms—loss of childhood, innocence, marriage, parents, my first grandchild, and at times, even hope itself. I’ve also raised six children, which has brought both profound joy and moments of heartbreak.
Along the way, I slowly became very good at holding things together—anticipating needs before they were spoken, staying steady when things around me were not, and carrying more than was mine—quietly and without question. For a long time, I believed this was strength and that I was the one others could rely on, the one who could manage, adapt, and keep moving forward no matter what was asked of me.
Over time, I began to recognize the cost of living that way. Not all at once, but slowly—through a constant undercurrent of exhaustion, tension I couldn’t quite name, and the quiet realization that I didn’t always know how to simply be without doing. What once felt like strength began to reveal itself as something more complex, something that had protected me, but also kept me from fully resting in my own life. Learning to loosen my grip, to release what was never mine to carry, and to sit with what remained has been its own kind of work—ongoing, humbling, and deeply transformative. It’s a process I continue to walk, and one that shapes the way I now sit with others, not to take over or carry for them, but to remain present as they begin to see more clearly what that strength has cost them.
I share this not to center my story, but to let you know that I understand what it means to live through complexity, and that I am not removed from the human experience. In time, I discovered that I have a deep capacity to sit with others in theirs—to hold steady, to see clearly, and to offer light when things feel hard to navigate. I often think of it as holding a flashlight while you find your own way.
Being entrusted with someone’s story is not something I take lightly. It is one of the greatest privileges of my work.
It is my hope that I may be a witness to your story, and that along the way, you find the deep rest your soul has been longing for.