There was a time in my life when I followed all the right paths, and still felt disconnected from myself.

From the outside, my life looked exactly the way it was supposed to.

I was raised in Salt Lake City, in the heart of Mormonism, the middle of eleven kids in a family with a clear structure and rhythm. Life revolved around faith, service, discipline, and purpose. I knew who I was, why I was here, and what I was supposed to do.

And I followed that path.

BYU. Marriage. Family. A life that reflected everything I had been taught would bring happiness. I believed in it, I thrived in it and I built my life around it.

And yet, underneath all of that, something felt off.

I felt a nagging, persistent gap between my inner world and my outer life. I moved through my days doing what I was supposed to do, but I felt disconnected from my desires, my body, and any real sense of who I was beyond the roles I was playing.

So I did what I knew how to do.

I tried harder.

I became more disciplined, more devoted, more committed to getting it right. I believed that if I could just figure out the right formula, I would finally feel at ease.

But instead of relief, there was a growing exhaustion.

The questions kept churning:

When will this feel like enough?
When will life slow down?
When will I be happy?

Around that same time, my body began to interrupt the life I had built in a way I couldn’t ignore.

What started as foot pain developed into plantar fasciitis so severe that it stopped me in my tracks. I could hardly walk, let alone run. I had always pushed through discomfort, overriding my body in order to keep moving, achieving, performing.

And suddenly, that strategy stopped working.

At first, I tried to push my way back. But over time, I began to see this as a turning point. I could no longer perform my way into worth or belonging.

My body was forcing me to stop and listen.

And when I did, a deeper question surfaced:

If I’m not who I’ve been trying to be… then who am I?

That question reached into everything—my identity, my faith, my understanding of what it meant to be a good person, a worthy person, a whole person.

For the first time, I began to question the systems that had shaped my life, especially the religious framework I had grown up inside of.

One of the most intriguing threads that opened everything for me was the theology of a Heavenly Mother, a divine presence that was acknowledged but rarely spoken of.

The silence around her confused me.

How could something so essential also be forbidden?

As I began to explore that question, it led me into something much larger. I started to see that there were entire dimensions of spirituality, of embodiment, of intuition, of lived experience, that I had never been taught to access.

There was a way of relating to the body not as something to control or perfect, but as something alive. Intelligent. Sensual. Vibrant. Deeply connected to life itself.

That realization changed me.

Because it wasn’t just about belief anymore.

It was about my relationship with my own body, my own knowing, my own experience.

As I began to speak about these things, I felt the edges of belonging shift. There was resistance. Pushback. A sense that stepping outside the lines came with consequences.

It was disorienting.

And yet, something in me kept moving forward.

The question deepened:

If the old definitions fall away… who am I becoming?

At first, I thought I needed to fix my body. To understand pain so I could move past it.

But soon I started to consider:

What if my body wasn’t the problem?

What if it was the doorway?

For the first time in my life, I began to really listen.

To slow down. To feel. To allow sensation and emotion to exist without immediately trying to change them.

The shift didn’t happen all at once. It felt like a dismantling of everything I thought I knew about myself.

And yet, even in this death, something new was being born.

I had been reading a book about the healing power of the earth. One night I went outside to the tiny patch of grass outside my Chicago apartment, took off my shoes, and lay down.

I let my body grow heavy and imagined the pain, heartache, and everything I had been carrying draining out of me and into the earth beneath me.

I didn’t know if it would work, but I wanted to trust that it could.

When I stood up and walked barefoot, feeling the grass under my feet for the first time in years, something had shifted. A sense of aliveness moved through me.

And in that moment, I knew healing was possible.

I could feel a different way of being in my body, one rooted in listening instead of forcing, in connection instead of control.

From there, my path unfolded through meditation, silent retreats, and eventually plant medicine. I learned how to sit with myself without needing to fix anything. I learned how to feel emotion without being consumed by it. I learned how to let life move through me instead of trying to control it.

As old identities began to dissolve, I started to feel more at home in my body, in my life, in myself.

But there was one more threshold I had to cross.

One night as I was sitting in a medicine ceremony, I watched my teacher guide the room as people looked to him for direction. To me, he looked like Moses.

And something in me recognized the pattern.

I had spent my life orienting around someone else’s authority. The form had changed, but the pattern remained. I was still looking outside myself to be told what was true.

And in that moment, something settled.

It wasn’t out of rebellion or reaction.

It felt like truth.

I could feel it in my body.

That same quiet fire.

Steady. Alive. No longer asking for permission.

And I knew this path had to come from within me.

That no one else could declare me worthy.
No one else could tell me I was ready.

So I made a decision.

From that day forward, I would answer to no one but my own heart.

That didn’t mean I stopped learning. It meant I stopped outsourcing my authority. I began to trust that what I had been seeking through religion, teachers, and systems was already here.

In my body.
In my experience.
In my relationship with life itself.

Today, my life reflects that shift.

As this way of living took root in me, the way I learned and worked began to change.

I studied human development and music at BYU, and later completed the Mindfulness Meditation Teacher Certification Program with Jack Kornfield and Tara Brach, trained in coaching with Claire Zammit, and became a yoga teacher after years of practice.

That path led me into plant medicine. I now facilitate psilocybin journeys and supervise facilitators working toward licensure in Colorado, supporting people in how these experiences integrate into their lives.

I’ve also taught and spoken on the divine feminine and Heavenly Mother, opening conversations around inner authority and lived spirituality.

Music remains a thread through everything I do. I’ve played the bassoon for years, taught piano for over 20 years, and use sound, rhythm, and voice in the spaces I hold.

I’ve traveled to Kenya twice, co-creating art exchanges between students in Kenya and Oregon. I’ve run a marathon and multiple half marathons, coached soccer, and built community through music and movement.

I’m a mother of three. I’ve walked through divorce, left a religion that once shaped everything, and created a life that feels more aligned with who I am.

I love being outside. Trail running, hiking, early morning walks. Sunrise. Silence. When it’s warm, I sleep outside with my kids almost every night.

And I care deeply about the parts of life that don’t always get welcomed.

The messy.
The dark.
The places most people try to avoid.

Because that is where real transformation happens.

To me, this work isn’t about becoming only light.

It’s about becoming whole.

That’s the work I do.

The people who find me are often in a place I know well. Life looks good on the outside, and inside something feels off. Disconnected. Tired. Fragmented.

If that’s you, you’re not alone.

What you may be feeling is the beginning of a shift.

A shift from living from the outside in
to living from the inside out.

My role isn’t to fix you.

It’s to walk with you as you come back into your body, your truth, your aliveness.

To midwife what is trying to be born through you.

Because what feels like everything falling apart is actually often something new emerging.

A moment of transition.
A threshold.

You are the one doing the birthing.

I’m here to hold space for the transformation.

Because the life you’re longing for isn’t something you have to earn.

It’s something you return to.