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.

Yet despite all my efforts, the promise of deep happiness somehow seemed to evade me.

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.

I was exhausted but couldn’t slow down, afraid of what would happen if I stepped of my life-treadmill. 

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.

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 taking myself 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 really 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 feminine that was acknowledged but rarely spoken of.

The silence around her confused me.

How could something so essential to our identity 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, intuition, and 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.

I began to explore the possibility that the body–my body–not only could be trusted, but was a direct portal to my own knowing, to spirit, to life itself. 

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 a little frightening.

And yet, something in me kept moving forward.

The question deepened:

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

And so I returned to the foot pain. A meditation teacher told me it was not pain that was causing suffering, but my resistance to it. What would happen if I made room for it and saw what it had to show me?

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.

One night, after reading a book about the healing power of the earth, 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.

I couldn’t do that anymore. 

I could feel in my chest a glowing, pink fire, steady and alive, no longer asking for permission.

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.

I still learn. I still study. I still seek out teachers and practices that deepen my understanding of what it means to be human. Over the years that path has led me through mindfulness teacher training with Jack Kornfield and Tara Brach, coaching work, yoga, and plant medicine.

But the most important thing I've learned isn't a technique.

And it certainly isn't more information.

Transformation happens when what we know moves from our heads into our lives. It happens when old identities loosen their grip and something truer begins to emerge.

The people who find me are often in a place I know well. They've done everything they were supposed to do. They've built a life that looks successful from the outside, but inside they feel disconnected from themselves. Tired. Restless. Unsure why the life they worked so hard to create doesn't feel the way they thought it would.

They don't need more self-improvement.

They need a different relationship with themselves.

My work is to create spaces where people can slow down enough to hear their own wisdom again. To reconnect with their bodies, their emotions, and the parts of themselves they've learned to ignore or push away.

Music is often part of that process. Sound, rhythm, and voice have been threads throughout my life, and I've seen how they can help us access places that words alone cannot reach.

I also believe we are not here to become only light and love. The messy parts matter. The dark parts are essential. Often the very places we most want to avoid hold the doorway to greater wholeness.

My role isn't to fix you.

It's to walk beside you as you come home to yourself.

To midwife what is wanting to be born through you.

Because what feels like everything falling apart is often the beginning of something new.

A threshold.

A transition.

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.