I didn’t set out to be a coach. I didn’t dream of becoming an advocate. And I certainly never thought I would be an author, writing about trauma, healing, and the long road back to life.
But life has a way of breaking us open—not to destroy us, but to reveal what we’re made of.
I didn’t choose this path because it was easy. I chose it because it was the only way I knew to survive. I chose it because the alternative—silence, bitterness, being another forgotten name in the shadows—wasn’t acceptable to me. I refused to be another casualty of a broken system, another voice lost in the static.
My pain backed me into a corner. I was gasping for air, emotionally, physically, spiritually. I had been dismissed, ignored, misdiagnosed, and nearly died. Not just once. But over and over—emotionally, mentally, and on a hospital bed. I lost trust in doctors, in institutions, in people who were supposed to care. I suffered betrayal at the hands of those I trusted most, and silence from those who should’ve stood by me.
At some point, I looked at all that pain—all the nights I didn’t sleep, all the tears no one saw, all the times I screamed into the void—and realized: this can’t be the end of the story.
There had to be more.
That “more” became my mission.
I decided I wasn’t going to waste my pain. I wasn’t going to let the trauma be the final chapter. Instead, I made it the prologue of something greater.
I began speaking out, first in small whispers, then with full conviction. I created platforms for others like me—survivors of trauma, of abuse, of medical failure, of betrayal, of mental health crises—so that no one would ever have to feel as alone as I once did.
Today, I run night school sessions where I help people face their inner chaos and rewrite their stories. I coach individuals navigating trauma, PTSD, complex pain, and emotional paralysis. Not with empty therapy speak, but with truth, strategies, lived experience, and compassion rooted in understanding.
I walk with them—not ahead, not above—but beside.
Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning while everyone else is breathing.
I know what it’s like to have your reality dismissed.
To be told you’re “too sensitive,” “overreacting,” “making it up.”
To be broken and yet expected to smile.
To hear, “But you look fine,” when your insides are on fire.
And that is why I do this work.
I also build digital platforms that provide real-time resources and recovery support—because healing should never be gatekept behind red tape or unaffordable programs. I advocate for change in the very systems that failed me—medical, mental health, social services, legal. I write, not because I want to be heard, but because people need to feel seen.
I use every part of my past to light the way forward—for myself, and for others.
Pain didn’t take me out. It taught me how to stand back up.
And once I stood, I made a promise: I will pull others to their feet, too.
I am not here to be perfect.
I am here to be real.
To be raw.
To be present.
To be someone others can count on in a world that too often turns away when things get hard.
I’m here to say:
You are not too broken.
You are not too far gone.
You are not a burden.
You are not your worst day.
You’re still here. And that matters.
If all I ever accomplish in this life is helping one person step out of the darkness they thought they’d never escape, then everything I went through will have been worth it.
Because that’s what turning pain into purpose looks like.
It looks like resilience.
It looks like community.
It looks like hope—raw, fierce, and unstoppable.
And I will keep walking this path, hand in hand with whoever needs me, for as long as I have breath.
This is my purpose.
This is my promise.
From trauma… to hope.
