The dark sent me down to the roots.
The light called me back up.
I rise because of both.
The Long Way Here
I grew up in the Santa Cruz Mountains, in the Redwoods. It was beautiful and it was chaotic. Sometimes in the same afternoon. Barefoot tree house hangs and family dinners that felt like magic, right alongside the kind of chaos no kid should have to navigate. Both were true. Both shaped me.
My mom left when I was young. My parents struggled with addiction. My siblings got split up, and I was the oldest, which meant I became "the responsible one" before I knew how to do long division. Lucky me.
I grew up fast. I learned how to read a room before I could read a book. I learned how to take care of people, how to keep things moving, how to make everything look fine even when it absolutely was not. Those are real skills, by the way. They got me through. They also cost me more than I knew at the time.
For most of my adult life, working harder was my answer to everything. Something off? Work harder. Something hurting? Work harder. Feeling something I didn't want to feel? You guessed it. Most people who knew me would have said I had my shit together, and by a lot of measures, I did. Gold star for the girl who can carry it all and still show up with a smile.
I built a career. Nearly thirty years of leadership across retail, hospitality, and law firm operations. Running businesses. Developing teams. Holding a lot at once. I raised two boys, and that's its own complicated, beautiful, humbling chapter I'm not going to pretend was tidy. I built a life that looked, from the outside, like someone who had figured it out.
But I knew. There was always this thing underneath that knew there was more. And I couldn't reach it from the place I was reaching from.
What I Do Now
The shift didn't happen all at once. It built. Slowly. Ungracefully. With a lot of "what the hell am I doing" mixed in with moments of actual clarity.
It built through realizing that what I'd been running on since childhood had been driving my car for a lot of miles. And I mean a lot. It built through the body work, the inner work, the kind of work that doesn't fit on a LinkedIn bio and that nobody claps for. Slow, real, often uncomfortable, and worth every unglamorous second.
And it built through this thought I kept coming back to: if it took me this long to find this, what would it have meant to find it sooner?
That's when I knew. The work I do now exists so other people don't have to take the long way around. Or at least not alone.
I work with humans. Capable, complex, sometimes stubborn, often brilliant humans. Some feel the pull toward something deeper. Some are navigating a transition they didn't see coming. Some are already thriving and want more of what's working. Some don't know what they want yet and that's a perfectly good place to start. What they share is a readiness to be honest about where they are and a willingness to do the real work to get where they want to go.
What I bring is heart, intuition, nearly three decades of leadership experience, a sense of humor that has saved my life more than once, and a willingness to say the honest thing. I'll push when pushing is right. I'll pull back when it's not. I'll make you laugh when you need to breathe. And I will always tell you the truth, even when it's the harder thing to say.
Who Finds their way here?
You hold a lot, and you make it look easy, and almost nobody checks.
You're hard to read, and some part of you keeps hoping somebody bothers trying anyway.
You used to know exactly who you were, and somewhere along the way you lost the thread.
You've got no idea where you want to go, but you know it isn't where you've been standing.
You want better routines, and you start them, and you sabotage them, and you can't figure out why that keeps happening.
You built the whole damn thing, and now you're sitting inside it thinking, now what?
You're confident in the boardroom and spiraling in the parking lot after.
You're genuinely doing well, and you just want to do it more on purpose.
Some days you need someone to push you. Some days you need somewhere soft to land. Most days you need both, from the same person, in the same conversation... and you're not sure that exists.
It does.
One honest conversation. That's where it starts.