I am not very comfortable telling my story because it requires a vast amount of vulnerability. That, in itself, has been my greatest fear in life.

I grew up in a house of physical, mental, sexual, and emotional abuse—from multiple people. In short, my family, home, security, safety net, trust, love, and my body—were never truly safe from harm.

From my father’s secret visits in the night to my mother’s hot-and-cold treatment—praising me one day, beating me down the next. I learned love meant pain. It meant as soon as I trusted you - it was just a matter of time before you turned around and betrayed me. These were the building blocks of my childhood. That I could trust nobody. Not even my older sister, who followed my mother’s lead—punching down as a way to pass on her pain.

You get the picture. Trust is not something I generally have with people.

In one way or another, that self-fulfilling prophecy played out through my childhood, early adulthood, my marriage, my friendships, my business relationships, my clients, and the ways I allowed myself to be treated. Even now, I catch myself in unsafe territory—having to carefully eject myself from certain situations.

I have been unique—different—my whole life. I have always stood slightly outside normative culture, living an alternative experience. I have had to figure things out on my own, following my heart since inception.‍

One memory my mother and sister loved to retell: I was still in a high chair, sitting at the dinner table after yet another round of high-stakes verbal combat. My father—the dominant professor—had been holding court. I looked at him and asked, point-blank,

“Dad, how come you’re always right—even when you’re wrong?”

My mouth has gotten me into trouble that way most of my life.

I grew up gay in the 1980s in Seattle, Washington. It was a liberal, progressive town. My parents were ex-hippies, educators by trade, and politically left. In that sense, it was as safe a place as any back then to come out. My parents had books like " Our bodies ourselves," that we read. They walked around naked at our family cabin.

Still, I didn’t know any gay people—except Mike, my mom’s coworker, who performed in a gay play at ACT Theatre that I once attended. It was all gay men, so I didn’t make the connection. It would take me until I was 20 years old to fully realize I was queer. When I did come out, I cried and my mom said

“It would have been fine with her if I’d fallen in love with a dog.”

The effect incest has on someone as young as my sister and me—ages zero to two and a half—is hard to unpack. It’s so deeply ingrained into the nervous system that I’m not sure it can ever be fully unwound.

My baseline is that being sexually violated is normal. As unconscious as breathing, crying, or urinating—the basics learned at the same time. This predates conscious thought. Before language. Before understanding the difference between my hand and yours.

I didn’t have to learn how to be molested the way I learned to tie my shoes or ride a bike. It didn’t begin in a classroom. It is woven into the core of my being: that I don’t matter—not when someone else is present.

“I am a healer, but for most of my life, I have been a wound.”

I have been people’s punching bag—literally. Both my mother and my sister took turns taking swings at me. Once, in high school, my sister threw a jar full of coins at my head. I ducked just in time. It missed me, but punched a hole in the drywall that had to be repaired.

“Oh girls, stop your fighting,” my mother would say.

For years, I had no idea that I deserved to receive pleasure—let alone an orgasm. It is still complicated for me. My body remains on high alert, just as it was programmed to be. A good soldier, knowing people are unsafe.

I have done a great deal of healing work, but the veil is thin. One wrong move, and the scab comes right back off.

“Telling my body to relax is like telling a hummingbird mid-flight to chill out.”

And yet—after all of this—I still follow my heart.
It is a sacred, patchy path. Written in the stars—this rocky road has served its purpose.

Today, I am whole.

I was designed to do this work—to navigate all that life can throw at you, while finding meaning, purpose, and alignment.

I have been a child of divorce and gotten divorced. I have had to say goodbye to my only dog on Christmas Day. I have been in a years-long, manipulative relationship that I didn’t know how to leave—one that left me scarred for many years. I have lost dreams due to physical ailments. I have lost my only sister to ovarian cancer. I have held my therapist in my arms while she broke down in my session.

I have faced oppression and hate for my sexuality, my gender, and my gifts. I have been betrayed by people I loved in both business and love.

I have packed up my life and run far away.

I have healed those wounds.

I can help you heal yours, too.

I will not judge your choices, circumstances, baggage, fears, desires, or  life. I have dealt with mental health, addiction, manipulation, abandonment, loss, and crippling fear —and finally found a safe route forward, custom-built for me- just like the path is laid out for you.

I can help you heal, too.