Growing up as a third culture kid, I always dreaded that question.

"Where are you from?"

I'd freeze every time. And it took me a long time to realize I was carrying quiet shame about that — about not having a quick, clean answer. About needing more context than most people wanted to give space for.

It wasn't until a serious, life-threatening health experience that everything stopped.

And I mean stopped. I couldn't push through. I couldn't minimize what was happening or stay busy enough to outrun it. For the first time, I had to actually sit with myself — and what came up wasn't just fear about my health.

It was how much of my life I had spent disappearing inside it.

Pushing through. Not asking for help. Not wanting to burden anyone. Slowly fading while keeping everything looking fine on the outside.

My whole identity was being exposed, and I wasn't prepared for any of it.

That experience lives in the room with me when I work with clients. A quiet knowing of what it actually feels like to hold everything together until you can't. To be capable and exhausted at the same time. To not even realize how far you've drifted from yourself.

My approach draws from the mind-body connection — paying attention to what your body is holding, not just what you can put into words. Because I really do believe the body carries both the weight of what happened and the way through it.

I work with high-achieving millennial moms who have been keeping it together for so long, they don't even know what it would feel like not to. Women who are tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. Who feel guilty for struggling when their life looks okay from the outside.

We work with your nervous system, not against it. At whatever pace your body can actually hold.

You don't have to have it figured out to start.