My Healer Self Wild Origin

I came to this work because it's what I needed for myself.

I felt a great deal from the time I was young. The world came in loud and I didn't always know where to put it. I lived for years with anxiety, with depression, with a feeling of impending doom that followed me like a shadow.

What I didn't know yet was that I came from a long line of people who felt deeply and had no container for it. The fracture went back generations. Unmet need passing quietly from one person to the next, each one doing their best with what they had, none of them knowing they were extraordinary.

What I found changed everything. And now I work with people who know what it feels like to carry too much — people who feel deeply, give generously, and are ready to finally put down what was never theirs to hold.

I have two master's degrees, a bachelor's degree, and years of specialized continuing education in healing, trauma, and somatic work. But what shaped me most wasn't any single program — it was the commitment to keep going deeper, to follow what I didn't yet know how to do until I could do it.

I came to healing because I needed it. And because I needed it, I studied it seriously. Over time, with trauma as my primary interest, I built a practice of self-directed learning alongside formal training — reading, studying, taking courses, finding mentors, and most importantly, doing my own work. You cannot take someone somewhere you haven't been yourself.

I was being called forward at every turn. I followed what called me, inspired by the Creative Forces of the universe, and trusted that each step was part of a larger path. I didn't arrive here despite the winding way. I arrived here because of it — and that path led somewhere real.

The people who shaped me were not perfect. Neither were the relationships. But what they passed down — often without knowing — was real and worth keeping.

My father's mother was Irish and magical in ways the family whispered about but never quite named. My father never called himself a healer. But he grew a garden every year of my childhood, turning the soil by hand, tending what he planted with steady daily care. He taught me that hands are instruments of care. He just didn't call it that.

My mother was a sensitive. She had no language for what she felt and not enough confidence to trust it. I recognized her gifts long after I had found words for my own.

My brother placed books in my hands that became my foundation — herbalism, homeopathy, Chinese medicine. When I was lost in my early twenties, he wrote me a letter about how to find my way back through food and plants. I still have that letter.