10/16/2025
Between my eating disorder and substance abuse, I am what the professionals deemed a chronic case. And yes, chronic equates with permanence. But what they don’t tell you is that permanence only exists in the absence of curiosity.
And I’ve always been insatiably curious about what’s beneath the pain—beneath the label, beneath the scar tissue of all the years I spent believing I was broken.
I’ve done some deep dives in my forty-some years on this planet. Not casual dips into self-reflection, but headfirst plunges into the dark, cold waters of my own psyche. My personal scrimmages with Self have been real.
Every time I thought I’d reached rock bottom, I found a hidden trapdoor leading deeper still. And every descent taught me something about the resilience of the human spirit—about how even in the most shadowed corners, there’s a pulse of light waiting to be remembered.
The truth is that my story changed when I found Breathwork. And as cliche’ as it sounds, Breathwork saved my life.
Not in a subtle, self-help sort of way. But in the kind of way that rearranges your DNA. The kind of way that cracks you open from the inside out and forces you to meet yourself—really meet yourself—for the first time.
For years, I chased healing through everything external: books, therapy, food, relationships, achievements, substances, distractions. I was always searching for something—anything—that could silence the ache inside of me. I thought healing was about finding answers. What I didn’t know was that it was about feeling everything I had spent a lifetime running from.
To be clear, Breathwork didn’t hand me peace—it invited me to earn it. It asked me to show up. To breathe when I wanted to bolt. To trust when my mind screamed no.
It stripped away the illusions, the stories, the armor I built just to survive. It taught me that the breath doesn’t lie. It will take you exactly where you need to go, whether you feel ready or not.
In those sessions, I met grief I didn’t know I was still carrying. I met the versions of me that had been silenced, shamed, and forgotten. I met my inner child—the one who just wanted to be seen. And I met my own divinity, pulsing beneath the wreckage, whispering: You were never broken. You were just buried.
Breathwork became my bridge back home—to my body, to my truth, to my soul. It became my medicine, my mirror, and my map. And this story, my story, isn’t just about Breathwork. It’s about remembering that within each of us lives the power to return—to ourselves, to love, to life—one breath at a time.
If you’re open, I’d love to walk you to this bridge and show you the door.
Not because I have all the answers—far from it. But because I’ve stood at the edge of that bridge myself, trembling, terrified, and unsure if the ground beneath me would hold. And I know what it’s like to stand there—half in your old life, half aching for the new one—wondering if you’re capable of crossing.
This bridge isn’t made of wood or stone. It’s made of breath. Of trust. Of tiny moments when you choose presence over panic and softness over self-protection. It’s the invisible path between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming. And the door waiting at the other side? It isn’t somewhere out there—it’s within you.
I can’t walk it for you. But I can walk it with you. I can hold space when the winds of emotion start to rise. I can remind you to breathe when every cell in your body wants to turn back. And I can promise you this: on the other side of that door is a version of you that feels lighter, freer, truer than you ever thought possible.
So if you’re open—if even a small part of you is whispering yes—take my hand.
I am here for you, fully, fiercely, and without condition.❤️
