My Why I think I became a therapist long before I knew what a therapist was. I was the child who noticed. I noticed when someone was hurting. I noticed when a family was going through divorce. I noticed when someone was struggling, even when they said they were fine. I was empathetic. Curious. Enthusiastic. A natural problem-solver. If someone was having a hard time, my instinct was to move closer—not away. I wanted to understand. I wanted to help. I wanted people to feel less alone. I didn't know then that this would eventually become my life's work. I grew up understanding that families don't always look the way we expect them to. I was raised in a multigenerational home. When I was young, my dad was injured and became a stay-at-home dad while my mom became our primary provider. The traditional roles in our family were reversed. I learned independence early. I also learned that families are complicated. People can love each other deeply and still struggle. Families can experience trauma, grief, change, and loss and still find their way forward. I think those experiences gave me an early understanding that there is rarely just one side to someone's story. There is always more underneath. And then there were the kids. I always seemed to gravitate toward them. At first, I thought I would be a teacher. Then a special education teacher. Then an art teacher. My interests kept changing, but the common thread never did. Children. Creativity. Disability. Advocacy. Trauma. I was drawn to the kids who needed someone to slow down and look a little closer. The child whose behavior was frustrating everyone. The child who couldn't sit still. The child who seemed “too sensitive.” The child who was angry. The child who was struggling after something happened at home. The child who couldn't explain what was wrong. I kept wondering the same thing: What if this isn't bad behavior? What if this is communication? That question has followed me throughout my career. My own experiences taught me that healing isn't simple. I experienced grief and loss as Alzheimer's disease affected my grandmothers. I learned firsthand that grief doesn't always follow a straight line and that sometimes there isn't something to “fix.” Sometimes people simply need someone willing to sit beside them in the hard place.

My experiences working with survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault deepened that understanding. Trauma changes people. It changes the way we see ourselves. The way we relate to others. The way our bodies respond to the world. The way we protect ourselves. And sometimes what looks like anger, avoidance, defiance, anxiety, or disconnection is actually a person trying very hard to survive. Then I became a therapist. I entered the field wanting to work with teens, families experiencing conflict, and people navigating grief. But my work kept bringing me back to children. And then COVID happened. I watched so many children struggle. My caseload became filled with kids experiencing ADHD symptoms, emotional regulation difficulties, anxiety, behavioral challenges, and overwhelm. Parents were exhausted and often wondering what they were doing wrong. And I kept seeing the same thing: So many children were being judged for behaviors that adults hadn't yet learned how to understand. That became a turning point for me. I began focusing more deeply on ADHD and neurodivergence. I became even more passionate about understanding children through a lens of curiosity rather than punishment. And the more I learned, the more I understood something about myself, too.

For much of my own childhood, I had been masking ADHD without knowing that was what I was doing. That realization changed the way I see children. I know what it means to be the kid who is trying really hard while everyone around you sees something different. I know how important it is for a child to have an adult who doesn't immediately assume they're lazy, difficult, dramatic, defiant, or “too much.” Sometimes they just need someone to understand what their brain and body are trying to communicate. That is where play therapy comes in. Children don't always have the words to tell us what hurts. But they can play it. They can draw it. They can build it. They can act it out. They can tell us a story about someone else that somehow sounds a whole lot like them. Play gives children a language. And when we enter that language with them instead of demanding that they enter ours, something powerful can happen. They feel understood. That is what I love about this work. I don't want to simply change a child's behavior. I want to understand it. I don't want parents to leave therapy feeling like they've been given another list of things they're doing wrong. I want them to leave feeling supported, equipped, and hopeful. I don't want children to learn that their biggest emotions make them bad. I want them to learn what those emotions are trying to tell them. And I don't want families to feel like they have to figure everything out alone.

My Why There is a little bit of that child I once was in every part of the work I do. The child who noticed. The child who cared. The child who wanted to understand. The child who was always trying to help. She didn't know she was going to become a therapist. She just knew that when people were hurting, she wanted to be someone who stayed. And I still do. Today, I work with children, teens, and families navigating ADHD, neurodivergence, trauma, anxiety, grief, big emotions, behavioral concerns, and complicated family dynamics. I believe children deserve to be understood before they are corrected. Parents deserve support without judgment. Families deserve space to reconnect. And people who have been through hard things deserve someone willing to sit with them while they find their way forward. That is why I became a therapist. Not because I have all the answers. But because I believe deeply in the power of having someone beside you who is willing to be curious, compassionate, and present while you figure things out. You don't have to have it all together to begin. You just have to be willing to take the first step. I'll meet you there.

My own experiences with grief and loss, including the impact of Alzheimer's disease on my family, have shaped my belief that healing isn't linear and that people don't always need someone to “fix” what they're experiencing. Sometimes they need someone willing to sit beside them, listen, and help them make sense of it. My own late understanding of ADHD and the experience of masking also informs the way I work with neurodivergent children and families. I understand how easy it can be for a child to be labeled as lazy, difficult, distracted, dramatic, or “too much” when they are actually working incredibly hard to navigate a world that may not fit the way their brain works. Because of these experiences, I value: Curiosity over judgment — asking “What is happening?” before asking “How do we stop this?” Connection before correction — relationships are often the foundation for meaningful change. Neurodiversity-affirming care — helping children understand themselves rather than teaching them that they need to become someone else. Child-centered care — allowing children to communicate through play, creativity, movement, and their own language. Family involvement — supporting parents and caregivers as partners rather than treating the child as the “problem.” Trauma-informed care — understanding how experiences shape behavior, relationships, and nervous-system responses. Compassion without shame — believing that people can be accountable for their actions while still being treated with dignity and understanding. Resilience rather than perfection — helping people develop the ability to navigate hard things, not expecting life to become hard-free.

How I Tailor Therapy to Each Person I don't believe therapy should be onesize-fits-all. Two children can have the same diagnosis and need completely different things. Two families can experience the same life event and respond in completely different ways. Even within the same family, what helps one person may not help another. That is why I start with the person, not the label. Before deciding what someone “needs,” I want to understand who they are. What has happened to them? What is happening around them? What are they experiencing internally? What strengths do they already have? What feels safe? What feels overwhelming? How do they communicate? Who are their people? And most importantly, what does this person need from therapy right now? For children, therapy may look different. Children don't always have the developmental ability—or the desire—to sit across from an adult and explain their feelings. So I meet them where they are. For one child, that may mean childcentered play therapy. For another, it might include games, art, movement, storytelling, sensory experiences, or structured therapeutic activities. Sometimes the most important work happens through the relationship itself: creating a space where a child can finally stop performing and simply be a kid. I pay attention to their play, behavior, communication, interests, strengths, and developmental stage to determine how we can best connect. For neurodivergent clients, I look beyond the behavior. I don't want therapy to be about teaching someone to appear “less autistic,” “less ADHD,” quieter, easier, or more socially acceptable. Instead, we explore how their brain works, what environments support them, what overwhelms them, how they experience emotions and relationships, and what tools can help them navigate the world while still being themselves. Sometimes the goal isn't changing the person. Sometimes the goal is changing the environment, expectations, supports, or story surrounding them. For trauma and grief, I follow the person's pace. Trauma therapy isn't about forcing someone to revisit painful experiences before they are ready. Safety comes first. Depending on the person and their needs, therapy may focus on emotional regulation, understanding the nervous system, building coping skills, strengthening relationships, processing experiences, developing a sense of safety, or eventually working through the trauma itself. Grief may look like sadness one day, anger the next, laughter the next, and absolutely nothing at all on another day. There isn't one “right” way to grieve. For parents and families, I look at the system—not just the child. When a child is struggling, it can be tempting to focus entirely on the child's behavior. I want to zoom out. What is happening within the family? What transitions are occurring? What patterns keep repeating? How are parents responding? What is the child communicating? Where are relationships getting stuck? What does everyone need? Family therapy isn't about finding someone to blame. It's about understanding the pattern so the family can create a different one. I also adapt therapy to the person sitting in front of me. Some clients want to talk. Some need to move. Some need structure and concrete tools. Some need creativity. Some need humor. Some need someone to slow everything down. Some aren't ready to talk about the hardest thing yet. And sometimes therapy is simply about having a safe person sit with you while you figure out what you need. My role isn't to force every client into the same therapeutic model. My role is to bring my clinical training, experience, and knowledge into the room while remaining curious about the individual in front of me. Therapy should fit the person—not the other way around. My goal is to create care that is developmentally appropriate, culturally and personally responsive, traumainformed, neurodivergent-affirming, relational, and grounded in each client's individual strengths and needs. Because people aren't diagnoses. They aren't behaviors. They aren't their trauma. They aren't the hardest thing they've ever experienced. They are whole people with stories, strengths, relationships, and the capacity to grow. That is the person I want to meet in the therapy room.