Why I Chose This Path: A Healer’s Perspective on Safety, Bias & Advocacy

I’m a healer. That’s always been the throughline in everything I do.

My gift? I create safety—not just emotional safety, but relational and human safety. That means when I speak, I do it with intention. My tone, body language, and presence are all rooted in one core desire: to help people feel seen, heard, and whole.

“Healing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens when people feel safe enough to show up as their full selves.”

The Power of Diverse Connection

I’m deeply proud of the diversity in my work. I’ve had the honor of supporting people from all walks of life—across cultures, generations, identities, neurotypes, and belief systems.

Whether it’s a first-gen teen exploring identity, a parent advocating for their child with emotional needs, or a couple navigating trauma, I bring the same presence to each session: humility, openness, and cultural responsiveness.

But this isn’t just theory to me. It’s personal.

I’ve done the work of unpacking my own “ouches”—the lived experiences and emotional wounds that shaped me—so I don’t project them onto others. Because I believe this:

Our ability to connect with others is a direct reflection of how deeply we’ve learned to connect with all parts of ourselves.

When someone treats another person differently “just because,” it’s rarely about the other person. It’s often a reflection of something unresolved—bias, fear, or trauma showing up as a blind spot.

And while I can calibrate general rudeness,
And I can offer grace for an off day,
What I can’t calibrate is being treated differently based on assumptions and judgements—especially ones rooted in bias, not truth.

This work carries deep meaning for me—because I’ve walked alongside children navigating being different making vulnerable and having “hidden” disabilities. The kinds you can’t see on the surface. The kinds that get dismissed, misunderstood, or questioned—especially when it comes to chronic pain or mental health.

It’s easy to offer compassion to what’s visible.
But it takes something deeper to hold space for what’s invisible.

It takes trust.
It takes nonjudgment.
It takes compassion from the soul—not just from the eye.
Not from shared experience. Not from easy connection.
But from something much more profound—empathy rooted in deeper human understanding.

And that’s where my work always circles back to: creating safety through that kind of connection.

My daughter is one of those children.

On the outside, she radiates strength and courage. But what most don’t see is the chronic pain she lives with every day. She pours her limited energy into what’s necessary—school, responsibilities, treatment—and still finds a way to cling to the things that bring her joy.

But even that takes a toll.

The very things that feed her spirit—like advocacy, creativity, performance, and connection—come at a cost most children her age never have to calculate. For her, the balance between passion and pain is constant. And that’s a burden no child should have to carry alone.

For us, it’s always about balance.

As her mother, I’ve had to teach her not just how to cope with chronic pain—but how to live a life that still feels full, meaningful, and hers. That means protecting her energy—not giving too much away, but also not giving up the things that bring her joy.

Because here’s what many don’t understand:
Pain doesn’t take a day off.
But joy is what helps her carry it.

She needs space to pursue what lights her up—because those moments release the very chemicals that help ease the pain. That’s not a luxury. That’s emotional survival. That’s healing in motion.

Unfortunately, our systems aren’t built to support the days when her body says, “not today.”

And so the question becomes—should she shrink herself and avoid what brings her joy, simply because her journey looks different from her peers?

Absolutely not.

This is why 504 Plans and ADA accommodations exist—not to make things easier, but to make them possible.
To ensure equal access for students whose challenges may be hidden, but are deeply real.

Because equity means giving students with disabilities the same access to opportunities as their peers who don’t face those barriers.
That’s what makes it equitable—not equal, but fair.