I came into the world in a body that struggled to survive. And by the time I was three years old — after a traumatic brain injury left me lying in the back of my mother's car — I had already made a quiet, devastating conclusion: that if I didn't exist, everyone would be better off.
That belief lived inside me for the next two decades.
I grew up in a spiritual community built around transcending the body — rising above it, releasing it, getting free of it. So that's what I tried to do. I pursued spiritual psychology. I read everything. I understood myself deeply. But the depression didn't lift. The suicidal ideation didn't lift. I was still cutting. Still carrying something my mind could name but couldn't touch.
It wasn't until I found my way into the body — not around it, not above it, but fully into it — that something finally shifted. Working with my first somatic practitioner in my mid-twenties, I felt something move that years of understanding had never reached. The depression began to clear. The weight I'd been carrying since childhood began to loosen.
The body I had spent my whole life trying to escape turned out to be the doorway home.
That's not a philosophy I arrived at from a textbook. It came from my own bones. I know what it is to live in a body that doesn't feel safe. I know what it is to try every other path first. And I know what becomes possible when the body finally feels heard.
My approach is grounded in a simple belief: you already have what you need. Your system just might need support in accessing it. I teach from the ground up — meeting you wherever you are, without assuming you should already know the language or the framework.
I love teaching the basics. Why your nervous system does what it does. Why your patterns make complete sense from a safety and survival perspective. You're not broken. Everything your system has been doing has been in service of keeping you safe. The work is helping it find new ways to do that — with more freedom, more choice, more room to breathe.
I bring a spiritual lens to the work — one that emerges from the body itself, rather than being placed on top of it. Clients often come to me because I hold both the clinical grounding and the spaciousness for something larger.
I'm direct about what I do and don't do: I support, I don't save. I can't sprinkle fairy dust and make everything better. What I can do is resource you with real tools — practical, body-based, repeatable — so that over time, you don't need me anymore. My goal, always, is to make myself unnecessary.
There's something I return to often with clients: the difference between understanding something and letting it go. Understanding can actually lock you into the story. Letting go asks a different question — not why did this happen, but what's next?
What I'm really offering is contact — with what your body has been carrying, and what becomes possible when it no longer has to carry it alone.
A body-oriented approach to resolving trauma and restoring the nervous system's natural capacity for regulation.
Teaching clients the fundamentals of how their system works — and why their responses make complete sense.
A practical framework for understanding your unique energetic blueprint, decision-making process, and natural rhythm.
Conscious breathing practices to support regulation, release held patterns, and build embodied awareness.
Subtle body and energetic work offered within the context of client sessions — not as a standalone service.
Somatic preparation for birth — building nervous system capacity, releasing fear patterns, and embodied readiness.
When I'm not in session, you'll probably find me in the garden — our dog Rosie, five cats, and our chickens wandering the land around me — or out on the trails in the Santa Monica Mountains. I love to dance, I love to swim, I bake sourdough, and I love gathering dear friends around our table. I never really stop studying either — there's always a book open or a training I'm deep in. My husband Yerasimos keeps me grounded and laughing through all of it — he's the steady presence that makes everything else possible.
I live in Topanga, but my world is pretty small and quiet by design. The work I do asks a lot of my nervous system, so the life I've built around it is intentionally soft — slow mornings, sun on my skin, hands in the soil.
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