You’re the one others turn to. The one who holds it all together.

But lately, it feels like you’re the one unraveling.
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Maybe you lost it with your kid last night after one too many “mama mamas.” You felt touched out, overwhelmed, dysregulated — and then flooded with shame. You told yourself you should know better, be better, handle it better. The guilt was loud, and your inner critic even louder.
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Maybe your thoughts are scattered, your to-do list unmanageable, and your nervous system constantly teetering between shut down and overdrive. You want to slow down, but you don’t know how.
 
Or maybe you’re a helper, a therapist, a teacher — someone who gives and gives in systems that were never designed to support your needs. You feel the weight of everyone else’s expectations, but there’s no room for your own humanity. You're exhausted, but can't rest. You're burned out, but you keep showing up.

Or maybe you’re an artist, a deep feeler, a sensitive soul who absorbs the pain of the world and finds it hard to keep creating through the heaviness. You long for connection, purpose, and creative spark — but mostly, you just feel stuck.
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You don’t need fixing.

You need a space to tend to your nervous system. A space where shame spirals are interrupted with compassion. A space to grieve. A space where your full humanity — messy, brilliant, aching, alive — is welcomed and witnessed.

In therapy with me, we begin where you are.

Not with strategies to “fix” you, but with presence.

Not with performance, but with permission.
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We might talk. We might move. We might breathe. We’ll follow the pace your body sets — slow enough to feel, supported enough to stay present.

Together, we’ll untangle what’s keeping you stuck and start to build new ways of relating to yourself: with curiosity instead of judgment. With tenderness instead of harshness. With creativity instead of collapse.
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Whether you’re a neurodivergent mom in the trenches of early parenting, a therapist quietly falling apart behind closed doors, or a sensitive soul navigating sensory overload and existential grief — you deserve a space to come home to yourself.

This is that space.