Suddenly, it all makes sense.
When you understand someone’s why, their work suddenly makes sense.
The truth is, social media and the media in general only show you what they want you to see. Pushes the narrative that it wants you to hear. A filtered sliver. Less than 1% of real life. And in a world that rewards curated perfection and viral soundbites, I’ve made a promise: I won’t lose myself. I won’t perform for algorithms. I will only speak from my heart, head, and gut.
So today, I’m peeling back another layer, not for attention, but for connection and solidarity. Maybe you can see pieces of yourself here and know you’re not alone.
I was an only child until almost 13. On my mom’s side, there were no cousins either. Most days, I was the only kid in a room full of adults, absorbing everything: the learning, the energy, the verbal and nonverbal language, all of it. It made me grow up fast, but also left me carrying weight I didn’t yet know how to name.
Since I can remember, I’ve lived with anxiety, depressive thoughts, obsessive behaviors, and indescribable migraines that often left me curled up in dark rooms for hours. My brain rarely rested. Most days felt like a spiral I couldn’t escape. As a little one, I even refused to eat, hiding food instead of swallowing it, until a doctor finally put me back on baby food.
By age 7, I was fully immersed in competitive athletics, full-time, full commitment. That discipline became who I was. It also became my escape. On the outside, I looked like the dedicated, driven kid. On the inside, by 14, I was already battling addiction and masking it so well that no one knew. Just trying to cope with feelings I didn’t have the tools to handle.
Before meeting John, I earned a track scholarship to study Journalism and Public Relations. It looked like everything was lined up, like I had a straight path forward. But when I met him at 17, something shifted. His energy felt like a lifeline, safe, steady, and grounding. I felt truly seen, heard, and valued for the first time.
When I left for college, it didn’t take long to realize I needed to be back with my person. That separation felt wrong, and I knew where I needed to be. I returned to Kansas City and switched my major to education (since UMKC didn’t offer Journalism and PR). The rest of that journey, my years in schools, the doctorate, the leadership, and eventually this work, is the part you probably know best.
But this, this is what built me. Not the titles. Not the degrees. Not the milestones people see on paper. It’s the pieces behind the curtain, the anxiety, the obsessive thoughts, the disordered eating, the migraines, the addiction, the fight to feel grounded, that fuel why I care so deeply about the work I do now.
This isn’t about blame, shame, or guilt. My story just is. And because of it, I refuse to be another surface-level voice in a sea of noise. I always care about humans first. About the connection, before anything. About teaching people not just what to do, but how to notice, name, regulate, reframe, and rise so they can live in forward motion.
When we understand what drives people, we can see their stories, traumas, choices, and healing. Everything matters.
And suddenly, it all makes sense.
