A little about me...

Honestly, I'm not sure when it started — it always just felt like part of me.

As a kid, I was drawn to things that felt alive. Trees. Animals. Rocks. There was something in the quiet of nature that I could feel, like a presence that didn't need words.

As time went on, I began noticing other experiences as well. Images would appear in my mind — vivid, symbolic, and often carrying a feeling of significance. They felt less like imagination and more like something arriving from somewhere else, meant for someone in particular.

One memory stands out clearly.

I was about eight years old, walking hand in hand with my mom to my godmother's house a few doors down for a haircut. As we walked, an image suddenly appeared in my mind. I turned to my mom and told her that I could see her brother — my uncle Rudy. He didn't say his name out loud. I just knew, and could translate the information as it came through.

She laughed softly and asked how I would know who he was, considering I had never met him before he passed away. The only picture she had of him was one of her and her siblings at a very young age.

Without hesitation, I said, "He's wearing an eye patch over his right eye."

My mom stopped walking and looked down at me. The smile disappeared from her face. She asked how I knew that. I simply smiled and replied, "He showed me."

I came to find out later that he had been injured by shrapnel during the war as a young adult.

The rest of the walk was quiet. I wasn't frightened or confused by the experience. To me, it felt completely natural. Looking back now, I recognize it as one of the earliest moments that hinted at a deeper connection to the unseen — a connection I would come to understand more fully as the years unfolded. This was the beginning of the evidential mediumship (given evidence from spirit) that I can vividly remember. Side note: the school picture was NOT the haircut she gave me.

Over time, I developed a heightened sensitivity to intuitive information and energetic impressions — the kind that can be accessed beyond ordinary perception, both within and around others. I understood it to be a gift given to me, from something greater than myself, to share in a good way.

Bringing this into my work wasn't really a choice. It was more like a natural unfolding — the intuitive and the clinical finding their way to each other. Together, they allow me to listen more fully. To the body, yes — but also to the quieter things woven around it.

I took these unaltered pictures of the moon the night my mom died and a heart cloud the day of my good friend's wedding.

For me, the signs are everywhere!

Even with years of exploring different spiritual practices, something felt incomplete — like a word on the tip of the tongue that wouldn't quite come. That quiet restlessness kept me searching. Not for answers exactly, but for something that felt more whole.

Over time, a different way of understanding began to find me. When I was introduced to my Indigenous teacher and began exploring this good medicine, something in me recognized it — the way you recognize a place you've never been but somehow already know.

It made sense in my body. In my mind. In the parts of me that don't have words. The medicine fit perfectly with what I had already experienced.

This path is rooted in the wisdom of those who came before me — drawing on the threads of my German and Jordanian ancestry, and the relationships with helping spirits that continue to guide and shape my presence.

I carry deep gratitude for what continues to unfold.

That gratitude lives in my work — in the way I listen, hold space, and show up for each person who finds their way here.

As a practitioner, I don't take lightly the trust someone places in me when they come for care. That trust has shaped everything about how I work.

Over the years, hands-on practice taught me something that textbooks couldn't quite capture — that listening to the body matters more than technique alone.

With attention, intention, and respect, the body will often show you exactly what it needs.

I am grateful for the teachers and mentors who helped me feel that.

This work also became personal. There was a time I was told that things couldn't be different — that my body's patterns were just part of my story. But I found another way.

I felt it change in my own body first.

And that made me want to share it.

That is why this work exists.

Through years of study and practice, I continue to bring

clinical knowledge and intentional awareness together —

not as two separate things, but as one way of truly listening.