Welcome. I’m truly glad you’re here.

A couple of months ago, something unexpected happened while I was working through a familiar trauma. I have Complex PTSD, and over the years, processing pain has become second nature—like routine maintenance just to stay functional. I’ve been in and out of therapy for about 14 years, and honestly, I had stopped believing that healing—real, lasting healing—was possible.

I thought therapy was just going to be a part of my life forever. Not a path to freedom, but a way to hold myself together. And maybe I will return to therapy again down the road. But this time… something shifted.

It was subtle, but profound. It felt like my nervous system came back online. For the first time in decades, I felt safe—not just in my mind, but in my body. In my core.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been in fight-or-flight until I stepped out of it. Cognitively, I knew I’d been stuck since I was about eight years old. But this wasn’t a thought—it was a feeling. And when it landed, something inside me opened.

And then, I just started writing.

I’ve never journaled. Never written anything this personal before. But something bigger than me compelled me to start putting my story into words. And the more I wrote, the more I realized—I have a story. And maybe, just maybe, it’s one that could help someone else feel less alone.

Because that feeling—of being broken, ashamed, and isolated—is a kind of hell. I know it well. As a counselor, I’ve sat across from people who say things like, “No one really understands what I’m going through.” And while it’s true that no one can fully live another person’s life, I believe there are patterns—echoes—in our suffering. And in those echoes, we can meet each other.

So this is my offering. My attempt at connection.

My hope is that this series—Cleansing the Temple—resonates with you on a heart level. That through authenticity and vulnerability, we might find one another in the places we’ve hidden. That maybe, through story, we remember we were never as alone as we thought.

This book is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done.

For most of my life, I’ve hidden who I really was—not just from the world, but from myself. I believed that if people saw the truth of me, they’d reject it. That if I was fully seen, I’d be deemed unlovable. Unlikable. Unworthy.

Root—the first book in this series—is the beginning of my story. It’s where I trace back to when I first started to shut down. To disappear. It’s my attempt to be fully transparent—not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve come to believe what Brené Brown says:
“Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection.”

And I’m trying, however imperfectly, to embody that truth—for my own healing and in the hope that it might invite others to do the same.

There’s something deeply dysfunctional in the culture we live in. We spend so much of our lives trying to impress people with polished versions of ourselves—versions we’ve carefully curated for approval. But what does that leave us with?

A gap.

A wide, aching gap between the image we present and the person we actually are.

Have you ever felt lonely, even in a room full of people?
I wonder if it’s because those people don’t really see you.
Maybe it’s not their fault.
Maybe we never gave them the chance.

Because here’s the paradox: the love we long for can only touch us if we’re willing to show up without the mask. But most of us don’t. So even when we’re validated, affirmed, admired—it doesn’t reach us. Because it’s aimed at the mask. Not us.

No wonder it doesn’t heal.

So this is my offering—my attempt to show up without the mask. Not as a performance, but as a practice.
Of honesty.
Of connection.
Of hope.

I don’t know where this will lead. But I do know that living behind a mask nearly destroyed me. And this—this act of telling the truth—is saving me.

If any part of you recognizes yourself in these words, I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
You never were.

And maybe, just maybe, your truth is exactly what someone else is waiting to see.

I’m not entirely sure what this will evolve into—but I have a feeling, and a quiet hope, that a community might form around it. A community rooted in safety, trust, and real connection. One where we can be seen—not for who we think we should be, but for who we are.

If you’ve found your way here, I’d love to hear from you. Truly.
I don’t have all the answers, but I am trying to offer something that we all need—hope.

Hope that even when pain is ever-present, it’s not pointless.
Hope that the suffering we carry might actually be building something sacred within us.
That maybe pain is the fertilizer for our growth.

Maybe it’s not meaningless after all, even if we can’t see the purpose in the moment.

I want to stand with you in that place—in the process. Even when the movement is slow. Even when it feels like there’s no end in sight. I know what it’s like to long for someone to simply be there. And so, I’m trying to be the person I needed when I was younger—for you, and for anyone else who finds these words.

I hope something here helps.
I hope it meets you in a quiet, honest place.
And I hope to connect with you along the way.

Thank you for reading.
I love you.