A few years ago, while sorting through a box of old keepsakes, I came across one of those little school memory books my mom had saved from elementary school. Each grade had a page where my teacher had written a few observations and asked simple questions. On the kindergarten page was one question: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

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My answer was simple. Teacher. I smiled when I read it because, in many ways, that little girl got exactly what she hoped for. The classroom just looks different than I imagined.

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Long before I became a Functional Nutrition Counselor, I loved helping people understand things. I loved asking questions. I loved watching the moment when confusion gave way to clarity, that unmistakable light-bulb moment when something finally clicks.

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Looking back, I realize every chapter of my life was quietly preparing me for the work I do today.

My career began as an intelligence officer in the United States Air Force. I was trained to gather information, recognize patterns, question assumptions, and look beyond the obvious. In intelligence, the first explanation is rarely the whole story. You learn to stay curious, to resist premature conclusions, and to keep asking better questions. I didn't know it then, but those same lessons would one day shape the way I care for people.

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Years later, life gave me the opportunity to experience healthcare from the other side of the desk. As a military wife and mother, I walked through deployments, postpartum depression, hormonal changes, digestive struggles, sleepless nights, and the quiet uncertainty that comes from feeling like your own body no longer makes sense. When my husband deployed to Afghanistan, my own health began to unravel. I still remember sitting in an exam room trying to explain what I was experiencing. After listening, the physician looked at me and confidently said, "I did my master's thesis on the thyroid. There's nothing wrong with you."

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I left angry. I left determined. I wasn't looking for someone to tell me I was fine. I was looking for someone willing to be curious with me. That experience changed me. It also became one of the reasons I practice the way I do today. One of the phrases my clients hear me say most often is:

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"It depends." Or... "That's true, but it's only part of the story."

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Because the internet doesn't know your health history. It doesn't know your lab work. It doesn't know your stress, your sleep, your relationships, your genetics, or the thousands of experiences that have shaped your body over a lifetime. There is almost always more to the story.

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Not long after my own health journey began, our family's story took another unexpected turn. Our daughter developed severe anxiety and emetophobia. Like any parent, I wanted to fix it. Instead, I found myself learning something far more important. We were fortunate enough to find a physician who practiced differently. His appointments were unhurried. While we talked, my younger son happily built elaborate battles with army men across the credenza in his office. No one rushed him. No one rushed us. Looking back, I realize that before he ever offered a recommendation, he created something our family desperately needed.

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Space. Space to tell our story. Space to ask questions. Space to feel heard. He introduced us to a food-first approach that looked beyond individual symptoms, but what changed me most wasn't simply what he taught. It was how he listened. That experience lit a fire in me that has never gone out.

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I read.

I studied.

I asked "why?" more times than I could count.

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The more I learned, the more fascinated I became by the remarkable intelligence of the human body. Rather than seeing symptoms as the enemy, I began seeing them as meaningful messages, evidence that the body is constantly adapting, protecting, and communicating. I don't believe the human body is working against us. I believe it's doing everything it can to work for us.

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Eventually, that path led me to Andrea Nakayama. Finding Andrea's work felt less like discovering something completely new and more like finding words for beliefs that were already rooted. She gave language and structure to what life had been teaching me: every symptom has context, every person is unique, and healing begins with understanding the whole story. Perhaps even more importantly, she modeled something I now carry into every conversation with a client and every practitioner I mentor. 

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​Our work is ultimately an act of service.

 

Not performance. Not proving how much we know. Service. That philosophy continues to shape every part of my practice. It reminds me that my role isn't to have all the answers. It's to listen well. To ask thoughtful questions. To connect the dots. To walk alongside someone as they begin understanding their body in a new way.

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One of my earliest clients reminded me why that matters. After years of searching for answers, she told me she had finally built the deck she and her husband had dreamed about for years. She wasn't celebrating a lab result. She was celebrating getting her life back. That's what this work has always been about for me. Helping people return to the lives they want to live.

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Education has always been woven into who I am. Long before I studied nutrition, I earned both my bachelor's and master's degrees in education because I believed understanding empowers people in ways information alone never can.

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Today, I still have the privilege of working one-on-one with clients, but my classroom has grown. I also mentor Functional Nutrition practitioners, write, teach, facilitate collaborative clinical conversations, and create spaces where practitioners continue learning long after formal education ends. Somewhere along the way, I discovered that leadership isn't about standing in front of people. It's about serving them. Creating space for growth. Asking good questions. Helping others become more confident in the work they're called to do.

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Whether I'm sitting with a client, mentoring a practitioner, writing an article, or speaking to a room full of colleagues, my hope is always the same: that people leave feeling more understood than when they arrived. Because understanding changes more than what we know. It changes how we move through the world.

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People often ask me what I do. I could tell them I'm a Functional Nutrition Counselor. I could tell them I'm a leader, a writer, or a mentor. All of those things are true. But if I'm honest, I think I'm still doing exactly what that little girl wrote in her kindergarten memory book.

 

I'm a teacher.

 

I just happen to teach people how to better understand one of the most remarkable things they'll ever live with, their own body. And if someone leaves a conversation with me feeling more understood than when they arrived...then I've done what I set out to do.