I was sitting on the floor, sobbing hysterically in our little cabin in the woods. It was the night of my 34th birthday. My boyfriend had passed out hours earlier.

Through a psychedelic lens of plant medicine and self-loathing, I asked myself: how could this happen again?

I was a successful yoga teacher, traveling the world, working with extraordinary people. And yet, here I was—on the floor, in another relationship that mirrored every wound I swore I’d healed.

And then it hit me: I chose this.

It was the same pattern I’d lived out for years. Men I couldn’t fully express myself with. Dynamics where I shrank, abandoned my needs, stayed quiet to avoid rejection. I craved their attention to feel lovable, worthy, enough.

That night cracked me open. I saw how the battlefield of my parents’ relationship had shaped all of mine. I saw how my teenage assault had planted deep roots of shame. How I’d learned to associate love with pain, sex with survival, perfection with safety. I remembered the endless hours weighing myself, chasing a thigh gap, measuring my worth in mirror reflections and numbers.

It was excruciating. And it was liberation.

That night, I made a vow: to heal what I’d inherited and internalized. To choose a different life.

A few months later, I got an email from a sexuality teacher I’d followed for years. She was opening applications for her sex, love, and relationship coaching certification. As I read it, a jolt of terror shot through me—and I knew. This was it.

I had been studying love and sexuality for over a decade—books, workshops, personal experiences. I’d even spent time inside a spiritual sex cult years earlier (yes, wait for the book). My hunger to understand intimacy had always walked the edges.

That email was the call. I looked at myself in the mirror and said: "You know this is it. It’s going to be edgy as hell. And it’s exactly what you need."

I was accepted a week later.

From the very first call, they warned us: your life will not be the same. This work will take you into the ugliest, rawest, most rejected parts of yourself. If you want freedom, you’ll have to get honest. And I did. It brought up every pattern of self sabotage, coping and escape I’d leaned on. But I knew the only way out was through and backing out wasn’t an option. 

I confronted the trauma. The perfectionism. The father wounds. The mother wounds. I stopped chasing my worth in other people’s eyes. I got radically, uncomfortably real.

It was messy. Intense. Humbling. And it changed everything.

One year later, I found myself standing in front of 65 people in the center of a sharing circle at a 7-day tantric retreat—with the same boyfriend who passed out on my birthday. Over the past 12 months I had held myself through some of the deepest healings of my life, now it was time to be free.

My body shook. My voice cracked. And then I roared.

“I kill the part of me that chose abuse, that stayed silent, that abandoned herself to be loved!”

I screamed. I stomped. I mimed stabbing myself in the heart. My eyes rolled back. I collapsed. I let go. Of the old self. The performer. The pleaser. The one who kept choosing pain.

Then I turned to him—this mirror of my past—and cut every energetic cord between us with an invisible sword. I chose myself. Not metaphorically. Energetically. Somatically. Spiritually.

And in that moment, something irreversible happened.

That ritual became the catalyst for everything I do now.

I am a teacher. A coach. A guide. A mirror. A challenger. A channel.

My work isn’t about light and love. It’s about liberation. Erotic, emotional, embodied liberation.

I walk with people into their own darkness, so they can reclaim their power, their voice, their pleasure, their lives.

I no longer chase approval. I no longer need to be saved. I trust myself. I back myself. I create the kind of intimacy I once thought was impossible.

This isn’t about being healed. It’s about being honest.

And if something in your body stirs while reading this, trust it. You’re not broken. You’re just waking up.

Welcome to the House.