“Sometimes the greatest invitation to awaken is the experience of being lost.” ~John O’Donohue
To understand why I do this work, I wrote down every symptom I could remember from the years I was very sick.
Bloating, gas, belching, and nausea; bouts of diarrhea alternating with chronic constipation; recurring yeast and urinary tract infections; increasing food sensitivities, chronic allergies, congestion and coughing, and uncontrollable cravings for sugar and carbs; swollen lymph nodes, itchy skin, irregular periods, PMS, cold hands and feet, deep fatigue even after a full night’s sleep, and hypothyroidism; thinning hair, sensitivity to light, sound, scent, and crowds; a constant state of disconnection from my body, difficulty concentrating, poor to no memory, and a perpetual state of overwhelm; irrational fears, irritability, mood swings, hyper-vigilance, restless to no sleep, and a shattered nervous system; dark circles under my eyes, white, pasty, colorless skin, painful cystic acne on my face, yellowish, jaundiced skin on my body… and seizure-like episodes that left me unable to walk or speak for three to ten days at a time.
Every symptom had its own impact. But what no one explained to me, and what I had to live to understand, is that each one ripples out into every part of life. One symptom doesn’t stay in its own lane. It might begin with digestion, but then it strains the nervous system, disturbs sleep, clouds thinking, alters decisions, and changes how we feel in our bodies and in our lives. Over time, it shapes who we believe ourselves to be.
When I was swinging between diarrhea and constipation, I didn’t trust food. I didn’t trust my body. I didn’t want to go out. I couldn’t think clearly. My anxiety was constant, mostly about losing control in front of others. I planned my day around bathrooms. I said no to invitations. I tried to smile through it, but inside I was exhausted and afraid. I stopped showing up fully in every area of my life.
When my thyroid began to slow, my energy tanked. My digestion worsened. My moods swung. I could feel the lights going dim inside me. I knew it, and I was scared. I wasn’t just scared, I was losing myself. I was losing motivation. I was losing the spark, the fire that once made me feel alive. People said I looked fine, but inside, I was falling hard.
When I couldn’t concentrate or remember what I had worked so hard to learn, I stopped trusting myself. I began questioning everything, my intelligence, my instincts, who I was, and where I belonged in the world. I avoided challenges. And in many ways, I gave up on things I wanted to do, because it all felt so impossible, so hard. I forgot names. I blanked mid-sentence. I lost track of what I was saying while I was saying it. And the silence that followed didn’t feel like confusion; it felt like shame. I was not just forgetting things. I was forgetting who I really was.
When cystic acne covered my face and the color drained from my skin, I no longer recognized the person in the mirror. I avoided cameras… and my reflection in mirrors. I shrank in rooms where I once felt so alive. It wasn’t just that I felt unattractive; it was that the face I saw no longer matched who I knew myself to be. And somewhere deep inside, I didn’t know if I’d ever find my way back to me.
That’s the part I never let anyone see. I made sure I was polished perfect, but I was completely unraveling inside. I wasn’t just sick. I was gone in ways I couldn’t explain. I became disconnected from my body, my voice, my desires, my sense of self. I didn’t even know where to begin to look for myself, because I wasn’t sure she was still there.
There was a moment in Ireland I’ll never forget. I was riding my bike through the countryside of Kincasslagh when it started to rain. And something about that rain hitting my face broke me open. I pedaled and cried because it felt like the first time I had ever really felt rain on my face. All those years trying to keep up appearances, prove my worth, and manage a body that kept breaking down, deprived me of being me. I had become so disconnected from myself that I didn’t even know what “me” meant anymore. Alone in the rain, I noticed a part of me I had stopped listening to. The rain on my face triggered a whole new level of awareness. For the first time in maybe ever, I didn’t want to hold it all together. I wanted to feel it all, even if it hurt.
These moments wouldn’t, couldn’t look like much to anyone else. But for me, those moments in the rain marked a turning point I would never return from.
I turned away from the world and outside answers and began listening within. I needed to make sense of what had happened to me, not just the symptoms, but the ways they shaped everything about me. I let the questions live in me until the answers and meaning behind the struggles my symptoms and experiences caused me surfaced.
I discovered that every symptom wasn’t remotely random. Each one was a sacred messenger, a kind of Holy way shower, and by listening to the lessons each offered, I gained a deeper understanding of who I am, what truly matters to me, and how all I learned are the gifts I must share.
I came to understand what no doctor, no specialist, no medical team ever told me: our bodies are carrying a toxic burden far beyond what they were ever meant to hold. I realized that any diagnosis not rooted in this truth misses the deeper cause. Environmental chemicals, pathogens, heavy metals, and hidden infections hadn’t just shut my body down; they had shaped my entire life and altered my every sense of self. They disrupted my digestion, my hormones, my brain, and my nervous system in far-reaching ways.
I also came to understand that feeling our best is never just about diet. Or stress. Or aging. Or healthy lifestyle habits. It’s about everything we’re exposed to that no one talks about, and how the body, in its wisdom, tries to carry it all until it just can’t.
Once I saw this, I couldn’t unsee it.
I became a health coach, a clinical advisor, a researcher, and an educator, not to build a career, but to follow the thread that pulled me back to life. Once I found that thread, I could not turn away. To turn away would have been a kind of betrayal, of myself, of all I had learned, of the truth forged in fire.
I do this work because I remember what it’s like to lose your way. To forget who you are. And I know what it asks of us to find the way back.
This work isn’t about chasing symptoms. It’s about coming home. About helping others return to the place in themselves that was never broken, only buried beneath the toxic burdens of our modern world.
This return is the quiet labor of the soul. And it is the deepest work I know.
