I almost didn't

MY STORY

And because I did - because I chose the harder, more beautiful road
- I am here to walk it with you.

And because I did - because I chose the harder,
more beautiful road - I am here to walk it with you.

moment.

this

make it to

HOW I GOT HERE.

I wanted to be a mother

more than anything

more than

anything

I had ever wanted in my life.

I had ever wanted in my

life.

chapter one The longing

I carried it anyway. Alone.
In silence.

I carried it anyway. Alone. In silence.

Smiling when I needed to. Saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. Swallowing the truth and moving forward—because that’s what I had learned to do.

And then—through IVF—our daughter Avery arrived. And she was everything. But we weren’t done. We knew our family wasn’t complete. So we went back—to hope again.

Almost five years later, our twin boys Ryder and Dylan came into the world.

Two rounds. Nearly a decade in total.
Three children who each felt like a miracle.

Three children I would choose again—every hard, painful, hopeful moment of it.

Smiling when I needed to. Saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. Swallowing the truth and moving forward—because that’s what I had learned to do.

And then—through IVF—our daughter Avery arrived. And she was everything. But we weren’t done. We knew our family wasn’t complete. So we went back—to hope again.

Almost five years later, our twin boys Ryder and Dylan came into the world.

Two rounds. Nearly a decade in total.
Three children who each felt like a miracle.
Three children I would choose again—every hard, painful, hopeful moment of it.

Five years of infertility. Five years of appointments and procedures. Of hope and loss. Of picking myself back up and trying again.

Five years of watching the world around me fill with babies while quietly carrying a grief no one could fully see. The kind that doesn’t come with casseroles. The kind you’re expected to hold in private—because at least it’s not as bad as someone else.

Even if your story looks different, I want you to feel this part with me for a moment.
The wanting. The kind that lives in your body. In your chest. The way you hold your breath every month hoping—just this once—that the answer will be different.

For five years, the answer was no.

Five years of infertility. Five years of appointments and procedures. Of hope and loss. Of picking yourself back up and trying again.

Five years of watching the world around me fill with babies while quietly carrying a grief no one could fully see. The kind that doesn’t come with casseroles. The kind you’re expected to hold in private—because at least it’s not as bad as someone else.

chapter two The weight

These children

that I prayed for

were changing me in ways I wasn't prepared for.

were changing me
in ways I wasn't prepared for.

All three of my children were diagnosed with ADHD and ODD.
And I want to be very clear — I love them with a fierceness that defies words. They are my whole heart.

But loving them didn't make it easy.

Parenting them became one of the hardest things I have ever done.
The kind of hard that is relentless. Invisible. The kind that wears you down slowly, then asks you to keep going anyway.

And underneath it all, something else was happening.

The infertility years. The parenting challenges. The exhaustion of holding everything together.

That kind of pressure has a way of quietly eroding a relationship when it goes unspoken.

We were still side by side.
But we weren’t sharing the weight of it the way we needed to.
I don’t think either of us knew how.

And I was still carrying everything from before— the grief, the silent hoping, the losses I had never fully let myself feel.

I kept it all inside.

The exhaustion.
The fear.
The loneliness.

And slowly… I was disappearing.

All three of my children were diagnosed with ADHD and ODD.
And I want to be very clear — I love them with a fierceness that defies words.
They are my whole heart.

But loving them didn't make it easy.

Parenting them became one of the hardest things I have ever done.
The kind of hard that is relentless. Invisible.
The kind that wears you down slowly, then asks you to keep going anyway.

And underneath it all, something else was happening.

The infertility years. The parenting challenges.
The exhaustion of holding everything together.
That kind of pressure has a way of quietly eroding a relationship when it goes unspoken.

We were still side by side.
But we weren’t sharing the weight of it the way we needed to.
I don’t think either of us knew how.

And I was still carrying everything from before—
the grief, the silent hoping, the losses I had never fully let myself feel.

I kept it all inside.

The exhaustion.
The fear.
The loneliness.

And slowly… I was disappearing.

chapter three the breaking

I remember the day I found myself

hiding in my closet.

Behind the clothes. On the floor. Away from my
children - the children I had spent ten years fighting to
bring into the world.

Why did it take ten years to give me these children if I can't enjoy being their mother?

I sat in every "why me." Every "this isn't fair." Every "I can't do this."
And for the first time...I didn't push it away.

And then, in that stillness, I was shown something. A choice.

A fork in the road.

I was on the edge of a complete breakdown. In that quiet, dark space, I had the most honest conversation I had ever had— with God, with myself, with whatever holds us when we have nothing left.

And the question came:

I stood at the edge of two very different futures.

Disappear from the pain.
From the weight. From a life that felt impossible to hold. Give up on the version of me that was fighting so hard to survive.

Check out.
Literally.

road one

Say out loud what I had never been able to say. Ask for support - even when everything in me wanted to disappear.

Get help.
Use My Voice.

road two

I'm so grateful I chose this road.

I chose to get help.
I chose to use my voice.
And that choice—made on a closet floor with nothing left—
is the reason I am here today.
Writing these words to you.

I will never stop being grateful for that moment.
Because it didn’t just save my life.

It gave it meaning.

"I was meant to learn from this - every heartbreak, every loss,
every silent year - so that I could help other's who are living it too."

"I was meant to learn from this - every heartbreak, every loss, every silent year - so that I could help other's who are living it too."

- TIFFANY CARSON

chapter four the voice

In 2020, I did the hardest and most healing thing I had ever done.

In 2020, I did the hardest and most healing thing I

I used my voice.

I started the Hard Beautiful Journey podcast. I began speaking the truths I had been carrying in silence for years—the infertility, the grief, the marriage that was on life support, the closet floor… all of it.

And something unexpected happened. People started reaching out. They told me they had never heard their own story spoken out loud before. That they had been carrying the same things.

That for the first time, they didn’t feel alone. That’s when I understood something I hadn’t seen before:

My pain wasn’t just mine to hold. It could be something that helped someone else feel seen.

I started the Hard Beautiful Journey podcast.
I began speaking the truths I had been carrying in silence for years—the infertility, the grief, the marriage that was on life support, the closet floor… all of it.

And something unexpected happened. People started reaching out. They told me they had never heard their own story spoken out loud before. That they had been carrying the same things.

That for the first time, they didn’t feel alone. That’s when I understood something I hadn’t seen before:

My pain wasn’t just mine to hold. It could be something that helped someone else feel seen.

Recording the first episode of Hard Beautiful Journey.

had ever done.

Then in 2021, I lost my brother Cory to a fentanyl overdose.

And in the depths of that grief—deeper than anything I had known—I wrote Dancing in the Rain. The story of Cory and I. Our shared childhood. Our trauma. The love that never leaves—even when the person does.

Writing that book changed me. And it gave others permission to grieve their own stories out loud.

And still, life kept unfolding.

My marriage ended. A different kind of grief. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t come with a clear beginning or end.

The kind where nothing dramatic happens all at once — just a slow unraveling. A growing distance you can feel but can’t quite name. The life you built still sitting there in front of you, while something inside you knows it’s no longer yours to stay in.

There wasn’t a single moment I could point to. Just a series of realizations that became impossible to ignore.
And the quiet ache of knowing that staying would mean leaving myself.

But by then, something in me had shifted. I knew I couldn’t go back to silence. So I kept speaking. Not perfectly. Not with all the answers.
But honestly.

Out loud.

My marriage ended. A different kind of grief. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t come with a clear beginning or end.

The kind where nothing dramatic happens all at once—
just a slow unraveling. A growing distance you can feel but can’t quite name. The life you built still sitting there in front of you, while something inside you knows it’s no longer yours to stay in.

There wasn’t a single moment I could point to. Just a series of realizations that became impossible to ignore.
And the quiet ache of knowing that staying would mean leaving myself.

But by then, something in me had shifted. I knew I couldn’t go back to silence. So I kept speaking. Not perfectly. Not with all the answers. But honestly.

Out loud.

One of the lowest points of my life - when I went away to think and be by the ocean.

Recording the first episode of
Hard Beautiful Journey.

The day after my brother Cory passed away -
I never thought I would get back up from this loss.

One of the lowest points of my life - when I went away to think and be by the ocean.

chapter five The work

I built this mission from everything

that saved me.

I trained in trauma-informed breathwork—because I know what it feels like to hold your breath through years of pain, and what happens when you finally let it go.

I trained in somatic coaching— because I learned that what we carry doesn’t just live in our thoughts. It lives in our body first.

I studied voice work—because using your voice isn’t just about speaking. It’s about being heard. Being seen. And learning to stop silencing parts of yourself just to keep the peace.

And I created OVARA—a space where people can find each other, speak honestly, and remember they were never meant to carry any of this alone.

I didn’t learn this from the outside looking in. I lived it.

And now I wake up every day grateful that I chose to stay. That I chose to speak. That I chose to find my way back. To myself.

A few other things you may want to know about me.

Because the certifications and the podcast are only part of who I am. Here's some more.

beyond the work

I cannot - and will not - begin my day without coffee. This is non-negotiable and not up for debate :).

I cannot - and will not - begin my day without coffee. This is
non-negotiable and not up for debate :).

Dog Mom to Ella and cat mom to Puss. One greets me with full on body snuggles every single morning. The other judges me silently (or not so silently) from across the room. I love them both equally.

Give me a good book and I am completely unreachable. I will finish that book before feeding you. Sorry, but I gotta know how it ends.

Car rides with me are a full blown concert. I am the opening act, the headliner and the encore. Prepare thyself.

I'm a highschool softball coach - showing up for young athletes on and off the field is one of my favorite things to do.

Momma bear to 3 cubs - always their Mom 100% of the time, even when they're not under my roof. They are my whole heart and also the reason I need breathwork.

you've read my story

If any part of my story felt like yours - if you recognized yourself in the silence, in the weight, in the keeping it all together while quietly disappearing - I want you to know -
this is where you can finally put some of it down.

If any part of my story felt like yours - if you recognized yourself in the silence,
in the weight, in the keeping it all together while quietly disappearing -
I want you to know - this is where you can finally put some of it down.