My Personal Evolution Story

I had the stability of living in the same home throughout my childhood, a stark contrast to my mother's experience of moving no less than 16 times (if memory serves me) and facing occasional bouts of homelessness as a child. While the stability I experienced could give the illusion of a quintessential childhood, a close look would reveal the toll of legacy burdens, abuse, addiction, and immense learning challenges. After graduating from high school, I began college, where, regardless of my effort, I could not pass an algebra course. Numbers were a foreign language that did not make sense. Defeated, I changed direction and trained to work as a dental assistant.

I later married and became a stay-at-home mom when my second child was born. As a young family, we faced challenges, but I couldn't have imagined the depth of my partner's hidden secrets. Opening that Pandora's box drove me to find a Certified Sex Addiction Therapist (CSAT) who worked with partners of sex addicts. Through this, I was introduced to Internal Family Systems (IFS), a systems therapy modality that helps us recognize and heal our inner wounded parts. In these weekly group and individual counseling sessions, I would learn about and come to love the various parts of me, especially those who, while trying to protect me, had unknowingly kept me stuck.

With the truth of my marriage laid bare and no forward momentum, along with a chronic illness weighing on me, I filed for legal separation. This marked the start of the transformation in which I stepped into my own authority. I first became an advocate for myself and then a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for children in foster care. I also began dating, which brought a mix of midlife challenges, learning curves, and joys. While I leaned into trusting myself in this new space, I continued to learn about IFS and parts work.

The storm that had eroded my marriage washed away what was, and things calmed. But soon, the next squall raged. In 2016, my first husband passed away unexpectedly, and a year later, I was diagnosed with cancer. My life became a whirlwind of medical appointments, but with time and treatment, I healed. Thankful for new horizons and inspired to make a difference, I expanded my advocacy work to include victims of sex trafficking and women in recovery. The people I worked with were often in the darkest of places, yet they had found a spark of possibility to hold on to as they forged a new path. This resonated deeply with me.

In an unexpected twist, two years after my initial diagnosis, the cancer was back, followed by a worldwide pandemic. This time, cancer didn’t come with a fight; it came with a message. This helped foster a true discovery of Self, acceptance, and gratitude. As for Covid, it too had a message. It changed my family's trajectory, causing a job transfer to be canceled days before we were to move from Washington State to Alaska.

With our home sold and nowhere to live, we found ourselves camped in our motorhome in my mom's backyard. Though my dad passed away in 1999, Mom still had the stability of her beloved home. My parents built it the year after I was born, on property my paternal great aunt purchased in 1949. It sat on the edge of a picturesque lake nestled in the shadow of Mt. Rainier. While society was shut down, we were gifted with gardens for flowers, vegetables, and berries, along with an abundance of fresh air and space to help us through this challenging time.

Nine months later, we completed our move to Alaska, where we found a house, likewise on a picturesque lake. It felt like home in many ways. I continued my advocacy work, trained with the IFS Institute in their Level One course, and followed that by enrolling with Pisgah Coaching Institute. With those trainings complete, having discovered dyscalculia (dyslexia with numbers) was the culprit all those years ago with my learning struggles, I enrolled in the local university and began the journey of higher education once again, this time with knowledge and support.

I found a beautiful rhythm in Alaska, but was soon called home to Washington to help care for my mom, who was nearing the end of her life. She was still in her beloved home, caring for my brother, who had end-stage ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). Over the years, I had watched Mom care for others, from children she would take in to loved ones in their final days, so I did the same for her. Having been a part of her community for 52 years, friends and neighbors showed up for us in every way imaginable. I was grateful.

Back in Alaska, I reflected on the challenges of caring for two family members in home hospice care and marveled at how seamlessly family and community had come together to offer support in love and service. A similar outpouring would happen again, the next year, though under drastically different circumstances. On July 5, 2025, my husband, along with family members and a dear friend, flew in a small plane to Katmai National Park. Their mission was to see brown bears at Brooks Falls, an epic and uniquely Alaskan adventure we had experienced once before. Alaska is glorious and magical, yet harsh and unforgiving. As they were preparing to land, things took a dire turn; the plane lost lift and stalled, causing it to crash. Miraculously, everyone survived, though each sustained serious injuries.

What happened next was simply beautiful. Friends and neighbors showed up, and within 12 hours, family had begun to arrive from out of state to help. Within two days, we had a house full of people dedicated to caring for our granddaughters, and each of the crash victims as I ferried them home from the hospital. When the energy of the situation lessened and I was able to process all that had taken place, it was, like many of the other challenges I have faced, simply surreal.

I’ve learned that all storms pack a punch. Some burn slowly and for a long time, others move in quickly and rage, and yet they all eventually lose their power, allowing normalcy to return. While I would not choose the betrayal in my first marriage, cancer, or any of the other challenging things, IFS parts work was what allowed me to navigate these high-energy situations with compassion and curiosity. These are qualities that I continue to develop with the help of IFS and the coaching community.

On a recent trip to a local beach, I watched the rhythm of the water as it lapped onto the shore. That day, the sea was gentle and calming. The waves, a reminder of life's rhythm and cycles, served as a sign that this most recent storm was waning because there was time again to just walk on the beach. One of my favorite things to do is search the shore for a perfect shell, stone, or glass polished by sand and sea. When that one special piece caught my eye, I picked it up and slowly rolled it in my fingers, feeling its edges while taking it in from every angle. Deciding this was the one, I tucked it into my pocket with a mental note to put it in my treasure jar at home. I paused, then offered a quiet nod to the powerful storms that had helped to reveal my newest find.

My life, marked by the rhythm of storms and calm seas, has taught me that the challenges we face are catalysts for transformation. From navigating deep family burdens and a learning disability to overcoming intimate partner betrayal, trauma, and grief, these experiences have cultivated a deep well of resilience and trust in the human spirit. Through the lens of IFS, I learned to approach my parts with a gentle practice that is now at the core of my coaching. My methodology doesn't seek to tame the storm, but rather to help uncover hidden gifts the storm has revealed, and support a path toward system wholeness, where all parts are welcome.

The memento jar that sits on my dresser. It houses sand and treasures from North & South America, Australia, Europe, and Africa.