Understanding your health starts with understanding the whole picture.

I've been both the scientist and the patient — and honestly, it started before I could even remember it. I arrived two months early, with complications that meant my body's foundation, including my gut, didn't get the start it should have. My grandmothers, with no medical training at all, ended up being the ones who helped me thrive.

 

I don't think that's a coincidence in how I turned out. I've never been able to accept "that's normal" or "your labs are fine" as an answer — not for myself, and especially not for the people who trust me with their health. Why some people get sick while others don't. Why we're told everything looks fine when we feel anything but. These questions have driven me for as long as I can remember.

 

I actually started out studying ecology, planning to spend my career studying the natural world. Then, in a graduate seminar, a classmate said something that reframed everything: how can we expect people to care for the world around them when their own basic needs aren't being met first? That was the moment my path changed. My background in systems thinking didn't get left behind — it just found a more personal home.

 

Years later, my own health fell apart, and this became personal in a different way. Testing finally gave me real answers, and I remember how it felt to finally have language for what was happening in my body. But then the guidance stopped. I was handed a list of restrictions and left to figure out the rest alone.

 

That's when I understood what was missing in this field, and why I built my practice the way I did. I care, deeply, about people getting more than data — they deserve someone who will help them make sense of it, and stay with them until they feel like themselves again.

 

This is why I do this work — and why I still love it.