"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."
"You don't have a willpower problem. You have a little girl still waiting for a love that was always going to be conditional. We're going to deal with her — and when we do, the woman in the mirror won't need a mask anymore."
I grew up in Sunday school, confirmation, and the Sunday-morning pew. My values were built on being a good person — do unto others — and on a quiet, unspoken rule that the love around me cost something. My father was a deployed military man, more absent than present. My mother's love I never quite measured up to. I left for college, and faith fell away. I lived "good enough." I focused on becoming who I thought I should be.
By forty I had two kids, a second marriage to a man who loved every part of me, and a deep certainty that I was a failure at everything I touched. Spring 2025 we filed bankruptcy on our business. We were losing the house. The 401k was gone. I was forty pounds heavier than I wanted to be, drinking every night, and watching my kids play in the lake from the shore because my knee injury wouldn't let me follow them in.
One night outside a brewery I slipped on concrete. My face missed a metal stair by an inch. Walking out, I caught my reflection and heard myself think, clear as a bell: this is my mother. I will not be like her. The next morning I was bruised, knee like a softball, wrist in a splint. The body would heal. The shame wouldn't. I started numbing on social media. I told myself this is just what life is now.
Then one quiet afternoon I was scrolling and I saw a man — a public man of faith — shot on a live feed. And I saw the comments mocking his death. And something in me broke. Not the body kind. The soul kind. I fell to my knees and prayed for the first time in over a decade. Not eloquently. Just truly. I begged forgiveness — for me, for them, for a country I love. I surrendered. I have felt reborn ever since.
The first sermon I walked into was on exactly what I was feeling. The band was rehearsing the song that had been on my car radio as I pulled in. My old confirmation bible — the one I hadn't opened in twenty years — had highlighted passages that mirrored the bible study I'd just signed up for. The Lord kept showing up. He still does, every morning, with a praise song already on my heart.
Nine months later I felt the calling to coaching. Not because I'd arrived. Because I'd walked the road and could hold space for other women on it. The Wild Prairie Identity Journey is what came from that — and it is the work I'd give my whole life to.
Soft soil. Honest naming. Slow tending. Every conversation I hold is built on these three convictions about women, healing, and what it looks like to be loved without conditions.
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I bring certification, leadership background, and two decades of personal healing to every woman I walk with. None of this is borrowed. Most of it cost me something to learn.
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