Before I remembered who I was, I felt like I was living in two different directions.

One part of me was moving toward nursing—stability, structure, something that made sense. The other part of me was always pulled toward entrepreneurship. Even as a preteen, I found ways to make money. I made CDs and sold them for five dollars. I drew flowers for my classmates and charged a few dollars for them.

When I learned how to do hair, it wasn’t through training. I was simply watching someone else, and something in me picked it up naturally. I still remember the day I told my family I could braid my cousin’s hair and no one believed me. It felt like I wasn’t even being heard.

Instead of trying to convince anyone, I took a piece of hair, called my cousin to the side, and did it myself. When I showed them, everyone was amazed. That moment stayed with me. I truly thought that was going to be my path.

By my senior year of high school, I made a decision. I would go into nursing, but I wouldn’t let go of what I actually loved. I told myself I would use nursing to fund the life I really wanted.

Even getting into the program came with doubt from others. A woman from the registrar’s office told me it wasn’t easy to get in and that I should consider other options. I didn’t take that on. I never made that my belief.

When I got called into the department chair’s office, I was one person away from a seat. They called the student ahead of me, and she didn’t answer. That missed call became my opportunity. That was the day I got in.

I went through nursing school with a lot of ups and downs, but I made it through. I graduated and stepped into the specialty I had always wanted—Labor and Delivery. For a while, it felt like I had done everything right.

Then one day, standing in the parking garage of the hospital, a thought came in: “Is this it? Is this what the end looks like?”

I felt it immediately. Not confusion, not fear—just emptiness. It felt like there was more, even though everything on paper said I had already made it.

That’s when I started going back to hair. At first it was just on the side, but the more I leaned into it, the more alive I felt. It brought me back to something creative, something natural.

For a moment, I thought I had figured it out. I thought I was finally doing everything right.

But even then, something still felt incomplete.

So I went back and forth. Nursing and hair. Nursing and hair.

There were so many moments where I chose nursing for the money, and then turned back to hair for the freedom. It felt like I was constantly trying to decide between two versions of my life, but neither one fully felt like me.

Over time, that tension started to build. What once felt manageable began to feel heavier, harder to ignore. It was no longer just a question of what to choose—it felt like something deeper was asking to be seen.

Then November came, and everything changed.

What started as discomfort turned into something I couldn’t ignore. But truthfully, this didn’t begin overnight. There were moments leading up to it—moments I didn’t fully understand at the time.

I remember my 22nd birthday, experiencing what felt like being outside of my own body. I couldn’t make sense of it. Then there were moments in class where a sudden feeling of doom would come over me, like something wasn’t right. I would sit there trying to act normal, while internally everything felt off.

At one point, I was walking around feeling completely disconnected, like I wasn’t fully here. I convinced myself I was dead. That this must be what it feels like.

Then one day, on the highway driving to work, I had a panic attack so intense I had to pull over. I called the police because I was convinced I couldn’t walk. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt stable.

After that, everything escalated.

I went weeks with an overwhelming sense of fear, like something was about to happen at any moment. I stopped driving for over a month and started taking the train instead. There were moments where I would forget my own name. I was in and out of hospitals, urgent care, looking for answers that never came.

I was pacing, paranoid, stuck in racing thoughts. Trying to understand what was happening to me, while also trying to hold my life together at the same time.

And at some point, I realized I couldn’t keep going the way I was going.

I had been pushing myself—working, taking on more, chasing money, trying to maintain an image that everything in my life was perfect. But internally, I was overwhelmed.

So I made a decision to pause.

I put nursing on hold. I stopped trying to force my way through everything. And instead of continuing to add more, I started removing.

That’s when the real work began.

Not externally—but internally.

I started letting go of everything that wasn’t true. Patterns, pressure, expectations, attachments—one by one. It felt like a deep cleanse, both within me and around me.

Until eventually, there was nothing left to hold onto.

And for the first time, I was just there.

No identity to maintain.
No image to keep up with.
No direction to force.

Just me.

And that’s where everything shifted.

But that breaking point became the turning point.

Because in the middle of all of that, something shifted. Not all at once, and not in a way that was loud or dramatic—but clearly.

The moment I stopped trying to fight what I was feeling and started actually facing it, everything began to change.

Not because my circumstances immediately improved, but because I started seeing differently. I began noticing what was actually happening within me, instead of getting completely lost inside of it.

That’s when I began remembering who I was.

Not becoming someone new, but recognizing what had always been there underneath everything.

There is so much more to my story that I will share in time. But for now, this is what I know:

That storm you may be in right now isn’t meant to break you. It’s meant to carry you.

It may not feel like it. It may not make sense while you’re in it. But not everything is meant to be understood in the moment.

If you find yourself in that space—confused, overwhelmed, trying to make sense of it all—don’t get lost in the storm.

Close your eyes and trust that it’s leading you exactly where you are meant to be.

From that space, MOM was born.

Not as something I created, but as something I recognized.

My journey started off rough, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Because who I am today… I don’t even have the words for.

And now… she’s present.