There comes a moment—quiet, almost imperceptible—when your body realizes it’s no longer in danger. But instead of relief, you feel disoriented. What does life look like when survival is no longer the story you have to live by? In this piece, I explore the tender, confusing, and beautiful transition from survival mode to safety, and how narrative therapy can help you rewrite what it means to feel truly at home in your body and your life.

What if the moments that broke you weren’t the end—but the beginning of something more honest? In this post, I explore how emotional rupture, though painful, can become a portal to deeper connection, clarity, and self-compassion. Through narrative therapy, we begin to untangle the stories born from hurt and explore the quiet possibility of repair.

Two powerful frameworks can help us decode these relational patterns: attachment styles and love languages. When understood together, they offer a roadmap for creating more emotionally attuned and secure relationships.

Many of my clients have insurance. And still, they tell me: 'I couldn’t find anyone who looked like me. No one called me back. The therapist didn’t feel safe.’ The hard truth is, coverage doesn’t guarantee care. It doesn’t guarantee choice, continuity, or cultural resonance. As a therapist, I made the decision not to bill insurance—not to limit who I serve, but to preserve how I serve. Working with nonprofits allows me to prioritize relationships over reimbursement codes, presence over productivity. While legislation like the ‘Big Beautiful Bill’ may expand coverage, until the system values care that heals instead of care that performs, I’ll keep working where my clients can be fully seen.

There’s a certain kind of silence that often blankets warm summer nights—the kind that settles just after an event or dinner ends and you're walking yourself to your car. Maybe there were couples laughing at nearby tables, partners sharing cocktails, families corralling sticky-fingered children—and you, there too, feeling full and somehow a little lonely.

But what if this summer wasn’t measured by your proximity to partnership?

What if it wasn’t about putting yourself in places to meet someone, but placing yourself in spaces where you feel most you?

Identity, Storytelling, and the Work of Becoming. In narrative therapy, we don’t ask what’s wrong with you? We ask: What story are you living in? Who wrote it? And how do we find your voice again inside it? For many people exploring their sexuality and gender, this question is not theoretical—it’s urgent.