I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and PTSD—labels that helped me make sense of the chaos I had been carrying since childhood. Growing up, I endured both physical and emotional abuse, along with the pain of abandonment by those who were supposed to protect me. That kind of trauma leaves a mark—it shaped how I saw myself, how I trusted others, and how I moved through the world. There were years when just getting through the day felt like a battle specifically when I struggled with inferitily and overcoming grief from a miscarriage. I carried the quiet pain alone which left me left me feeling isolated, like the world kept moving while I stood still with a heart full of hope and loss. I know what it’s like to dream of becoming a parent, to imagine a future that never fully arrives, and to wrestle with both the physical and emotional weight of that journey. Along the way, I found myself supporting others—friends, family, and peers—who were navigating similar paths. I leaned on my own healing, my studies in child development, and my belief in the power of shared experience. I began to realize that just being there, truly listening, and offering evidence-based guidance could make a real difference. Now, as a Certified Medi-Cal Peer Support Specialist and psychology student, I offer that same support to anyone going through these challenges. You deserve a space to process your emotions, ask hard questions, and know that you're not alone.

Hello, I’m a 57-year-old who has faced many challenges over the years, including growing up with an abusive parent, losing a parent at a young age, enduring a 15-year marriage to an abusive spouse, navigating infertility and IVF, raising twins, caring for and losing a spouse to terminal illness, and the loss of a 24-year-old child to health issues. I have also faced my own health challenges and become disabled. These experiences, combined with my lifelong work supporting abused and neglected children, women, sex trafficking survivors, foster youth, and grieving parents, have given me a deep understanding of grief, crisis, and resilience. I am here to help you find strength, know you are never alone, and discover ways to survive and thrive even through life’s most difficult moments.

I just assumed I'd be a parent. It was as automatic and natural an assumption as the sun would rise and set. When I married, my husband had the same assumption: we'd be parents. But it didn't happen. At first, we didn't try -- but we didn't NOT try either. Then, as time went on, we were more...deliberate. It still didn't happen. It happened for friends and other family. But not us. We watched as others went through their childrearing joys and challenges, with only one another to hold onto. We decided not to get medical fertility intervention, but fully understand the pull towards it. We wanted a kid. We did not get one. Though my husband and I have built a life in which we are happy (most of the time) and fulfilled (as much as we can be), there's always the grief for the child that never was. The answers you give others when they ask if you have children. The comments you overhear. The pang you get. The worry about aging alone. I'm here to see you in and through it. Let's talk.

Becoming a parent for the first time changed me in ways I never expected. It cracked me open—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I felt love so big it scared me. I also felt grief, fear, rage, and loneliness that no one warned me about. The world expects new parents to feel nothing but joy, but the truth is far more layered—especially if you carry trauma, mental health challenges, or didn’t grow up feeling safe or fully loved yourself. When I had my first living child, I was still healing from the devastating loss of my firstborn. That made parenthood even more emotional and sacred—but also incredibly hard. I was navigating grief while changing diapers. Trying to reparent myself while learning how to raise someone else. All while sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, and unsure if I was doing it "right." I’ve learned that parenting isn’t just about raising a child—it’s about becoming someone new. Shedding old identities. Confronting triggers. Stretching your heart beyond what you thought possible. And sometimes, it’s about quietly surviving the day and trying again tomorrow. If you’re in the thick of it—tired, unsure, deeply in love but also overwhelmed—I see you. You're not alone.

Losing my firstborn son to stillbirth was the most devastating experience of my life. It shattered everything I thought I knew about grief, motherhood, and myself. There’s no way to prepare for the silence where a heartbeat should be, or the way time seems to stop while the world keeps moving forward without your child in it. In the aftermath, I was overwhelmed by a grief that felt impossible to carry. People often don’t know what to say, and sometimes say nothing at all—leaving you to navigate a heartbreak that few truly understand. I know the pain of baby showers, birthdays, and milestones that never come. I know the isolation, the guilt, the anger, and the desperate need for someone who just gets it. Over time, and with a lot of emotional work, I’ve learned to live alongside the loss. I still carry it—but I also carry love, memory, and meaning. I’m here to hold space for you in your grief, whether you’re deep in the early days or years into processing the ache that never fully goes away.

Life hasn’t always been easy, and I’ve faced my share of struggles. Growing up as the second oldest of six kids, I learned early how to juggle responsibilities, including helping raise my older sister’s children in their early years. My own journey as a mom has had its challenges, too—infertility, pregnancy loss, and health issues like POTS have all shaped my path. But perhaps the most challenging experience was a serious car accident that left me feeling hopeless and overwhelmed. I struggled with suicidal thoughts before seeking therapy, and it was through that therapy that I was able to heal and rebuild my sense of purpose. As a parent, I’ve encountered many obstacles, from advocating for my son’s speech development to learning that a small but significant health issue—an ear bead that had been lodged in his ear for eight years—was affecting his hearing and development. Through patience, perseverance, and a willingness to explore natural and alternative solutions, I’ve learned how to face the obstacles in my life with resilience.

I was severely sick my entire pregnancy, I couldn’t eat without it coming back up, I was dismissed, and told to “well you are pregnant” at my appointments. I had gestational anemia that never went away. My birth was so severe I almost died. No one listened. Afterward, I spiraled into postpartum depression I was already at risk for, & it was the most isolating, guilt-filled time of my life. I didn’t bond with my baby right away. I couldn’t breastfeed. I felt like a failure. If you’re in that place now—or if you’re still pregnant and no one’s taking your pain seriously—I see you. I can help you prepare for appointments, advocate for yourself, and speak the truth when no one else will. I’ll hold space for the postpartum thoughts you’re too afraid to say out loud—the ones that feel shameful, confusing, or make you question if you’re a good mom. You’re not broken. You’re not alone. And here’s a secret if you are worried and thinking “I’m a bad mom” that alone tells me, you are a good mom.

I have been on a long fertility journey with my wife, only recently becoming a new father. We got married later in our life, and we had long talked about planning to have a family. It's easier said than done. Right after we got married, we kept on trying and trying, and were unsuccessful. For two high achievers where outcomes typically could be dictated by hard work, fertility outcomes felt like a coin flip. It felt embarrassing, like something was wrong or deficient with us. It was hard to talk to others about it because it was so personal. I stayed in a bad job two years longer than I would have because we were going through the process and the insurance benefits were good. We went through miscarriages, anguish. We talked about what if we didn’t have kids or what if we adopted. What got me through the journey was talking to others about it. Not only did I learn from their experiences, but I also felt less alone.

After I had my baby, I felt like I was supposed to be glowing, full of love, and endlessly grateful. But the truth? I felt like I was falling apart. I was exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. I cried when no one was looking. I felt anxious, overwhelmed, and so ashamed for not feeling what I thought I was “supposed” to feel. I loved my baby. I didn’t love the way I felt inside. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Some days, I didn’t even recognize the person staring back in the mirror. The guilt, the fear, the pressure to hold it all together. I kept pretending I was fine, while quietly unraveling. Eventually, I cracked. And that’s when the healing started, not by being “strong” but by being honest. I started talking to other moms who had been through it. They didn’t judge me. They just nodded, held space, and let me cry. And that was everything. Postpartum is hard. Being a mother is beautiful, yes, but it can also be lonely, messy, and heartbreaking. And if you’re in that place right now, I want you to know you’re not broken. You’re not a bad mom. You’re just human and you deserve support.

I have experienced two types of miscarriage; both of a child conceived in love and a child conceived by force. Both areas are dark and confusing. Both areas are difficult too move past both physically and emotionally.

My partner and I have been together for decades, and over that time we’ve lived through many of the dynamics that long-term same-sex couples face: mismatched expectations, evolving ideas of monogamy, different levels of comfort around openness and vulnerability. Our early years were rocky, marked by uncertainty and growth at different paces. But over time, trust took root. Not everything became easy or perfectly aligned, but we learned how to stay in the work — how to stay curious, and to keep showing up for each other even when we didn’t always agree. We’ve also moved through big life questions that don’t always come with a map — like what commitment should look like when no one handed you a script, or how to make decisions about marriage when it wasn’t always legally available, or emotionally accessible. We’ve had conversations about having kids, and wrestled with what it would take — practically, financially, emotionally — to pursue that path. While we didn’t become parents, the process of facing those questions still shaped how we saw ourselves as a couple, and clarified what we were building together. We didn’t land where we are through certainty — but through conversation, through friction, and through letting the relationship evolve without needing it to resemble anyone else’s. If you’re trying to navigate your own version of partnership, wherever you are in the process, I’d be glad to talk.

I knew long before I met my husband or became pregnant that I wanted a homebirth experience with my firstborn. In addition to wanting to explore an alternative to western medicine and the current medical model for childbirth in hospitals, I was deeply desiring an experience that was intimate, comfortable, freeing, and natural. While my labor and birth experience was long and challenging, I am so grateful I had the opportunity to birth at home under the care of an experienced midwife, midwifery assistant, and doula who coached both myself and my husband through my pregnancy, labor, birth, and postpartum. It was a true blessing to feel both so connected to my body and comfortable transitioning into the role I knew I was made for— being a mom! Having a homebirth was a blessing I look forward to experiencing with future pregnancies. If you had a homebirth and just need to talk out the experience with someone, it would be an honor to share that journey with you.

I swear I've been on the self discovery vibe since I was young. I grew up in an alcoholic family amongst poverty. I chased the grand idea of love into dark relationships and ended up without hope or self esteem. And, I lost who I was. One day, I just got sick of the way I visualized my life. I didn't really have any joy and I was existing from one day to the next. That day, I made the decision to focus on my Happiness! I dove into spirituality and self improvement which has helped me to remember that I'm an awesome person. Lol! Today, I love my life. Take my hand or walk beside me. I will hold space for you ✨

I grew up in a not-emotionally-healthy family, and got into an emotional abusive relationship at the beginning of high school. In my 20's, I married him and turned to alcohol to cope, with disastrous and shame-filled consequences. In my 30's, I got sober, had a baby, and got divorced., Now after about 20 years of therapy, cultivating a meditation practice, and exploring 12-step fellowships, I'm in a happy 2nd marriage with another baby on the way and my life is peaceful.

I’m Kathleen, and my infertility journey began when I met my husband at 40. We quickly realized that conceiving wasn’t as easy as we’d hoped. The emotional toll of infertility was overwhelming, especially since my husband often traveled for work, leaving me to navigate it on my own. I explored options like adoption and surrogacy, but each step came with its own challenges. Through this experience, I learned how crucial it is to have support: whether from family, friends, or professionals. Over time, I found ways to cope with the emotional strain and learned to be kinder to myself. I want to help others facing infertility feel less isolated and more empowered during their journey. One experience that stands out was supporting a close friend through five miscarriages. I accompanied her to appointments and offered a listening ear, which reinforced how important it is to have someone by your side. I’m here to offer that same support to anyone navigating infertility.

I did not do anything wrong. I went to the doctor and had no problems. I ate well. Slept well. Had a happy life with a new puppy. Continued doing moderate walking and was excited to welcome a child into my marriage. One afternoon, I was craving ice cream and my husband said he would run to the store to pick up a gallon. The last thing I remember was going to the bathroom and the next thing I saw were the bright lights of a hospital room. I had lost my child and I have no idea what happened. The doctor said I was perfectly healthy and there were no telling signs. I asked him what I did wrong and he said, 'Nothing. Sometimes these things just happen and there is no explanation." I pondered over our talk several times and even called him back to talk to the doctor again but there was no explanation in my case. The best thing to know was that I was healthy and there were no complications and I could try again but in my mind, I still worried. If this has happened to you - let's talk.

Becoming a parent later in life brought both joys and challenges I hadn’t expected. While some parenting experiences feel universal, I’ve learned that others — like balancing parenthood with a professional life or navigating the world as a parent of color — can be deeply unique. I’ve also found that parenting isn’t just about raising children, but about learning how to show up in different spaces, including among other parents, at schools, and in communities that don’t always reflect my own experiences. Along the way, I’ve thought a lot about how to advocate for my child, connect with the right support services, and step into leadership roles where needed. My journey has taught me that parenthood is about more than just surviving the day-to-day — it’s about building belonging for both yourself and your child.

When I became a mom just after turning 18, I had no idea what I was in for. I loved my daughter deeply, but I was still growing up myself—and trying to do it all alone. A few years later, I was in nursing school, pregnant again, and just barely holding it together when I found out my son had a serious heart condition. The next chapter was full of hospital visits, sleepless nights, and moments where I honestly didn’t know how I’d make it through. He eventually passed away. That loss cracked me open in a way I didn’t know was possible. There were days I felt numb, or angry, or like I was just pretending to be okay for the sake of my daughter. Postpartum depression hit hard, and for a while, I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling. But slowly, I started asking for help. Therapy helped. So did letting people in. Now, years later, I’ve learned how to carry both grief and joy—and I try to be someone others can lean on when things feel impossible.

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for much of my life, but nothing prepared me for the depths of postpartum depression after the birth of my son. It hit me hard—different from anything I had experienced before—and it took a long time to realize that fear and guilt were shaping every part of my early parenting journey. Learning that I could only control so much, and that doing my best was truly enough, was one of the hardest but most freeing lessons. In my personal life, I also have experience supporting others through deeply difficult times, including helping a close friend leave a dangerous and abusive relationship. I know firsthand that true healing often starts by simply having someone willing to listen without judgment. Today, I’m passionate about offering that same space for others: whether you need resources, a sounding board, or simply someone to sit with you while you figure it out, I’m here.

As a new mom, my journey into parenthood wasn’t what I expected. My pregnancy had some complications, including my water breaking a month early, which threw me into a whirlwind of uncertainty. I was overwhelmed by the fear of my baby needing to go to the NICU, and I found myself constantly anxious about his health. I quickly realized the importance of trusting my instincts and advocating for myself, especially when things felt off in the medical process. It wasn’t easy, but I had to speak up about my concerns and trust that I had a right to be heard. Along the way, I learned a lot from the NICU staff and gained a deeper appreciation for self-advocacy in medical settings. One of the biggest lessons I took away from my experience was that it’s okay to ask questions and make sure you’re getting the care you need. I want to help others, especially new parents, feel empowered to advocate for themselves during these high-stress moments and find ways to cope with the anxiety that can come with early parenthood.