I didn’t know I was nonbinary until my 20s. I knew something felt off for a long time—I just didn’t have the language, support, or permission to really ask the questions. It wasn’t until my 30s that I began to feel truly comfortable in my gender and find peace in the fluid, shifting nature of who I am. That’s why I offer this space—for older adults who are just starting to explore their gender, or who have been quietly questioning for years. You might be in your 40s, 60s, or beyond. You might be coming out later in life, or wondering if you need to come out at all. You might feel completely alone in this process. You’re not. In the years I’ve spent doing this work, I’ve supported people of all ages—including folks twice my age—as they navigated their own gender journeys. Whether you're feeling confused, afraid, relieved, lit up, or all of the above, you’re welcome here. There’s no timeline for self-discovery, no age limit on becoming more yourself. We can talk through the big questi

I was married when my husband told me he should have been a woman. That revelation cracked open everything I thought I knew—about my marriage, my sexuality, and my worth as a woman. I questioned my desirability, my femininity, and whether my needs even mattered. I attempted to go along with this change for about a year but divorce was the end result. I walked through a storm of emotions that most people never talk about. It's affected me in surprising and lasting ways. I'm very liberal and have many trans and queer friends but having my partner want that within our relationship was really something I never thought i'd have to navigate. More then anything tho, i yearned to find someone who had gone through what i was going thru. It was incredibly isolating.

I’ve never led a double life or pretended to be someone I’m not — but for many years, I also didn’t speak openly about my sexuality at work. It wasn’t a conscious choice to hide so much as a quiet calibration of comfort: Was this a place where I could be vulnerable? Did I feel safe enough to be fully myself? In the performing arts world, being out was more normalized, almost expected. But in more traditional or corporate settings, I found myself making a series of micro-decisions — a mention of a boyfriend here, a reference to my husband there — slowly allowing more of myself into the room. I’m lucky in many ways: I live in a progressive part of the country with legal protections and a generally inclusive work culture. For me, coming out at work wasn’t about fearing repercussions. It was about growing into my own sense of authenticity and letting go of the long-held instinct to self-edit — an instinct shaped by childhood messages that told me I was “too much” or too expressive. That fear of being “found out” lingered in the background, not as a threat but as a habit — one that’s hard to shake, especially in professional settings where scrutiny and performance go hand in hand. There were no dramatic coming-out moments for me — just a steady unfolding. Supportive colleagues helped. So did jobs where I felt psychologically safe, where I didn’t have to compartmentalize to survive. Still, there were times I felt like an outsider, particularly in male-dominated or heteronormative spaces. The difference wasn’t always spoken, but it was felt — in conversations I couldn’t quite join, or camaraderie I wasn’t sure how to access. These days, being out at work feels less like a decision and more like a given. I don’t feel a line between being “in” or “out” — I just am. For anyone else weighing whether, how, or when to come out at work, I don’t have a script. But I do know most imagined fears are harsher than the reality, and that living more fully into yourself — even in quiet, gradual ways — can offer a huge lift to your sense of well-being. If you’re looking to talk it through, I’d be honored to help you find a path that feels natural, grounded, and fully yours.

A few years ago, I had a close friend I’d known for four years, and a misunderstanding between us led to silence for three months. It hurt. But I also believed our friendship still had value. So, I took the first step and reached out. We talked through what happened, shared our perspectives, and slowly started to rebuild. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. That experience taught me that relationships can be transitional and still be worth repairing—if both people are willing to show up with honesty and accountability. I also center my work around supporting the LGBTQ+ and BIPOC communities because I know how layered and nuanced our experiences can be. If you're going through a tough time in a relationship—romantic, platonic, or family-related—let’s talk it out.

When my daughter was less a year old, her father and I decided to separate while I was simultaneously going through the process of coming out as queer. It involved a lot of conflict, internal deep-diving, and mediation. Within a year, both of us had remarried new partners, and our family dynamic quickly shifted. Co-parenting in that kind of emotional whirlwind came with serious challenges: communication breakdowns, legal struggles, and learning how to put our daughter first while still honoring who we were becoming. On top of that, we learned she had ADHD, like me, which added another layer to how we had to show up for her. I was trying to parent her the way I wished I had been parented: compassionately, with curiosity and support for her differences, but that wasn’t always easy with two households and differing parenting styles. As a former special ed teacher and current interpreter, I leaned on my background in advocacy and education to create stability where I could. Therapy, humor, and community were key for me. Now, I want to be a steady hand for anyone else navigating this emotional maze. You don’t have to figure it all out alone.