I’m a queer, nonbinary person who’s wrestled with faith, identity, and belonging. I know what it’s like to feel torn between who you are and what you were taught about God. This space is for LGBTQIA+ folks navigating religious trauma, spiritual deconstruction, or simply trying to believe in something again—on their own terms. Whether you’re grieving a lost tradition, reclaiming sacred practices, or asking if you’re still beloved, you don’t have to figure it out alone. We'll sit with questions, hold what hurts, and make room for a faith that honors all of you. No judgment. No pressure. Just space to be sacred and whole.

At the age of 25 after having my two daughters I learned about postpartum depression, and was diagnosed with Asperger’s. Since then I have navigated life as a mother, spouse, educator and advocate for disability justice and I would like to help bring equity and inclusivity to the world

When my kids shared that they are non-binary, I felt a mix of love, curiosity, and a deep responsibility to show up for them in the ways they truly needed. I hadn’t been raised with language or models for this kind of parenting, so I had to learn alongside them—often stumbling, but always committed. I realized early on that my job wasn’t to fix or mold them, but to make space for who they already were. That meant doing my own internal work—unpicking old beliefs and fears I didn’t want to pass on. I asked hard questions, challenged the parenting patterns I inherited, and tuned into what safety and celebration could look like for them, not just me. Over time, I found language and rituals that honored their identity and gave them room to evolve. Friends started coming to me for guidance—asking how to respond when their child experimented with pronouns or expressed gender differently. I’ve supported parents as they move from fear or confusion to love-in-action. It's not about having all the answers—it's about listening, learning, and showing your kid they are already enough. I’d be honored to walk with you through that journey.

The biggest challenge was coming out to myself. In the recovery community we talk about the "gifts of sobriety," things we learn about ourselves once the substance induced haze dissipates. My coming out was just that.....a gift. I had just turned 50 when I told my drinking story at a women's AA meeting. While I was clueless about myself, every lesbian in the room knew I was one of them. Due to internalized homophobia and unfamiliarity with the lifestyle, I intuitively felt threatened: I was embarrassed and ashamed, afraid of rejection. Being in corporate mode, I "hired" a "consultant" to help me assess my status. In the process, I found I already had lesbian friends. I found acceptance of myself and others. Whether you knew when you were 8 or are just now in discovery, coming out can be the most liberating of experiences. I've been there, done that, and I can help make your journey easier. You don't have to navigate it alone. Let me co-pilot your journey of discovery.

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.

I grew up in a religious, Chinese-American household during a time when queer identity simply wasn’t named — let alone accepted. As a teen and young adult in the ’80s and ’90s, I didn’t yet have the words to describe what I was feeling. What I did have was fear, secrecy, and prayer — lots of it. I spent years asking to be “cured,” trying to suppress what I didn’t yet understand. Looking back, I can see that the journey to self-acceptance was always running parallel to my slow, often painful unraveling of the faith framework I’d inherited. My early relationships reflected that inner conflict. They were passionate but unstable, conducted in secrecy, and marked by co-dependence rather than commitment. It wasn’t until my 30s and 40s that I had my first adult relationship — one that grew, over time, into the marriage I’m in today. My husband and I met more than two decades ago, and what began as an on-again, off-again connection eventually evolved into a long-term partnership grounded in growth, empathy, and deep care. Being outsiders taught us we didn’t have to follow anyone else’s script. Choosing marriage became an intentional, even political act. It was never about assimilation. It was about building something that felt true. Over time, I found community. Not always in ways that mirrored me, but in spaces that embraced difference. A dear friend in my 20s introduced me to the wider gay world: the clubs, the culture, the freedom of Pride. And while I didn’t identify with every part of it, I came to understand that there’s room in queer life for every kind of story — including mine. Today, I belong to a quiet corner of the queer world, and also to a lineage of people who survived and reimagined. What I hope to offer others — especially those still wrestling with shame or uncertainty — is a place of rest. A checkpoint. A reminder that your instincts toward truth and connection are worth following, and that the world you’re building for yourself is one worth living in.

I’m NB, AFAB, intersex—52 years of being a tomboy didn’t give me the words, visibility, or language to belong. Now I speak from the heart of that. I parent a masc lesbian daughter, unlearn shame, and still carry the weight of not being ‘queer enough.’ If you’re showing up to yourself late—or never had the space to—let’s hold that together.

I've dated while still figuring myself out, created queer relationships, explored my gender identity, and dealt with issues like anger management and gambling habits. I provide a space where you can share your story without fear of criticism because I have experienced similar things myself. Whether you're working on relationships, quitting a habit, discovering healthy ways to handle conflict, or simply exploring who you are, I'm here to listen and offer support and help.

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.

I grew up in a conservative Catholic community where exploring my identity wasn't an option. I married twice to men and lived much of my early adulthood according to expectations that never truly fit. It wasn't until later, through a lot of therapy and personal work, that I realized I was a lesbian. Coming out wasn't easy—it meant redefining my relationships, facing family expectations, and learning to live more authentically. I’m now happily married to a woman and raising our beautiful five-year-old daughter, with a lot of pride in the journey it took to get here. Therapy, supportive friendships, and staying committed to my mental health helped me embrace who I am. I've helped others find the courage to live authentically too, whether it’s young LGBTQ+ coworkers facing unsupportive environments or friends making life-changing decisions. I would be honored to be a listening ear for anyone navigating the complex and emotional path of coming out later in life.

I became a parent while finishing graduate school, balancing a newborn, academic demands, and a move to Alaska all at once. As my daughter grew, I learned to navigate her ADHD and later, the major emotional hurdles that came with her Long Covid diagnosis. At the same time, I was working through profound changes in my own life—struggling in my marriage, recognizing my identity as a gay woman, and healing after a suicide attempt in 2017. Therapy became a lifeline, helping me rediscover my authentic self, leave my marriage on good terms, and eventually build a healthy new marriage based on communication and mutual understanding. Now, as a longtime educator, a parent, and someone who has rebuilt a full, genuine life, I’m passionate about helping others work through parenting stress, relationship transitions, identity discovery, and emotional healing.

I became a parent while finishing graduate school, balancing a newborn, academic demands, and a move to Alaska all at once. As my daughter grew, I learned to navigate her ADHD and later, the major emotional hurdles that came with her Long Covid diagnosis. At the same time, I was working through profound changes in my own life—struggling in my marriage, recognizing my identity as a gay woman, and healing after a suicide attempt in 2017. Therapy became a lifeline, helping me rediscover my authentic self, leave my marriage on good terms, and eventually build a healthy new marriage based on communication and mutual understanding. Now, as a longtime educator, a parent, and someone who has rebuilt a full, genuine life, I’m passionate about helping others work through parenting stress, relationship transitions, identity discovery, and emotional healing.

As a teenager, I experienced my first panic attack. In those days, psychotherapy was not that common, especially within my age group. However, without any understanding and little support from my family, I sought help. During this dark time, I wondered why this was happening to me, what was the meaning and of course, would I ever be happy again. In the midst of fear and uncertainty, someone shared the words: “Suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint.” While I had difficulty absorbing much, those words cut through the darkness because they offered hope, the possibility that my suffering would be the foundation for something good. Three caring women who truly listened made a lasting impact on me. Later, I became a counselor, offering that same hope and presence to others. I know firsthand that being heard can change everything. Indeed, the idea of hope has been my anchor for life.

My journey has been anything but easy. I’ve faced many challenges, including substance use struggles, primarily with heroin, and have been diagnosed with autism, depression, and anxiety. My life was marked by homelessness, incarceration, and trauma, including sexual abuse by my stepbrother and an abusive father. My mother struggled with her own mental health challenges, and I grew up in a cult that shaped much of my early experiences. Recovery has been a long road, and I know firsthand that it comes in different forms for everyone. I’m here to offer my support and understanding. I’ve been through a lot—surviving suicide attempts, mental health challenges, and navigating my identity as a queer trans Indigenous man—and I’ve found hope again. I believe in the power of sharing stories and connecting with others on a real, raw, and honest level. I’m not a therapist, but I’m someone who can relate, listen, and guide you through the process of finding your authentic self.

I used to drink for all the reasons that felt justifiable at the time—social anxiety, not feeling comfortable in my body, not being out, and trying to fit into spaces where alcohol felt like the ticket in. At first, it was weekend binge drinking. Then blacking out became so normal, it stopped scaring me. But deep down, I knew something needed to change. After a hard conversation with my husband, I decided to quit. I joined an online sobriety community and, like a true overachiever with ADHD, dove headfirst into podcasts and self-help books. I did relapse three months in, thinking maybe I could “moderate”—spoiler alert: I couldn’t. But that stumble gave me clarity. I’ve now been sober for over a year, with nine strong months of continuous sobriety, and I host support groups including a weekly LGBTQIA+ meeting I started from scratch. I know firsthand how deeply alcohol is woven into our community spaces, and I want to be a real, judgment-free voice for anyone trying to rewrite that narrative. If you’re sober-curious, starting fresh, or just need someone who gets it, I’m here for you.

Coming out as gay is a deeply personal and courageous journey, one that can bring both relief and uncertainty. Whether you’re just starting to explore your identity, preparing to come out, or navigating the reactions of others, I’m here to support you with empathy and understanding. Together, we’ll work through fears, build confidence, and celebrate your authentic self every step of the way. Most importantly, I want you to feel supported and not alone as you embrace who you are.

Coming out at 28 and building a life with a same-sex partner took courage, patience, and a deep sense of purpose. Over three decades later, that partnership is still going strong—with two grown children, a loving home, and a lot of wisdom gained along the way. With 25 years as a school counselor, there’s firsthand insight into the challenges people face around identity, parenting, family conflict, loss, and the big transitions that define us—like becoming a parent, starting a career, or retiring. This is someone who understands what it means to raise children in a non-traditional family, to help others navigate their coming-out journeys, and to walk beside people as they step into new phases of life. Whether you're trying to build a life that reflects who you are, support your kids through change, or simply find your footing again, you're not alone.

Kids do not usually come to you and ask advice, but is that really unusual? Think back to when you were a kid. What did you do when you needed help? Have a meltdown or tantrum? Maybe talked to a friend, kept it to yourself or wrote it in your journal? So how can a parent talk to a child if they do not know they need their help? Sometimes there are clues in behavior patterns with kids, but most times, you have to jump in the deep end and just start talking. Tell them about something that happened to you and your experiences at their same age. Even if they just life and say it is irrelevant, they will have heard you and sometimes, that is all you need. Want to dive deeper into this topic of how to deal with the distance between parents and pre-teen or teenagers - we can find some ideas to talk about here.

As a teenager, I got caught up in abusing meth and Ritalin to cope with my anxiety and the chaos around me. I didn’t realize how dangerous it was until I went through the painful withdrawal process. I had to lean on a close friend and her mother to help me detox, and it was one of the hardest but most pivotal moments of my life. After that, I stayed sober from stimulants, but it wasn’t easy. I found myself constantly battling urges and struggling to feel “normal” without the boost stimulants gave me. But through that struggle, I began to realize that the real work wasn’t just about staying away from drugs—it was about learning to live without them. It took years of self-reflection, therapy, and support from others to find healthier ways to cope, but now, nine years sober from stimulant use, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve learned how to thrive in recovery, and I know that anyone else can do it too.

In 2015, I went on a vacation that changed everything. I thought I was traveling with someone I could trust, my partner, but instead, I was set up and betrayed in a way I still struggle to put into words. That experience nearly cost me my life and shattered the way I viewed people, relationships, and even myself. After I came home, I tried to bury the trauma, but it followed me. I spiraled into a 10-year battle with alcohol, ending up homeless, in and out of hospitals, and feeling completely alone. For a long time, I didn’t just lose trust in other, I lost trust in my own ability to make decisions. It felt like I would never feel safe again. But after hitting rock bottom and finally entering detox in 2022, I started slowly climbing back. I’ve now been sober for two years. I still deal with mental health struggles, but I no longer let them define me. I’ve learned how to rebuild trust in myself first, which has opened the door to trusting others again too.