I've battled knowing who i am for a long time, and after years of continuing to work on myself i found skills that have helped me to be more readily willing to share and open up, and to know and believe in my self worth and to overcome negative self talk and feelings of unworthiness, and feeling unloved, and ashamed. i found the strength to see myself for who i am through my own eyes instead of the eyes of others.

I thought resilience meant pushing through—gritting my teeth, swallowing feelings, and forcing myself to ‘just deal with it.’ But that left me drained and butting against as brick wall. You see, strength isn’t just enduring struggles; it’s about adapting, processing, and allowing yourself space to heal. Self-compassion was the hardest piece. I didn’t realize how much I held myself to unrealistic standards, expecting perfection where I should’ve offered myself grace. Over time, I started embracing the idea that strength isn’t about ignoring pain—it’s about acknowledging it and choosing how to move forward with care. Through my work in peer support, I’ve helped others cultivate resilience in a way that feels sustainable—balancing the need for self-protection with the power of self-kindness. If you’ve ever felt like you’re being too hard on yourself or struggling to recover from challenges, I get it. Let’s explore ways to navigate life with strength and softness.

Talk with me about the ups and downs of living with bipolar: especially the crashes that can feel heavy, frustrating, and out of your control. I’ve been there myself. Over time, I’ve learned to see those crashes not as personal failures, but as my body’s wisdom calling me to rest and restore. In this session, you’ll have a safe space to process what you’re experiencing, release self-judgment, and begin to reframe your relationship with your cycles. Together, we’ll explore gentle ways to honor your body, stabilize your emotions, and move forward with compassion for yourself.

Growing up in the early 2000s, diet culture had a very negative impact on my relationship with food and my body. Societal pressure and generational trauma ingrained in me that I was better off small and frail, rather than confident and healthy. Once I grew into adulthood, I was not prepared for the changes my body would undergo, and did not know how to properly fuel and move my body. This caused me to overcorrect and dive head first into an eating disorder to lose weight that was never a problem in the first place. Over the next ten years, this tapered off rather than came to an immediate end. Eating disorders are years long battles, and sometimes never go away completely. Relapses happen along the way, and what matters more is changing how you react to them. I am fortunate that I have reached a place of self care and acceptance, but this did not come without incredibly hard work and reflection.

There was a time my body felt like a stranger—unpredictable, weak, and disconnected from the version of me I used to know. I wanted to show up in the world like I used to, but chronic fatigue and recurring health issues made even simple things feel exhausting. People would say, “But you look fine!” and I’d smile while quietly spiraling inside. It took time to learn how to befriend my body again. I started listening to it instead of fighting it. I gave myself permission to rest, to say no, and to ask for support—even when it felt uncomfortable.

Through years of mental rewiring, I practice mindful living. This comes with the often loud voice of self-awareness, as well as presence and acceptance. Mindfulness is the difference between mindlessly binge watching tv that harms your sleep to numb against upset, versus enjoying one cookie. And I obviously still struggle! Acceptance also involves loving your true self and knowing your worth. I'd love to share tips and challenges as we go on a mindful journey together.

I’m Krista, and for years I battled with low self-worth and shattered confidence after surviving toxic relationships that left me questioning who I was. Those experiences broke me down but also became the turning point that sparked my journey toward healing and reclaiming my voice. Through deep personal work and my career in social work, child protective services, and counseling at a federal halfway house, I discovered the power of resilience and compassion—not just for others but for myself. Now, as a coach, I’m passionate about helping people who feel stuck or broken, especially those recovering from toxic relationships. I walk beside them to rebuild confidence, find their worth, and believe in a future filled with hope. Your story matters, and healing is possible no matter where you’ve been.

I've restarted more than I can count: education, career, marriage and divorce, new dreams and new places. I've gone through tough periods of not knowing where to turn, poverty, disability, grief and parenting. Somehow I have managed to build a life that looks like mine. Not perfect. It's got a little edge. But...it's mine. This came from the lessons I learned trying to earn my worth through productivity, perfection and trying to be the person everyone else needed. The burnout came and I unraveled, which is what I needed. I know what it's like to feel behind, broken and wondering if you'll ever want anything again. Let me meet you there and hold a light next to you. You got this.

For years, I struggled with clothes. I never fit the mold, always feeling like I had to hide my body, my neurodivergent sensory quirks, my real self. Growing up in rural Appalachia didn't help either. The game changed when I started using fashion as a tool for self-discovery and self-compassion, not just “looking good” for someone else. If you’re curious how clothes can help you embrace your neurodivergent identity, practice more kindness with yourself, or just figure out what feels good for you (not the algorithm), let’s talk. I think style is a core part of neurodivergent identity and can be a powerful tool to feel more yourself and at home in your own skin. That can look like maximalism or wearing the same thing every day. Bring your closet wins, fails, weird questions, and hopes for self-acceptance.

I moved to the United States from Serbia with my ex-husband, who was a scientist pursuing his education. We started our family here, but over time, it became clear that he wasn’t as involved as I was. Our communication issues began to grow, and as the years passed, I started to recognize signs of narcissism in him. The verbal and emotional abuse took a toll on my self-esteem, and things got worse when he had an affair. The affair was incredibly painful, especially since we lived in a small town where everyone knew. The stress was overwhelming, and although we tried to reconcile, a family psychologist advised me to leave him. Two years later, I met my current husband, a psychologist, who helped me realize that I was a survivor of a narcissistic relationship. Now, I’m passionate about helping others who are navigating similar struggles, offering a compassionate ear and the support that I wish I had during those difficult times.

For a long time, I was told how to feel, how to dress, how any original idea I had was wrong. I got programmed into believing that I didn’t know what was best for me and that I sounded ignorant whenever I tried to voice my opinion. When I finally broke free of the toxicity of that relationship, I found it difficult to express myself to doctors and therapists, even friends and family, because I was so full of self doubt. I couldn’t even order food at a restaurant because it filled me with crippling anxiety. Finding my own voice has been challenging and not without setbacks. My first step in advocating for myself was learning that most people are forgiving and supportive when they are given the opportunity to be. This has helped me to gain the confidence I needed to be able to ask for help, let the person know what kind of help I do need and, most importantly, what I’d like to order from the menu:)

I grew up believing that strength meant being able to take harsh words, pressure, and negativity without breaking. If I crumbled under cruel or brutal talk, I thought it meant I was weak. Over time, I internalized that message and spoke to myself in the same harsh way, thinking it would make me stronger. But instead, it wore me down and made me feel small. Through practice, I’ve learned that positive self-talk isn’t weakness—it’s courage. Choosing to speak to myself with compassion instead of criticism has helped me build true resilience and self-acceptance. Now, I use gentle, encouraging words to remind myself that I am worthy, capable, and human. Practicing positive self-talk has been a big part of how I continue to heal and grow, and it’s something I’m passionate about sharing with others.

For years, my mental health was like a storm I was expected to weather alone. I lived with the weight of PTSD, anxiety, depression, and trauma — often while trying to show up for others, keep a roof over my head, or pretend I was “fine.” On top of it all, I was navigating sobriety, chronic illness, and the emotional wreckage of abuse and loss. What I didn’t know back then was that struggling doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I’ve been through things that require care — not shame. Over time, I learned how to advocate for my needs, recognize when I was in survival mode, and build mental health routines that actually supported me, not just masked symptoms. Mental health is a journey — not a checklist. And if you’re somewhere in the middle of that journey, I want you to know you don’t have to figure it all out alone. Whether you’ve been dismissed, misdiagnosed, or overwhelmed, I’d be honored to talk with you about how to find your way forward.

I used to carry my past like a chain — every mistake, every bad relationship, every moment I wasn’t proud of. I let those moments shape how I saw myself. I let the opinions of others — especially the ones who hurt me — convince me I wasn’t enough, or that I was too damaged to ever rise above what I’d been through. But over time, recovery taught me something life-changing: my mistakes don’t define me — how I grow from them does. Every stumble held a lesson. Every failure shaped the strength I carry today. And the very things I once hid in shame? They’ve become the foundation of the wisdom and compassion I now offer others. I am not my lowest moment. You are not your worst day. You are not the version of you that didn’t know better yet. You’re growing. You’re learning. Vulnerability is key. And that is brave. If you’ve been letting your past define your worth, your identity, or your future, let’s talk. You deserve to see your journey through the lens of growth, not judgment.

I’ve spent years navigating self-doubt, perfectionism, and negative self-talk—and I know how heavy it can feel when you don’t fully believe in your own worth. I’ve learned to shift those patterns, reframe my inner dialogue, and cultivate real self-compassion. I can help you navigate self-doubt, perfectionism, and negative self-talk so you can truly embrace your worth. I’ll guide you in shifting old patterns, reframing your inner dialogue, and cultivating real self-compassion. As a Certified Empowerment Coach (CTEDU), I provide practical tools and strategies to help you quiet self-criticism, honor your boundaries, and step into life with confidence, clarity, and courage. Together, we’ll work on recognizing your value, letting go of perfectionism, and embracing the unique person you already are. You don’t have to wait to feel confident—you can start valuing yourself today, and I’m here to show you how.

From a young age, I felt pressured by adults around me to never make mistakes in schoolwork, friendships, or even my appearance. The perfectionism and inner critic I developed from this drove me to both high achievement and devastating lows from burnout and failure. My sense of self-worth was almost always tied to success, which meant when I was not successful, I believed I had no value. When I started talking in therapy about how I always felt like a failure, my therapist helped me realize that I gave far more grace to others than I ever gave myself. I began to evaluate myself in a softer way (e.g., "I did my best today and can always try again tomorrow.") Now, when negative self-talk arises, I acknowledge it with compassion, knowing that at one time it served a purpose. I want to support others in developing this kind of self-compassion by exploring foundations for self-worth beyond achievement, and in internalizing that success is a construct that does not define your value.

Living with ADHD is like running a marathon with your shoes tied together. My brain doesn’t move in a straight line. It zigzags, leaps, crashes, and forgets why it entered the room. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been called “lazy,” “scattered,” or “inconsistent.” But the truth is, I’m doing my best in a world that wasn’t built for brains like mine. ADHD isn’t just being distracted. It’s the shame of missed deadlines, the overwhelm of executive dysfunction, the paralysis when you know what to do but can’t do it. It’s the highs of hyperfocus, the lows of burnout, and the constant inner monologue telling you you’re never doing enough. But ADHD isn’t a flaw. It’s a different operating system. And once I stopped trying to force myself into neurotypical molds, I started to find a rhythm that worked for me. It’s still messy. But it’s mine. If you’re feeling misunderstood, exhausted, or ashamed of your scattered mind, I see you.

Grief and trauma have shaped much of my adult life, and for a long time, I didn’t know how to live with the weight of them. Therapy helped me understand the deeper roots of my pain, but I still needed a way to express what I couldn’t say out loud. That’s when I turned to art. At first, it was just something to do with my hands when my mind felt too loud. But over time, it became a way to calm my nervous system, explore old wounds safely, and begin healing on my own terms. Now, I use creative expression (painting, writing, collaging) as a way to help others access their emotions and gently move through them. I've seen how powerful it can be for people to make something out of their pain, to step back and see it from a new angle. It doesn’t have to be “good art”, it just has to be honest. Creativity helped me find clarity, regulation, and even joy again. I’d love to support you in discovering what it can do for you.

Growing up, I didn’t always get the emotional support I needed. My caregivers, though doing their best, were often emotionally unavailable or overwhelmed themselves. As a child, I internalized the idea that my feelings were too much—or not important at all. This left a lasting impact that followed me into adulthood. I became extremely self-critical, anxious, and constantly sought validation from others. As I began healing from anxiety and addiction, I realized that part of my recovery involved going back—not to relive the pain, but to offer my younger self the care I never received. Through inner child work, journaling, and self-compassion practices, I started to “reparent” myself: validating my emotions, setting healthy boundaries, and learning to nurture myself like a loving caregiver would. This shift was life-changing. I stopped chasing external validation and started showing up for myself with kindness and patience. Reparenting helped me feel whole and safe in my own body—sometimes for the first time.

For years, I was my own worst critic. I judged myself harshly, compared myself to others, and silenced my inner voice with substances. I didn’t realize how deep my self-abandonment ran until I began the healing process. The turning point came when I learned that no one else could give me the love I was starving for—not in a lasting way. I had to learn how to offer it to myself first. In recovery, I began treating myself like someone I actually cared about. I practiced speaking kindly to myself. I explored therapeutic art, forgiveness practices, and daily rituals to reconnect with the parts of me that had been ignored or shamed. Slowly, I began to like myself—and eventually, I became my own best friend. This wasn’t just a mindset shift—it was a full transformation in how I related to myself. I stopped abandoning myself when things got hard. I stood by myself in the storm, and that’s what helped me thrive.