If getting your shit together was something you could do alone, you’d have done it already. You’ve tightened the grip, held your breath, tried white-knuckling your way through, self-discipline your way through the silence. But discipline won’t save you. It won’t make the ache go away. It won’t fill the spaces you’ve been trying not to feel. 

So let’s stop pretending you can outthink this. Let’s stop treating healing like it’s a thing you muscle through. You don’t need a firmer grip—you need a different way through. 

You have made it far. That’s not up for debate. But survival isn’t the same as living. And knowing the pattern doesn’t mean you’ve broken it—it just means you’ve memorized it. You don’t need another insight. You need interruption. You don’t need a reflection. You need resistance strong enough to stop the cycle. 

I know, you don’t have time. You never have. You’ve been moving, holding, juggling—balancing yourself between exhaustion and obligation, hoping you don’t slip. But I’ll lay it out: this isn’t about time. It’s about fear—fear that stopping feels more dangerous than keeping up. Because when you stop—what comes rushing in? This isn’t another thing to carry. This is the place where you set things down. And if stillness feels vast? Then you already know why you need to be here and where we begin. 

Then we sit in the worse until it stops running your life. You think the risk is in talking about it, in opening the door and letting everything spill out. But the real risk? The thing you don’t want to admit? It’s already here. It’s in how you hesitate before speaking. In the way you shrink before you even realize you’re shrinking. In the silence you’ve been using as a shield. And if you can’t explain it? Good. You don’t have to. Even the stuff that started way back—before you had words—still shows up in the way you move now. You ever hear of a song that wrecks you without knowing why? That’s what we’re doing here. No rehashing. Not replaying. 

You’ve learned the cost of trust. That tracks. You’ve seen what happens when people hold too much of you in their hands—and drop it. So you ration. You stay surface-level, just enough to connect, never enough to risk collapse. But that’s still damage. And that weight? You’re still carrying it.

The fear of being seen is sharper than the seeing itself. But if you’re bracing this hard, you know, it’s time. And if you shatter? Then we build something honest from the pieces.

Sessions happen virtually, through a secure, HIPAA-compliant video platform—no apps, no downloads, just a link that brings you into the room.

As long as you’re located in North Carolina, we can work together. That’s not a technicality—it’s a licensing thing. So whether you’re trucked into a corner of your bedroom or parked in your car between meetings, as long as you’re in-state, we’re good.

I don’t take insurance directly, which means I’m not in-network with any plans. You’d be paying me up front from each session, and then if you have out-of-network benefits (depending on your insurance), your insurance might reimburse you after the fact.

At the start of each month, I’ll send you a document called a superbill, it shows all the information your insurance asks for. You’d submit that on your end if you want to try for reimbursement.

That said, if you choose to loop your insurance company into this process, they’re legally allowed to access your clinical records. For some folks, that’s not a dealbreaker. For others, it’s a hard no. Either way, you get to choose how that part goes.

My wish for you? The rest of your life. But I know that’s not realistic, or tolerable, for everyone. Some people work with me for six months. Others stick around for a few years. Sometimes the work ends when it needs to. Sometimes it pauses and picks back up. Sometimes it keeps going because you realize: this isn’t maintenance, this is movement.

There’s no formula here. Therapy is a strange kind of relationship—one where you’re allowed to be fully seen, without performing for it. And how long you stay in that kind of space? That’s up to your nervous system, your capacity, and your commitment to your own truth.

I’m not here to convince you to stay longer than you want to. But i am here to offer something that just might hold longer than you expected.

First: we meet for a consultation. No commitment, no pitch. Just a chance for us to get a feel for each other and decide whether it makes sense to move forward.

If we do, here’s how it works: I only see clients on a weekly basis. That’s intentional. The depth you’re craving. The relief. The self-understanding that doesn’t dissolve the second something hard hits. That only happens through consistency.

Weekly sessions create the rhythm we need to go beyond surface-level insight. Anything less, and we end up spending too much time recapping—or worse, turning therapy into polite conversation. That’s not what this is for.

Sessions are typically 50 minutes, once a week. Some clients opt for a deeper pace either by meeting twice weekly or extending to 90-minute sessions. My schedule runs Tuesday through Friday, during standard work hours (9:30 am-4 pm).

This isn’t a masterclass in emotional regulation. It’s a relationship, one that requires presence, pacing, and your full self.

Then stop trying to logic your way our of it. That part already made contact. You stayed. You kept reading. You felt something. That’s your signal.

It doesn’t have to be dramatic. You don’t need to fall apart to tell the truth. You just have to quit pretending you’re not already halfway through the door.