Over the past decade, I’ve spent more than 15,000 hours sitting with individuals and couples through grief, conflict, loneliness, uncertainty, and change. These conversations continue to deepen my understanding of what shapes us, what drives us, and what keeps us stuck.
I believe you can only take people as far as you’ve been willing to go yourself, and that’s something I live by.
When I was 21, I lost my father to cancer. He passed away exactly one year after being diagnosed with stage four brain cancer. I consider myself very fortunate to have had that time to say the things I needed to say and ask the questions I needed to ask. That final year with him was one of the most difficult years of my life, but perhaps the most special as well. I cherish every moment we had together.
While I can experience gratitude for those moments now, that perspective has only come through many years of working through my grief and making sense of this challenging, and yet beautiful, life.
The first year was a blur. I tried to move through the pain by operating under one basic principle: life was short and needed to be lived. I travelled, chased adventure, and studied hard. But whenever I slowed down long enough to actually sit with how I was feeling, I found myself drowning in fear, emptiness, sadness, anger, and guilt. My grief had a palpable weight that seemed to grow heavier with every attempt to “move on.” I found myself longing for him, searching for pieces of him in everything. It felt like something had been stolen from me that I would forever chase and never regain.
I continued to struggle through the days, and people did not understand. Everyone kept telling me that he wouldn’t want me to be sad anymore. I believed that to be true, but I truly did not know how to move through the pain. It felt as though the rest of the world had sunny blue skies, while I was followed by a single black cloud dulling all light and color around me. I felt like a burden to others for being emotional, and at times I had very little hope that I would ever get through it.
This was the first time in my life I understood that the rational mind cannot take away pain simply by convincing ourselves that things are “okay.” The pain was there, and it was asking to be felt.
My healing began when I started to recreate the connection my father and I had. I began waking early to have coffee with the sunrise, something we used to do together when he was alive. I spoke about him openly with others, as if he still had a place in my life. I explored spirituality through yoga, meditation, breathwork, and reflection on my own existence. At times this brought fear and anxiety, but more often it gave me a deeper appreciation for life and the people around me.
I committed myself to showing up differently. Trying to be a better friend, a better person, and opening my heart to new connections.
I sat with the stillness of grief and struggled through feelings of loneliness until I eventually discovered a quiet sense of solitude there. I had to let go of ideas about what I “should” be doing and learn to listen to what my heart and body actually needed from me.
This process did not come without its challenges. While I often felt inspired and connected to my dad, I also felt the emptiness of every failed attempt to fill the space he left behind. Over time, I began to recognize the power of integrating that void into its own unique and meaningful part of who I am. Accepting that the space could never be filled was when things finally shifted for me.
For me, healing required vulnerability: the willingness to feel, to not have it all together, and eventually, to open myself back up to see the simple beauty around me.
There are still days that I cry. I cry when I think about the fear he must have experienced facing his own death and leaving his children behind. I cry because I miss the sound of his voice and the comfort of his hugs. I cry because he is not here to experience my life with me.
But most days, I am deeply grateful for this life he has given me. I am humbled by the kindness of others, and I cherish even the smallest moments, like a quiet cup of coffee in the morning.
Life is both precious and challenging. I move through the difficult days by allowing myself to feel what I need to feel, and by doing my best to focus my energy on gratitude and love. Some days this is incredibly hard, and I simply accept it for what it is in those moments.
Dad, you left me with a special scar. From the bottom of my heart, with tears and laughter, thank you.
I’m also trained as a death doula, supporting individuals and families through end-of-life transitions.
This work reflects my ongoing interest in grief, meaning, and how we accompany one another through some
of life’s most profound and sacred moments.
Loss has a way of teaching us what matters most. Sometimes death teaches us more about living
than almost anything else.
Giving back is something that matters deeply to me, in my work with clients, beyond the therapy room, and in my personal life.
In my first community fundraising event with Carbon Psychology, we raised $19,702 for the Prostate Cancer Centre. It felt like a milestone.
But I hope it’s just the beginning.
Registered Psychologist with the College of Alberta Psychologists
College of Alberta Psychologists
2015 – Present
Psychologists Association of Alberta
2015 – Present
Education:
Master of Arts in Counselling Psychology — McGill University
Bachelor of Arts (Distinction) in Psychology — University of Lethbridge
EMDR
Somatic Attachment Therapy
Trauma and the Body
Narrative Therapy
Grief and Suicide Bereavement
Inherited Family Trauma
Internal Family Systems (IFS)
Sex Therapy
Mediation and Family Conflict
Clinical Supervision
End-of-Life Doula Care
Nature-Based Therapy
Yoga, Meditation, Breathwork, and Reiki Energy Healing
I offer a free 15-minute consultation to answer any questions and see whether working together feels like a good fit.
