My Story

Over the years, many of you have asked how I keep going—how I stay grounded and keep showing up for healing work despite chronic pain, injury, and personal loss. The truth is: it’s not easy. But it is possible.

This is a brief piece I wrote to tell the truth of what I’ve lived, what I’m still living, and what it takes to choose wellness—one day at a time. I want to share my story in the hope that it offers inspiration—or at the very least, nervous system resonance—for wherever you are in your own healing.

Many of my clients already know parts of it: the 17 surgeries, a broken neck, 40 years of chronic pain, layers of trauma, and the ongoing work of reclaiming my life from the inside out. One of the most grueling chapters has been the last seven years of my life. In addition to an absolutely grueling and exhausting divorce, in the last five years I have undergone two hip replacements, nine months apart. I spent a full year on a cane for each hip. At one point, I was falling without warning—even once in the middle of Fifth Avenue during a green light. X-rays revealed both hips were bone-on-bone. Movement became unbearable. This started to take a toll on my psyche, my nutrition, my disposition, and my standard of living. I had lived in pain before, but this pain was new and improved.

And that pain didn’t exist in a vacuum. It was layered over a body that had already endured 15 other surgeries, neurological dysfunction in my neck, hands, and arms, 22+ years of bodywork, and four decades of physical theater. At the same time, my personal life was collapsing: a 23-year marriage ended, I lost my self-esteem, my mental stability—honestly, most of the identity I’d carried for the first 49 years of my life.

I hit what I can now call rock bottom. I was ready to be done with it all, and that almost occurred. But thanks to a brilliant chiropractor, two amazing physical therapists, a deeply compassionate therapist, and my chosen family, I slowly found my way back.

In the last five years, I have made conscious choices to rebuild a life I actually want. That process has taught me this: healing requires presence and time. And presence isn’t always peaceful. It means staying with discomfort, metabolizing experience, and continuing forward anyway.

So how do I do it? Some days I don't, but when I do, I do it through hours in the gym. On therapy tables. In nature. At the piano. At the easel. Crying, shaking, sweating. In panic. In joy. Grounding. Gardening. Meeting people on my table. Over and over and over again. This is wellness—it takes daily work.

And if that idea makes you squirm, hear this:

Hip replacements take work.

Pain takes work.

Dehydration takes work.

Inflammation takes work.

CPTSD takes work.

Suppressing your body’s chemistry? That takes a lot of work. You can’t bypass it. You can’t medicate it all away. You have to metabolize it.

But that work doesn’t need to be dramatic. Healing isn’t a PowerPoint presentation. It’s small, consistent acts of self-care that slowly build your capacity and strength. Micro-movements of care, done daily. That’s it.

My pain is still here. We’re in constant negotiation—sometimes dancing, sometimes boxing. But I’m now squatting again, sometimes with 90 pounds, and learning to move with integrity. I’m learning that form matters. Rest matters. You must build in restoration for your tissues to thrive. Parasympathetic biochemistry isn’t optional—it’s essential.

So drink more water. Eat the rainbow. Choose care providers who actually support your wellness—not just treat your symptoms. And hydrate your mind too. Get psychological support, however and wherever you can. You’re allowed to make that a priority.

This is a long road—but it’s yours. And you’re not walking it alone.