My name is Anna, and I am here to serve as a bridge from your current self to the very best thriving version of yourself, the version of you who doesn’t settle for anything less than AMAZING, EXTRAORDINARY, UNDOUBTEDLY FULFILLING, and, most importantly, AT PEACE.
There is a part of you that knows exactly who you really are and why you are here, the part of you that has all the answers that you may ever need. I’m here to guide you to that.
Have you ever told yourself, “My story isn’t a big deal. Others have had it worse. I have nothing to complain about!”? I used to think that way, too. I recently listened to a friend share her life story—something so powerful it felt TED Talk-worthy. And as I sat there, I thought, “Well, compared to that, what do I have to say?!”
I had a beautiful childhood—on the surface. My room was like a toy store, and I traveled the world from a young age. By all accounts, I had everything. But what no one saw was the emotional and often physical abuse that coexisted with the admiration everyone had for my mother.
This is a truth many people struggle to admit—that life can look perfect on the outside while feeling completely different within. That dissonance is something I lived with for years.
I built what should have been a perfect life— a great education, a wonderful family, two kids, and a home that fit the dream (maybe not with a white picket fence, but you get the idea). And then, my world shattered.
The person dearest to me, my dad, —the closest thing I had to a safe space my entire life—passed away unexpectedly. I remember the phone call on that early Thursday morning. Just minutes before, I was about to call my father, as I did most mornings. But now, there was no one left to call.
In an instant, my world collapsed. I sat on the living room floor, paralyzed, tears streaming down my face, as my husband at the time who was getting ready for work tried to get me to answer “whats wrong?”. You know that feeling when the rug is pulled from under you, and you have to decide—do you let yourself fall, or do you pretend nothing happened? Do you tell yourself it’s just part of life while, deep inside, you’re absolutely petrified? Well, I pulled myself together. Book the ticket. Get to the funeral. Keep going. Because that’s what I had always been taught to do.
Growing up as an embassy kid, I moved from country to country every few years. On the outside, it seemed like an exciting, privileged life. But no one ever talked about how isolating it felt—to finally feel safe somewhere, make friends, and then be uprooted again. That paired with not having a safe emotionally regulated adult to turn to was an overwheling combination. So I learned to be an island. I learned to shut down my emotions. And when my world collapsed, I did what I had always done: I kept moving.
Until one day, I couldn’t.
A year later, my life was crumbling, and I had no idea why. I was numb. Unhappy. Depressed. I didn’t want to be here.
I remember standing on the playground one afternoon after picking up the kids from school. The sun was warm on my skin, a light breeze rustling through the trees. Laughter and shrieks of joy filled the air as the kids darted around, chasing each other, their sneakers crunching against the gravel. I stood in a small circle with my mom friends, chatting, the scent of early spring mixing with the aroma of mint tea from my thermos.
We laughed as we shared our struggles—frantically preparing for an upcoming school event, juggling schedules, and trying to keep everything from falling apart. What bonded us most was that we were all expats, raising kids in a foreign country. The language was unfamiliar, the systems confusing, and none of us had the built-in support of family nearby.
One of the moms sighed in relief, her face lit up “I’m so grateful my mom is visiting,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s saving my sanity.” Then, turning to me, she shook her head with a smile, her eyes widening, “I don’t know how you do it alone. You’re the Martha Stewart mom!”
The others laughed, nodding in agreement. “True that!” one said. “So organized, you got it all together. I don’t know how you do it.”
I smiled. I nodded. I played the part.
But inside, a coldness crept through me, spreading from my chest to the tips of my fingers. I felt frozen in place. If I’ve done it—if I’ve achieved “the dream,” if this is as good as it gets—then why don’t I want to live?
How could something look so perfect on the outside yet feel so hollow within?
This is what keeps so many of us going—the chase. As long as there’s something to reach for, there’s the hope of better. But what happens when you achieve “better”? When you have everything you’re supposed to want, yet feel nothing inside?
Finally, I had to face the truth—maybe my life wasn’t so perfect. Maybe the stories others told me about my life weren’t actually my truth.
And maybe it was time to face my story.
“The wound is where the light enters you.” -Rumi
After my sudden spiritual shift, followed by deep inner work to intigrate what had happened to me, I began working with clients—often with people who, on the surface, had it all. Yet time and time again, I saw the same hidden struggle: self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and the constant fear that one day, others would see through their carefully crafted facade. It became clear that my experience wasn’t unique—so many others were living with the same dissonance between their outer success and inner reality.
The truth is that I denied my story for so long because I was afraid. I didn’t want to be seen as a victim. Growing up, I was put down, so I became determined to be stronger. My motto was: Never show weakness. Keep moving forward.
And that worked—until I had no idea where I was going.
That’s the reality for so many people. We live by expectations—our parents’, society’s, our partner’s—without ever asking, What does my soul truly want? Who am I?
But here’s the truth: You came into this world with a unique blueprint. A soul purpose. And if you don’t tune into it, you’re missing the very thing you’re meant for.
So don’t compare your story to someone else’s. Don’t dismiss your pain just because someone else might have had it worse. Instead, trust yourself. Trust the loneliness you felt. Trust the uncertainty you feel now. Get curious about it. Heal it. Use it. Transform it.
Rumi once said, “The wound is where the light enters you.”
For so long, I denied my wound. I was terrified that if I opened that Pandora’s box, it would never close—that I’d be trapped in victimhood. But in retrospect, I see what I was really doing: denying all of me.
Most people believe that if they feel sadness, grief, or vulnerability, that’s all they are. But that’s not true. You cannot fully experience joy without also embracing pain. The more I allowed myself to feel—all of it—the more I came into balance. And with that balance came power.
Having walked this path—from looking like I had everything while feeling empty inside, to seemingly lacking security completely but discovering a deep trust in myself—I now guide others to do the same.
I want this for you.
I want you to reclaim your power. To challenge the idea that life is meant to be a struggle. To see that joy isn’t something you earn—it’s something you allow. Because life is here to support you. And when you embrace all of you—your strengths and your wounds, your light and your darkness—that’s when you step into your most powerful life. That’s when your real life begins.
Step into your power now, discover if this is for you ▼