I grew up in South Carolina, in a house where much was left unspoken. I learned early to read the air — to track what was about to surface before it erupted. But there were also quieter forms of sensing: my mother would “think us home” when it was time to stop playing in the woods. That kind of attunement has stayed with me.

As a teenager, I began reading tarot — almost instinctively. I’d always been attuned to what lived between the lines, always trying to make sense of what was happening around me. In a house where reality was often denied or distorted, the cards gave me something else — a way to track what I felt but couldn’t confirm, to name what was true.

Astrology came later, during graduate school, when I was asking deeper questions about narrative, inheritance, and personal choice. It offered a larger framework — a symbolic map that made emotional and psychological patterns visible. Suddenly, what felt personal or chaotic had context. There was a shape to it, a timing. And that shape could change.

I studied psychology at UC Berkeley and later earned my MFA in writing in NYC. Both disciplines gave me tools to recognize underlying patterns, hold complexity, and understand how story forms us. At its heart, this work is about recognition. Astrology and tarot offer a way to feel seen — not as a problem to solve, but as a story to understand — and to have your experience held with clarity and care.

My approach is both grounded and symbolic. I want to know: where are you in the story? What are you working with? What’s ready to shift? Whether we’re working with astrology, tarot, or both, I offer these tools as a way of paying attention — to what’s unfolding, what’s been carried, and what’s ready to change.