A word from our founder

Like so many women, my initiation into womanhood came not through celebration, but through a prescription. Birth control was offered as a tidy solution—a quick fix for the messiness of hormones, cycles, and symptoms I barely understood. I accepted it without question, trusting the system that promised relief. But instead of clarity, I found confusion. My mind and body felt foreign, unsteady, and strangely betrayed. Something essential—some quiet rhythm of self—slipped out of reach, and I didn’t yet have the language to name it.

As life moved forward, a deeper ache stirred: the silent weight of sexual trauma. It was a truth I carried quietly, tucked into the corners of my being, in a culture that only acknowledges trauma when it’s extreme or visible. This disconnection wasn’t just physical—it was relational. It shaped how I moved through life: guarded, uncertain, and often at odds with the very body that was meant to be my home.

Years later, motherhood arrived—not as a soft landing, but as another initiation. After days of exhausting labor with complications, I felt the rising panic of uncertainty, the visceral fear for my child’s safety. Amid the chaos, doctors made decisions I didn’t fully understand—some I didn’t agree with and finally ending in an emergency Cesarean. My second pregnancy brought weeks in the hospital and the chilling message that my pregnancy placed me beyond the reach of medical support. These moments etched themselves into me—not just as medical events, but as emotional imprints of vulnerability and resilience.

Then came the pap smears. One abnormal result, then another, until they became routine. Then autoimmune diagnoses. Over 18 months, I endured more than 30 biopsies. Each one chipped away at my sense of safety. Procedures followed. And with it, the quiet normalization of pain—the subtle messaging that this suffering was simply “part of being a woman.​"

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But it isn’t. And it shouldn’t be.
 

The truth is—my story isn’t unique. And that’s exactly the problem. Too many women have been handed the same prescriptions, silenced by the same systems, and taught to normalize the same pain. 

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This constant dismissal of women’s pain is part of a much deeper societal narrative. We’re told our suffering is ordinary. That side effects are “worth it,” that trauma is something we’re expected to compartmentalize, and chronic disconnection from our pelvic space are just facts of life. But I don’t believe that. 
 

I chose a different path. I committed myself to studying holistic, trauma-informed care—not just to heal myself, but to create a sanctuary for others. Because you deserve to feel safe. You deserve to feel seen. And above all—you deserve to feel whole.