My Story

I came to therapy through an unexpected door.

For a long time before I sat in this chair, I kept ending up in the same kind of conversation. Someone would start by describing a problem on the surface — a deadline, a conflict, a thing that wasn’t working — and a few minutes in, we’d both realize that wasn’t really what they’d come to talk about. The surface problem was almost never the real one.

What was underneath it, again and again, was a person who was worn down. Anxious. Carrying something they hadn’t said out loud to anyone. I got good at noticing the gap between what people said was wrong and what was actually weighing on them — and at staying steady while they figured out the difference. Eventually I stopped treating that as a side skill and followed it to where it led.

I went back to school, became a licensed counselor, and built a practice around the people I kept meeting along the way — capable people quietly wrestling with more than they should have to carry alone.

I’m a husband and a father of four. I love thunderstorms, lakes, and the kind of weather that makes the desert smell different. I live in St. George — surrounded by red rock, a long way from the water I miss — and I think about that gap more than I probably should. Most of the people I work with are carrying their own version of it: a sense of being somewhere that doesn’t quite fit, or being further from something than they want to be.

This is the work I’m built for. Helping people who feel stuck — in their past, in their patterns, in their own heads — find their way back to themselves. There’s nothing magical about it. It’s careful, patient, honest work. And it works.