There was never a time I wasn’t aware of my body.
Even in elementary school, I knew I was the “big girl.” I also became the protector—the one who stood up for others, maybe because I knew what it felt like to want to hide.

I remember hiding in my room, bingeing on boxes of Campfire candy I was supposed to sell. That started a long pattern—eating in secret, dieting in public, and never feeling like my body worked.

As a young teen, I went to diet club with my mom and grandma. I’d hide beets in boxes in my room because I hated them, but they were on the “diet plan.” None of it taught me how to fuel my body—just how to hate it.

I hit puberty early, before most girls even wore training bras. Middle school brought some joy—I was active, I had fun—but after 8th grade, trauma hit. I stopped moving, food became my comfort again, and my body felt like it was turning against me. Explosive digestive issues, extreme bloating, and relentless brain fog set in.

By 15, I was on birth control to “heal my hormones.” If I knew then what I know now... I might’ve punched that doctor. (Okay, maybe not. But I definitely would’ve schooled them.) I was bingeing, numbing, and struggling. By senior year, I weighed over 250 pounds.

After graduation, I had jaw surgery and couldn’t eat for days. The weight dropped fast. Enter: the 90s fat-free craze. I lived on black beans, corn tortillas, pretzels, and Diet 7-Up—and I was strict with my “no more than 5g of fat a day” rule. I lost over 100 pounds… but I also lost my period, my digestion became even worse (which felt impossible), and I lost my sense of safety in my body.

I got married. I remember the exact weight I was on our wedding day—it became my “it number” for years. But marriage was hard. And food was easier. I gained it all back—and more.

Infertility, heartbreak, and the rollercoaster of motherhood followed. Pregnancy and postpartum left me exhausted, overweight, anxious, and battling strange symptoms that no doctor could explain. I started reacting to everything—strawberries, perfumes, even the air in church. I had to carry an EpiPen everywhere and feared every bite of food. My list of “safe foods” dwindled to four. I lost a lot of weight again—but this time, it was from fear, not freedom.

Doctors ran every test. They shrugged and said I looked fine on paper. But I was wasting away—physically, mentally, emotionally.

And then I found one blog.
A black screen with white font.
One woman writing about symptoms I had never heard anyone else talk about. For the first time, I didn’t feel crazy.
She introduced me to the word histamine.

I went deep. I researched. I tested on myself. My family sacrificed a lot. We stopped going out. Invitations slowed. I refused to travel. But I was finding healing—slowly, painfully, intentionally.

Over the next 15+ years, I rebuilt my body from the inside out. Only whole foods. Walks turned into lake runs. CrossFit turned into strength training. I started to fly again—even solo flights. The panic faded. I reclaimed my brain, my digestion, and my purpose.

I’m not “cured.” I still don’t eat out. I still have to be careful with quality, scent, and stress.
But I’m healthy.
I’m strong.
I’m stable.

And I built my entire program—The Whole Health Method—on what I learned the hard way:

There’s no magic pill.
No one-size-fits-all plan.
But there is a way to heal.
And it starts with the 7 Pillars of Whole Health.

Because your body was designed to work—even if no one’s ever shown you how to make it work for you.