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 travel 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.