From a suitcase and a dream — to breakdown, healing, and becoming who I was always meant to be.

I came to the U.S. in 2006 with a small suitcase, a 1.5-year-old daughter, no support, and no real plan — just a dream and a willingness to work for it.

I was an immigrant, a young mother, and a woman determined to build something from nothing.

And I did.

I became a celebrity hairstylist. I taught stages across the country. I opened Lala's Updos and my bridal academy. I launched my own styling tool and built an online education platform that supported thousands of artists. I created a career and life I was proud of.

But it didn't stop there.
I walked red carpets alongside celebrities. I taught on stages with thousands of people in the audience — not just across the U.S., but around the world. I was published in every major magazine in the hair industry — and even made the cover of one of the oldest and most prestigious. I was interviewed on podcasts, invited to speak as a motivational voice at industry-leading events, and became a global educator in a field I loved deeply.

I lived the kind of success most people dream about.

But in 2021, life cracked open. My husband was diagnosed with cancer, and I became the caretaker, the provider, and the one holding everything together — emotionally, physically, and financially.

By January 2023, just one week after he was declared cancer-free, it was my body that collapsed. I was diagnosed with Raynaud's and arthritis — my hands were swollen, in pain, and unable to do the very work that had built my career.

But it wasn't just my health that was breaking down.

By March, the pain in my marriage had also reached its peak. I felt invisible. Alone. Disconnected. My husband — though physically healed — was still emotionally checked out. I was carrying everything, and slowly drowning under the weight.

So I did something I never imagined I would do: I left. I got on a plane, and flew to Utah. Not to run away — but to breathe. To feel something. To figure out who I was if I wasn't a mother, a wife, a teacher, or a “success.” That's where I started writing my memoir, Dandelions.

My health didn't recover. And by summer, I was forced to make a devastating choice: I closed my Bridal Academy and stepped away from the stages I once loved.

The loss was overwhelming — my career, my sense of identity, the relationship I had poured so much into. And I started numbing it all — until July 4th, 2024, when I ended up in the emergency room: dehydrated, in physical pain, and emotionally depleted.

That was my breaking point. But it was also my turning point.

In the months that followed, my husband and I planned our separation. And I turned toward the only thing I hadn't yet tried: myself.

I stopped chasing happiness and healing in other people. I dove into everything I could find — neuroscience, trauma work, nervous system repair, intuitive development, energy healing, spiritual practices. I got certified. I got honest. I got quiet. I started becoming the woman I had buried under years of pressure and performance.

And when I stopped abandoning myself, everything around me slowly began to shift.

Even my marriage — which began to heal not through force or fixing, but through honesty and space. Today, we're still together — growing, evolving, showing up differently — and more in love than we've ever been in our eight years of marriage.

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This work isn't just something I learned — it's something I lived. Through ambition. Through loss. Through the fire of reinvention.

For a long time, I didn't change — not because I didn't want to, but because I was afraid. Afraid of what people would think. Afraid of disappointing the version of me they admired — the strong one, the achiever, the one who kept it all together. Afraid that choosing myself would look selfish. But the truth is, staying in pain for the comfort of others nearly cost me everything.

What I've learned is this: We can't live a life — or a version of ourselves — that doesn't feel true. And we can't keep devoting our time, energy, and soul to making everyone else happy — not even the people we love most. That's not living. That's surviving. And I was done just surviving.

I had to let go of who I was taught to be in order to become who I really am. And that's when the healing began.

If any part of that speaks to where you are right now, I want you to know: You're not selfish. You're not broken. You're just waking up. And when you're ready to choose you — I'll be here to help, guide, and support you through everything I've lived, tested, tried, and experienced.