On my left wrist, I have a tattoo that reads I am… followed by three dots.
I got it on the winter solstice — the birthday of a friend I’d lost the year before. I was in the middle of one of the biggest identity shifts of my life, and I wanted a permanent reminder: I am is one of the most powerful statements we can make. Because we get to define what comes after it. Every single day.
The three dots stay open on purpose.
That’s how I approach starting over. Not as something that happens to me — though sometimes it does — but as something I co-create. A chapter that’s served its purpose making room for the next one.
I’m a master at both kinds of starting over — the one life hands you, and the one you choose.
This page is the story of both.
At 19, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. I was told what my future might look like. I decided to write a different version. Years later, I traded my MS medication for a pair of running shoes — and crossed the finish lines of both the Boston and New York City Marathons. The happier I got, the healthier I became.
The World as My Classroom
From California to the Carolinas to Colorado — I’ve moved across the country without a safety net, just a sense of purpose. Working and backpacking in Australia at 27. Every last day of PTO spent in Thailand. Ten weeks of paid disability leave living with a family in Peru. A one-way ticket to Hawaii. Moving to St. Pete the week lockdown began.
And eventually, packing my life into a purple suitcase for a six-month, 14,000-mile road trip across the United States — selling Whoever Smiles First Wins shirts along the way — before buying a one-way ticket to Auckland and house-sitting my way through New Zealand, Australia, Indonesia, and Colombia.
I flew to Vietnam for a tooth.
The world keeps teaching. I keep showing up.
For a time, I was defined by a diagnosis. It was labeled MS.
For a time, I was defined by grief. I buried two of my closest friends.
For a time, I was defined by a career that had stopped fitting.
For a time, I was defined by a relationship I’d stayed in too long.
I decided I got to define myself instead.
A diagnosis is just a label. A loss is just a story — until you decide what it means.
What I know is this: perspective is a choice. Not an easy one. But always a choice.
I didn’t feel unlucky to lose the friends I lost. I felt lucky to have known them as long as I did. That’s not denial — that’s a decision about how to carry something.
That shift — from what happened to me to what happened for me — is the foundation of everything I do. I’m not here to fix your story. I’m here to help you see it differently. Because the moment you do, everything changes.
That’s not a theory. It’s how I’ve lived my whole life.
I’d love to hear your story — and answer any questions about mine.
