I’m a writer, speaker, doula, and mother…which means I spend a lot of time thinking about bodies, stories, systems, snacks and what people actually need when life cracks open.

I was raised in Mississippi, where you learn early how to listen between sentences, how to show up with food instead of answers, and how humor can sit right next to grief without disrespecting it. Southern charm, it turns out, is just practiced attunement. You notice who hasn’t been fed. You pull up another chair.

My work lives at the intersection of story, justice, care, and the body. I write and speak about birth and postpartum life, adoption and relinquishment, grief, identity, parenting, and what it means to tend one another inside systems that were never designed with our full humanity in mind.

I am a full-spectrum doula by training and practice, and a mother by lived, daily, sometimes-loud experience. I’ve supported thousands of families through pregnancy and postpartum, sat at bedsides and kitchen tables, and witnessed the quiet bravery it takes to keep going when you’re exhausted, tender, or unseen. I’m also raising children of my own, which keeps me honest, humbled, and deeply suspicious of any theory that doesn’t survive contact with real life.

Before I ever stood on a stage or put words on a page professionally, I learned how to hold space, how to notice the room, how to slow things down, how to stay when things get uncomfortable. That skill lives underneath everything I do now, whether I’m speaking to a room, writing an essay, or sitting beside someone in the middle of a hard moment.

My Southern roots show up in my work whether I plan for it or not. There’s porch wisdom in it. There’s humor that sneaks in sideways. There’s a deep respect for lineage, for ancestors, and for the fact that care has always existed long before it was given a job description or a billing code.

When I speak, I don’t perform expertise from a distance. I speak like a doula: grounded, relational, paying attention to the room. I speak to invite reflection, courage, and the kind of exhale that lets people tell the truth. When I write, I reach for language that feels like it knows you, language that tells the truth without rushing anyone toward a tidy ending.

I believe care is collective. I believe motherhood is political. I believe humor is often a survival strategy. And I believe stories—told carefully, bravely, and with accountability—can interrupt harm and open new ways forward.

If you’re here because you’re looking for a speaker, a collaborator, or a writer who understands nuance, tenderness, and responsibility all at once—welcome. There’s room here. Pull up a chair.