I did not arrive at this work through a polished doorway. I arrived through experience. Through hospital rooms and exhaustion. Through selling the house and walking away from stability because my daughter’s health and our family’s wellbeing mattered more than predictability. Through living in a caravan, rebuilding from scratch, learning how to regulate my own nervous system so I could hold hers. Through choosing healing not as a trend, but as survival.

This work is not aesthetic for me. It is lived.

I understand what it means to hold a household together while your own heart is learning how to breathe again. I understand intensity. I understand rebuilding. I understand what it takes to soften when life has hardened you. So when you invite me into your home, you are not booking a sound session. You are inviting in someone who knows how to hold real life. Someone who understands that healing does not happen in perfect conditions. It happens on lounge room floors. Around kitchen tables. In houses that have seen joy and grief and everything in between.

Over the past twelve months, I have done something that changed everything. I slowed down. I became present. I allowed myself to be a parent without rushing. I took care of myself properly. I rediscovered who I am when I am not surviving, not firefighting, not holding everything together. I remembered the woman underneath the pressure.

And in that remembering, something became undeniable.

I am here to gather people.

Not just one on one. Not just quietly. But in circles. In community. With adults, with children, with men, with women, with families from all walks of life. I love holistic health in its truest form. I love questioning what no longer makes sense. I love stepping outside of systems that forget the human spirit. I love authenticity over performance. I love doing things differently.

I recently facilitated and hosted my first retreat in Queensland, and it transformed me just as much as it did the women who attended. I am a published author. I have qualifications and experiences that tick boxes if that matters to you. But what matters more is that at 42 years old, I have lived deeply. More deeply than I ever expected to at this age. And I am proud of that.

I am proud of the grief.
Proud of the joy.
Proud of the chaos.
Proud of the growth.
Proud of the family that walked through it all with me.

I am not separated from my experiences. I am made of them.

These moments matter because we rarely pause in our own spaces. We rarely sit still long enough to feel what is under the noise. We rarely allow ourselves to exhale without performing strength. My in-home group sessions are designed to shift the frequency of the room and the people inside it. Sound becomes the bridge. Energy becomes the recalibration. The nervous system gets permission to soften. A minimum of four people is required to hold that collective current properly, and I cap it at five so it remains intimate, seen, and powerful.

Because something happens in groups that cannot happen alone.

When I used to sit in hospital rooms years ago, I would imagine the woman I wanted to become. I would picture myself older, grey-haired, facilitating sound circles in those same hospital spaces. Helping families breathe. Helping parents soften. Helping the room feel lighter. That vision never left me.

There is a mission inside me that runs deeper than individual sessions.

The groups are my calling.

There is also another doorway available for those who process through their hands as much as their hearts. The Sound and Art Immersion is a larger gathering, welcoming up to ten people, where sound meets creativity in a way that unlocks what words often cannot. I bring every supply needed. Paint, tools, textures, space to create without judgement. We ground, we set intention, we move through a sound immersion, and then we let the body speak through art. No skill required. No performance expected. Just expression. It is raw, freeing, unexpectedly moving, and often far more revealing than conversation alone.

These are not small offerings. They are living room revolutions. They are nights where something shifts quietly but permanently. They are experiences that ripple through families long after the bowls stop singing.

2026 is not a rebrand. It is an embodiment. It is me turning the page fully. It is me stepping into the deeper mission that has been building for years. It is community in motion. It is circles expanding. It is me ramping things up a mile because I finally trust what I know in my bones.

And if you feel that pull, it is not random.

It is recognition.