Let me start by saying this: I still marvel at the fact that I own a gym. Because if you’d told young me that the shy girl always picked last in dodgeball and that I’d be leading a fitness movement, I would have laughed out loud. Back then, I believed what people told me: that I was physically lazy, that I didn’t like to run, that I ran funny. Those words shaped me, and not in the best way. I became the introverted kid who blended into the background, letting those narratives define who I was.

But that wasn’t all. I carried deep shame about my body. Growing up half Italian and half Slovak meant my genetics showed up in ways that made me a target for teasing. My arms and legs were hairy and skinny, earning me nicknames like “chicken legs,” “Olive Oil,” “Monkey arms” and “twiggy.” To make matters worse, I had a large birthmark on my thigh that looked, to the cruel eyes of children, like I’d crapped myself. Shorts in gym class? Forget it. I’d wear sweatshirts in the summer just to hide.

And though I was naturally thin, I had an unhealthy relationship with food. Junk food became my comfort, my escape, my way of self-soothing. I could demolish a bag of candy or chips in one sitting while my friends made theirs last a week. Society’s weight bias let me fly under the radar—because I was skinny, no one noticed the binge eating, the compulsive relationship I had with food. But I noticed. I’d plan my indulgences, carving out moments to eat my “potato chip/Dorito salads” while watching Oprah or curling up on the couch with my “forbidden snacks” during reruns of Fantasy Island and The Love Boat. Looking back now, I see how these moments weren’t just about food. They were about escaping, checking out, trying to fill an emotional void.

That same obsessive tendency showed up in other parts of my life. For years, I poured myself into playing the flute, practicing for hours on end. Music was my escape, it became my profession, my identity. But even that couldn’t shield me from the challenges life threw my way. A car accident left me with chronic pain. My mother’s sudden passing shook me to my core. By 28, I felt like my world had crumbled.

On the outside, I looked like I had it together. But inside, I was unraveling. Chronic anxiety, panic attacks, low self-esteem, and co-dependency ruled my life. My relationships were a carousel of toxicity and heartbreak, each one a desperate attempt to fill a void I couldn’t name. I’d leave one partner and jump into another, convinced that this time, I’d find what I was looking for.

In my twenties, food and body image began to take center stage. While I wasn’t obese, I was no longer the stick-thin girl I’d been teased for. At a size 8/10, I felt far from the “chicken legs” of my youth. One pivotal moment stands out: sitting on a beach in Long Island, watching a woman with toned legs and a flat belly. I looked down at my own body—soft, fluffy, far from what I wanted it to be. That week, I joined a gym and started step aerobics, hiding in the back row.

Within months, I began losing weight. But it wasn’t just the physical change that drew me in—I became addicted to the journey. The same drive that had me practicing the flute for six hours a day now fueled my commitment to exercise. Yet even then, I didn’t realize what I was truly searching for: a sense of self, of belonging, of being enough.

This is just the beginning of my story, but it’s the foundation of how I turned pain into purpose and struggle into strength.

By my 20s, I was completely lost. I was making one wrong decision after another, desperately fleeing relationships but terrified to be alone. Then came September 11, 2001. It was a moment that changed everything for our country, and for me. At the time, I was dating my daughter’s father. He wanted to get married, and I was afraid to commit. But after 9/11, the uncertainty of life felt overwhelming, and I agreed to marry him. That decision sent my life on a train ride where I felt like I had no control over the direction.

In the span of just two years:

1. My mother suddenly passed away when I was 28.
2. I was in a significant car accident.
3. I got married and began experiencing tingling and loss of sensation in my left arm, which ultimately ended my career as a flutist.
4. I became pregnant with my daughter and moved to North Carolina.
   

It was a whirlwind, and I was overwhelmed. After my daughter’s birth, my weight cycled drastically, dropping from 140 lbs to 110 lbs. It wasn’t intentional—I simply couldn’t eat. I was also battling postpartum depression, despair, loneliness, and severe anxiety.

It wasn’t until much later that I began to understand what had happened to me. The developmental trauma I had experienced throughout my life had shaped my nervous system and my ability to make decisions. My “obsessions”—whether with work, relationships, or food—weren’t just about hard work or dedication. They were coping mechanisms, ways to detach or dissociate. Curling up on the couch with food, unable to be alone, or throwing myself into work weren’t just habits; they were attempts to feel safe in an unsafe world.

I am the child of an alcoholic. In my family, I played the classic role of the high-achieving perfectionist and people-pleaser. My father, though high-functioning, often came home drunk, while my mother leaned on me emotionally, creating an unhealthy dynamic of codependency. Their relationship was volatile: destructive arguments, long stretches of silence, and even physical abuse were common. I never knew what each day would bring, and walking on eggshells became second nature. Weekends were spent navigating the fallout of my father’s drinking, and I lived in a constant state of anxiety.

This environment forced me into a role I wasn’t meant to play. I experienced parentification trauma, where I was expected to take on adult responsibilities as a child. I became a surrogate spouse for my mother and, at times, my father. I also endured maternal enmeshment, where my mother relied on me for her emotional happiness, preventing me from developing a strong sense of independence.

In my 30s, I finally began seeking help. I joined Al-Anon, a support group for those affected by someone else’s alcoholism. I went to therapy, initially trying to “fix” my marriage, only to realize it was unfixable. I divorced my daughter’s father due to his struggles with addiction and the toxic dynamics in our relationship. Unfortunately, my second marriage also followed a similar pattern, involving emotional and narcissistic abuse, as well as addiction.

Looking back, I see that my choices were driven by a deep sense of inadequacy and a lack of self-worth. But seeking help was the first step in breaking those patterns. It was the beginning of my journey to heal, to reclaim my sense of self, and to rewrite my story.

What does all of this have to do with weight training? 

Fitness? Wellness? Life?

Weight training became my anchor. It grounded me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed. Now, for some people, stepping into the fitness world can become another “maladaptive coping mechanism.” And we see it all the time in the fitness industry. Many professionals struggle silently with disordered eating or body dysmorphia, feeling trapped in careers that revolve around their physical appearance. That’s why you won’t find me posting endless “selfies” or before-and-after photos. Sure, changing the outside is impressive, but the real work? The real transformation? That happens on the inside.

Weight training did more than shape my body. First, it calmed my nervous system. It gave me the space and clarity to process my feelings, which led to better decision-making. Second, it helped me overcome chronic neck and upper back pain—the kind of pain that doctors wanted to manage with medication. For me, with a family history of addiction, that was never an option. Instead, I turned to kinesiology, Postural Restoration, and weight training. Slowly, but surely, I healed.

And let’s not forget the resilience. Weight training taught me that I am stronger than I think. Every time I lifted something heavy, I proved to myself that I could do it—whatever “it” was. That sense of empowerment? It’s priceless.

This journey led me to places I never imagined:

– Owning a gym that supports over 180 incredible women every month.

– Going back to graduate school to earn a Master’s Degree in Clinical Mental Health on the path to becoming a Licensed Mental Health Counselor.

– And most importantly, dedicating myself to breaking the cycle of addiction and family dysfunction.

Why? So I could provide my daughter, now 20 years old, with something I didn’t have growing up: the ability to regulate her emotions in a healthy way and a strong sense of self. My hope is that she can navigate the world on her own terms, empowered, confident, and at peace.

Weight training wasn’t just about fitness. It was the foundation for a life of healing, growth, and transformation. And if it can do that for me, imagine what it could do for you.

Fast forward to today

Let me tell you, I’ve arrived at a place I never thought possible: peace and serenity. Yes, at 51 years young, I finally feel connected to my true self—the self I always knew was there but could never fully embrace. And what I’ve learned along this journey is that so many women, just like you, are struggling. Struggling to follow a meal plan, battling the cycle of yo-yo dieting, hopping from one fad diet to the next, trying to “fix” something that feels broken. Sound familiar?

Here’s what I’ve discovered: If you don’t understand your own narrative, your own deep-rooted self-beliefs, you’ll always be searching. Searching for a solution to fill in the blank. Now, what is that blank for you? Is it your body? Your relationship with food? Maybe it’s your kids, your spouse, or your job. We all have our “blank”—that thing we’re fixated on fixing. But let me tell you, the answer rarely lies in fixing what we think is broken.

For years, I thought the “things” were the problem. If I could fix the alcohol in my life, or the relationships, or the career, or the city I lived in—then I would be okay. I thought, “If I could just fix my body, everything else would fall into place.” Or, “If I just stop binge eating, I’ll be fine. I just need a better diet.” But here’s the truth: the problem wasn’t in the “things.” It wasn’t in the external.

The real issue was how I was seeing myself. I was making decisions and judgments through a dysfunctional lens. A lens clouded by co-dependency, low self-esteem, feelings of inadequacy, and a lack of self-worth. But the moment—and I mean the *moment*—I changed that lens? Everything shifted. 

When I started looking through a lens of empowerment, confidence, and clarity, life began to improve. And let me tell you, when you change the way you see yourself, the world starts to see you differently too. That’s the magic of the journey. That’s the power of rewriting your story.

This led me to a journey to help women struggling with hormone-related changes, yo-yo dieting, body dissatisfaction, binge eating, and emotional eating, developmental trauma and a loss of a sense to go from feeling frustrated, hopeless, and stuck in a negative narrative about themselves to developing a healthy relationship with food, achieving body goals and acceptance, developing mindfulness and finding inner peace so that they can experience the confidence that comes from the healing of emotional wounds, and find serenity in their approach to wellness. This transformation empowers them to participate confidently in an exercise routine, fostering personal growth, a clear sense of self and fulfillment in this new phase of life.