I've always believed that life has a way of guiding us toward our purpose—and for me, that purpose is Lymph-A-Hand.

My path into holistic, integrative therapy wasn't a straight line. It was shaped by trauma, healing, and the quiet, powerful moments that made me pause and listen to what truly matters.

It began when I was just 19. My father—once a lead machinist and expert welder—suffered third- and fourth-degree burns over 50% of his body in an asphalt explosion. A man who lived with strength, precision, and independence suddenly couldn’t perform even the simplest tasks—like putting on a shirt or feeding himself. His injuries were so severe that doctors debated whether they could even save his right arm. For nearly three months, I watched him endure incredible pain—both physical and emotional. But I also watched my mother—how she cared for him with patience, faith, and determination. She became his advocate, his voice, and his comfort. The way she navigated his care showed me the heart of healing: it's not just about treating symptoms, it's about being fully present.

Then came the therapists. A dedicated team of physical and occupational therapists stepped in and began to rebuild his life—one motion, one moment at a time. Their skill and compassion left me in awe. I realized that healing wasn’t just medical—it was human, relational, and spiritual.

That same year, within just three months of my father’s injury, my brother was nearly killed in a motorcycle accident. He suffered a COMPOUND FRACTURE in his leg and faced a long, brutal orthopedic recovery. It was an incredibly trying time—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—for both me and my mother. We had to pull together to care for them both, each in such a fragile state. It felt like our entire family was being taught what it truly meant to rebuild—to move through trauma and somehow find strength in recovery. At the time, I was studying creative mental health, but I knew there was more. Watching both my father and brother struggle with swelling, pain, and limited mobility sparked a deeper calling in me: to bring together the physical, emotional, and restorative aspects of care.

Later, cancer touched my life—not once, but in waves. First, a close family friend. Then another. Then a scare in my own family. And finally, a scare of my own through a screening.

I was working with a patient when she looked at me and asked, "Are you keeping up with your mammograms?" I smiled and told her I was waiting to hear back from radiology. Just then, my phone buzzed—it was my OB-GYN's office. She looked at me and said, "Answer it. You have to answer it."

I stepped outside the room and took the call. "What did you find?" I asked immediately. The nurse paused. "Why do you think we found something?" I said, "Because you've never called me before." And then she told me—they had found something suspicious in my left breast.

Everything stopped.

I found myself sitting in the radiology clinic, overwhelmed, when another woman beside me gently asked, "What are you going to do if the news isn't good?" I looked at her and said, without hesitation, "I'm going to fight."

Thankfully, after more testing, I was cleared. It was a cancer screening scare—but it was enough to shift my entire understanding. I learned I had dense breast tissue, something especially common in Black women, and discovered a family history of breast cancer I hadn't known. It shocked me how much wasn’t being talked about, and how little was being explained to patients like me. That moment lit a fire in me to do more, learn more, and advocate for those navigating breast health and recovery with too many questions and too few answers.

It also made me reflect on the kind of care I was seeing in the system—how so many clinicians were rushing through patients without time to truly see them. To digest what was happening. To treat not just a diagnosis, but a person. I knew I wanted to practice differently. To give people time, space, and care that honored all of who they are.

Not long after, a young man came into my clinic. I assumed he had a routine orthopedic issue—swelling and weakness in his arm. But when I read his chart, I learned he had cancer of the sinus cavity and had already lost an eye. He looked at me with quiet hope and said, "I'm so glad to see you—I heard you help with swelling and mobility."

But I didn’t know how to treat lymphatic issues in the face. I had to refer him out.

When he left, I cried. Not because I had failed—but because I couldn’t help him. That was not a feeling I wanted again.

That very week, I enrolled in advanced oncology training for head and neck lymphedema. The following year, I helped expand an oncology rehab program at a major trauma hospital in Washington, DC—finally able to blend the orthopedic and lymphatic knowledge my patients so often needed. The head and neck oncology program combined both specialties in a way that made sense for the whole patient.

What struck me during that time wasn’t just the swelling or tissue changes—it was how deeply loss of function affected my patients. So many couldn’t use their arm or hand like before. They couldn’t reach, grasp, write, hug. And it wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. They felt disconnected from their bodies and from the lives they had before.

That’s when the name Lymph-A-Hand came to me. Lymphatic and orthopedic healing—one merging into the other. Because we are made of interconnected systems, not compartments. Helping someone regain function isn’t just about movement—it’s about giving them their life back. Their confidence. Their peace. Their independence.

Lymph-A-Hand was born from that vision: To bridge the gap between rehab and healing. To offer care that sees the whole person. To walk beside survivors, surgical patients, and those in pain—not just as a therapist, but as a partner in recovery.

This isn’t just therapy. It’s personalized, fun, and not rushed.

It’s healing with heart.

And it would be my honor to walk with you on your journey.