I Swam to Shore, Then Dove Back In: A Story of Resilience and Systemic Reform

The environment in my childhood home swung between volatility and charisma: threats, substances, and public fallout on one side; charm, athleticism, and celebrated achievement on the other. As the youngest in the family, I inherited the residue of it all—by the time I arrived, people in the small beach town where I lived didn’t know whether to be excited or scared when I walked into a room. That duality shaped how I read power and belonging from a very young age.

One thing that was clear to me early on: I was an outsider—my family was working class, and dealing with the realities of mental illness, addiction, violence, and trauma. Communities often don’t know what to do with children whose families can’t function effectively. Even when those children are poised or seemingly untroubled, others tend to keep their distance—for safety, for comfort, or simply because they don’t know how to engage. Avoidance happens not because the child has done something wrong, but because their presence points to a rupture that others would rather not acknowledge. And so there are layers of neglect at many levels of the ecosystem.

Looking back, I can see that the threat surrounding me often acted like a perimeter. It discouraged many who sensed danger and kept their distance, among them were some who might have shown more consistent care and steadiness. And the most complicated part in all of this: most who were drawn in, were not drawn in despite danger, but because of it. I became a figure of intrigue—not pursued for who I was, but for what I represented. It wasn’t flattering. And, most unfortunately, the idea that I was protected was a façade—visible from the outside, but hollow where it mattered most. Often, I was on my own.

I carried myself with a dancer’s poise, and my experiences cultivated a steady strength—embodied and expressive. At times, my presence was loud even when I was not speaking. And though often trying to hide or duck - trying to quiet myself, fit in, and play by the rules, I nonetheless raddled others’ cages.

My existence was bothersome to many. The juxtaposition of my strength and my life story was surprising. People don’t like to be surprised. I had the social Darwinists shouting, “The nerve! Stay in your place!”

My Dyslexia deepened the complexity, adding friction and confusion, for me and for others. Bright, yet Dyslexic, I could fall behind. Socially capable, yet Dyslexic, I could be out of sync. Strength and struggle was the theme.

Amid hardship and disconnection, I found opportunity through athletic talent and natural leadership in my younger years—particularly through swimming, soccer, and softball in my hometown up until around age ten or eleven. Later, dancing in Los Angeles gave me freedom and a sense of momentum, but also exposed me to the existential realities of city life. At twelve, I was navigating public spaces alone. One brutal death I witnessed while in transit confirmed what I already feared: life is fragile and impermanent. And because I was unprotected at home and often alone outside it, I was an incredibly at-risk youth.

Still, seeds of resilience had been quietly planted throughout my childhood. I had found solace in sports, mentors, and extended family who offered moments of hope. Early sources of steadiness—training as a junior lifeguard at eight, swimming with my high school coach’s support, babysitting in Maui and Big Bear at fourteen, time with my grandmother in the Canadian wilderness, overnights and trips with friends, noticing the quiet beauty of my best friend’s mother’s garden, and connecting with diverse communities—gave me glimpses of stability, love, and beauty. And they left me longing for more.

Hope was not lost, but over time, it faded. By my late teens, I was drowning. Undiagnosed developmental and acute trauma wore on me, and eventually left me adrift, almost dead in the water - at times longing to die. Dance had always been my refuge and perhaps kept me afloat, but a knee injury abruptly ended my professional career at 19. My life had already been long and winding. Work, relationships, an early, faltering step toward college, home life, and my dance aspirations had all been marked by confusion and struggle.

And so at 19, I rejected the mainstream, convinced there was no place for me within it. I worked briefly as a maid, then spent about six months living out of my car and motels, navigating life alongside street dancers in Venice Beach. I existed with others society had cast out—and in that space, I found peace, though not stability, a future, or a way forward. The relationships I built there—kinships forged on boardwalks and promenades—were deeply meaningful. They gave me a glimpse of pure and untethered love. I wanted to live in peace on the fringes of society.

But at twenty, contemplating my life choices, I briefly returned home to regroup. While there, I faced more trauma, illness, death, and dying. And as I sat next to death, any ounce of denial was finally erased. I realized the truth as I said to myself, “Nobody is coming to save you. And you are moving towards life or death.” I felt a sense of urgency. And I knew I had to build a safer future; something different than my life on the fringes and something different than what my family of origin had created—something sustainable. Evidently, the seeds of resilience had germinated. Because at a moment of loss and grief—when some would buckle—clear as the blue sky, I knew I needed to get going! It was time to move towards dying or living. And I chose life.

Between twenty and twenty-one, I embraced every opportunity I could find. I worked multiple part-time jobs, sought guidance through self-help groups, and, at twenty-one, returned to junior college. Nearly crippled with shame and post traumatic stress, I held onto what I had—courage, hope, and a fire that refused to go out. With increased focus, I discovered my potential and gained access to my mind in new ways. Turned out, I was a deep thinker - an academic. Who knew? I transferred from Santa Monica College to UCLA, where I loved learning about research methods and human development, and where I was embraced by professors and gained a few lifelong friends. I often reflect on the path that brought me there—one marked not by open gates, but by back doors I found through perseverance, instinct, and my sheer refusal to stop driving forward.

After graduating from UCLA, hopeful and well, I enrolled in a doctoral program in psychology, determined to contribute meaningfully to the field. But graduate training created deep disillusionment—with how the profession treated trainees, and with its tendency to pathologize suffering while ignoring environmental contexts. I witnessed child after child medically and educationally neglected—pushed through systems that claimed to help, but repeatedly failed to see, understand, or protect them. These programs disproportionately harmed black and brown children and neurodivergent children with dyslexia, autism, and ADHD. The injustice ignited a fire already smoldering inside me.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder how I stayed - how could I remain in systems that neglect and exploit? Their stances were inherently insulting to me. I observed them to be, at times, pretentious, arrogant, and even hostile. From time to time, I remembered Venice Beach.

While not any longer so obvious to others; in those systems, I was an outsider spending time on the inside. And while I wanted to prevent suffering due to societal neglect and abuse, I was spending time far downstream: pulling pediatric patients out of the water one by one. Getting kids with acute psychosis after years of medical neglect to the hospital for evaluation. Reporting sex trafficking. Encouraging clients to engage behaviors that would move their lives towards something more sustainable for themselves. Meanwhile the larger systems were failing everyone. My impact represented a very small drop in the bucket aimed at reducing immense suffering.

Fast forward, well established as a clinician, and while teaching at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), an institution that was gentler towards my human system, I began to relax into my authentic scholarly voice. My co-instructor nudged me to carve out a space where my energy could move minds - a space to share years of acquired knowledge and wisdom, while simultaneously evolving as a theoretician and educator. I was energized by multidisciplinary thought available at MIT - constantly on the edge of my seat (in a good way) it felt as though I returned to my first academic home - UCLA.

At MIT, I was inspired to integrate the science of circadian biology and stress, with cognitive development, affective developmental neuroscience, parenting literature, clinical developmental psychology, and developmental psychopathology.

With a backdrop of my own life story, friends I once knew, and the story of dozens of former clients, new insights allowed me to weave scientific precision into the evolving psychological framework behind what would become the Surf’sUP Method®️.

I then founded Raising Moxie®️, an initiative designed to replace conventional SEL curricula with evidence-based practices rooted in relational regulation and ecological awareness.

While the Surf’sUP Method had emerged from both experience and layered academic exploration, it was the persistent encouragement from parents—many of whom had completed my workshops years earlier—that catalyzed Raising Moxie. They asked, again and again, that the tools be made available more widely. Their insistence became a mandate.

Today and Forward

Having cared for many patients and successfully co-parented a Dyslexic child in my own home—I knew: parents could do better, educators could do better, and people, no matter their earlier circumstances, could nurture all children toward thriving. In my practice, I have seen it, again and again.

I consult on systemic reform and design online learning for educators and parents. My work doesn’t just critique—it rebuilds. With clarity, I’m pushing toward a world where no child is pathologized for being out of sync with a broken system.

To this day, I remain highly attuned to the ways people see—and fail to see—children. Who shows up. Who misses their needs. I’m always asking: what gets in the way of truly being there for kids? That question stays with me—in systems work, in community design, and in every story I choose to tell.