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

I was inquisitive from a young age, but I grew up in a home marked by volatility. Dyslexia made learning to read an uphill battle, and while I nonetheless, with great effort, excelled in elementary school, I began to struggle in middle school and even more in high school. As academic demands grew, the weight of the dyslexia became heavier, and so did the complexity of my family’s challenges. I found myself falling deeper and deeper into disconnection, unable to access learning or even reach the classroom.

From early childhood to sports, dance, and academia

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. And it is because of this backdrop, that I am eternally grateful for the few who took a chance on me. Those who engaged with me anyway. The neighbors. The friends. The coaches.

Looking back, I can see that the threat surrounding me often acted like a perimeter. It discouraged some—those who sensed danger and kept their distance, surely among them were some who might have shown more consistent care and steadiness. And the most complicated part in all of this: the few who were drawn in, not 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, expressive, and forged in fire. But those differences made others uneasy. The social Darwinists among us would be shouting, “The nerve!” My dyslexia, still undiagnosed at the time, added another layer of friction and confusion in social and academic spaces, leaving me 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 already 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. Dance had always been my refuge, but a knee injury abruptly ended my professional career. I was just nineteen, but 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 I rejected the world, 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.

Then, at twenty, having experienced one too many exposures to trauma, illness, death, and dying, I realized no one was coming to rescue me. I had to build a safer future—something sustainable, a deviation from what I knew. The seeds of resilience had germinated. At that moment—when some would buckle—clear as the blue sky, I knew I needed to get going.

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 developed 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 sheer refusal to stop driving forward.

After graduating from UCLA, I enrolled in a doctoral program in psychology, determined to contribute meaningfully to the field. Graduate training created deep disillusionment—with how the profession treated trainees, and with its tendency to pathologize suffering while ignoring environmental and systemic 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 neurodivergent children with dyslexia, autism, and ADHD. The injustice ignited a fire already smoldering inside me.

Later, while teaching at MIT, I was inspired to integrate circadian biology, stress, and the ways in which they interact with our best science on developmental psychopathology—insights that 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 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 with certainty: parents could do better, educators could do better, and people, no matter their earlier circumstances, could absolutely nurture children toward thriving. 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.