I completed my master's degree in Mental Health Counseling at Stetson University in 2007 and attained licensure in 2012. Over the years, I have dedicated myself to delivering comprehensive services geared towards enhancing the well-being of clients. My practice revolves around tailored, evidence-based methodologies aligned precisely with individual client needs and complexities.

My specialization lies in offering targeted therapy for individuals grappling with significant trauma histories, depression, and anxiety. As a certified EMDR therapist, my therapeutic approach is rooted in existential and client-centered modalities. With two decades of experience in the field, I have had the privilege of working extensively across diverse demographics, honing my expertise in addiction treatment and aiding clients in navigating their traumas through specialized methodologies like Inner Child work, the application of 12 Steps Recovery concepts, CBT, and EMDR, among others.

Recognition as the 2017 Clinician of the Year by the Florida Alcohol and Drug Abuse Association (FADDA) underscores my commitment to excellence in this domain. Additionally, I have actively contributed to the community by volunteering professional services to esteemed organizations like the Wounded Warrior Project and the Gratitude America Program, catering to the needs of veterans.

Should you seek a clinician dedicated to motivating your journey towards personal growth, offering steadfast support, and fostering an environment of acceptance and emotional solace, I am poised to guide you through this transformative process.

June 23, 2026 · 4:40 PM

Some therapists enter the room with degrees, training, and carefully learned skills.

Charley entered with four paws, a golden coat, and an extraordinary ability to simply be.

For years, Charley was more than my beloved dog. He was part of the heart of my practice and, in his own quiet way, part of the therapeutic work.

He never needed to know someone's story to understand when they needed gentleness. He didn't need words to offer comfort. He simply shared the space—sometimes nearby, sometimes resting quietly, sometimes offering the kind of presence that made difficult moments feel a little less lonely.

To those who knew him through my practice, Charley was our therapy dog.

To me, he was that—and infinitely more.

This is for him.

I knew that loving you
would someday ask something of me.

I just never understood
how much.

Because how do you prepare
for the absence
of someone who became part of the shape of your life?

You were never just my dog, Charley.

You were mornings and walks,
the sound of paws moving through the house,
a golden head beneath my hand,
a quiet presence beside me
when words were unnecessary.

And somehow,
that quiet presence became a gift
you offered to others, too.

You walked into rooms
where people carried things
far heavier than anyone could see.

Grief.
Fear.
Trauma.
Heartbreak.
Stories sometimes difficult to speak aloud.

You didn't need to understand any of it.

You simply knew how to stay.

No questions.
No judgment.
No expectation.

Just warmth.
A soft place to land.
A golden head to touch.
A living reminder that sometimes
we don't need the right words.

Sometimes we just need
someone willing to sit beside us.

You were remarkably good at that.

You were woven into ordinary days
so completely
that I didn't realize how extraordinary
those ordinary days were
until they were gone.

There was so much joy in having you.

The ridiculous, beautiful kind—

the kind that asks for nothing,
keeps no score,
and simply waits by the door
because somehow
wherever I was going
was exactly where you wanted to be.

You grew older beside me.

Your steps became slower.
Your body asked more of you.

And eventually,
loving you changed.

It became medications and watching,
encouraging one more bite,
celebrating a good meal,
noticing every drink of water,
every tired step,
every small sign that told me
whether you were comfortable
or simply trying to stay
because I was asking you to.

And God, Charley,

I wanted you to stay.

I wanted one more morning.
One more walk.
One more meal.
One more night with you nearby.

One more ordinary day
I could foolishly believe
would always be there.

One more day of seeing you
in the places where you belonged—

at home,
beside me,
and in the quiet spaces
where you had spent so much time
helping people feel safe.

But loving you had never been about
what you could give me.

So when your body became tired,
I had to love you enough
to stop asking it to carry you
just because my heart
wasn't ready to let you go.

And on June 23rd,
by the lake,
beneath the open sky,
surrounded by nature
and by the people who loved you,

I held the unbearable privilege
of giving you peace.

At 4:40 in the afternoon,

my beautiful boy fell asleep.

Peacefully.

Gently.

Loved.

And something inside me
broke open with you.

There is a strange cruelty in grief—

the world keeps moving
when yours has changed completely.

The sun still rises.
People laugh.
Doors open.
Appointments begin.
Dinner gets made.
Life insists on continuing.

And sometimes I still expect you
to be somewhere inside it.

Sometimes my heart forgets
for half a second.

And then it remembers.

You are gone.

There are no words large enough
for that sentence.

Because I didn't lose a dog.

I lost Charley.

My companion.
My beautiful golden boy.
A witness to years of my life.
A keeper of routines and secrets.

My quiet coworker.

A source of comfort
I never had to explain.

A gentle presence who somehow understood
that being there
could sometimes be enough.

A soul whose love was so uncomplicated
that I could simply exist beside you
and know I was loved.

And I miss you
in ways that surprise me.

In quiet rooms.
In familiar places.

In the spaces where you once rested
while someone found the courage
to tell their story.

In moments when something wonderful happens
and some part of me still wants
to turn toward you.

I miss the weight of you in this world.

But underneath this unbelievable pain
is something else.

Gratitude.

Because I got you.

And because, for a little while,
I got to share you.

With people who needed comfort.

With people learning how to feel safe again.

With people grieving, healing, laughing, crying,
or simply trying to make it through another day.

You never knew their diagnoses.

You never knew their histories.

You never knew what brought them through the door.

You only knew
how to meet a human being
exactly where they were.

There was something beautiful in that.

Out of all the dogs,
all the homes,
all the lives
we could have belonged to—

somehow,

for a little while,

you were mine
and I was yours.

And if this grief
is the price of having known
the joy of loving you,

then even with everything I know now,
even knowing exactly how this story ends,

I would choose you again.

I would choose every ordinary morning.
Every walk.
Every worry.
Every gray hair.
Every medication.
Every stubborn moment.
Every laugh.
Every night beside you.

I would choose every quiet hour
you spent near me
while I did the work I was called to do.

I would choose the whole life.

Even June 23rd.

Even 4:40.

Even the lake.

Even the moment
I had to whisper goodbye
when every part of me
was screaming

please stay.

Because the worst day with you
could never erase
the beautiful years before it.

And maybe that is what grief really is:

love
with nowhere physical to go.

So I will carry it.

I will carry the joy
and the devastation.

I will carry the memories
until they hurt a little less
and make me smile a little more.

And I will carry something else, too—

the knowledge that your life
reached farther than you ever knew.

That simply by being Charley,
you brought softness into rooms
where softness was desperately needed.

You reminded us
that safety can sometimes have four paws,

that comfort doesn't always require words,

and that healing can begin
with something as simple
as knowing we don't have to sit alone.

I will carry the part of my life
that belonged to you.

And somewhere inside me, Charley,
you will always be walking beside me—

not sick,
not tired,
not struggling,

just my beautiful golden boy,

whole again,

and forever loved.

Beloved Companion & Therapy Dog

Forever part of the heart and history of Trauma and Recovery Therapy.

June 23, 2026 · 4:40 PM
By the lake. Surrounded by love.