I was eleven when everything changed. My dad was injured in a workplace accident that left him permanently disabled. The shock of it fractured our home – roles shifted, fear replaced security, and the stress of survival crept in, and my family slowly fell apart.

At school, grief piled on. Classmates lost parents to sudden illnesses and accidents, and a boy just a year younger than me died by suicide. No one talked about any of it. We were in a Catholic school that believed discipline meant silence and shame. We didn’t have a name for what we were experiencing; we didn’t know it was trauma. We just coped as best we could, children in crisis.

I became an overachiever, the kid who kept it all together. I poured myself into performance: academically, socially, and professionally. But beneath the surface, I was having regular panic attacks. They came like clockwork: racing heart, tight chest, the overwhelming sense that something terrible was about to happen. I hid it, I buried it, but over time, the pressure found its way out – through ulcers, through drinking, through relationships that mirrored the very pain I was trying to escape.

It nearly killed me. One night, it almost did, with a gun in my face. That terrifying moment broke the trance I’d been in.

In the years that followed, I found teachers who helped me see the difference between who I was and what I’d endured.
One of them gave me the language I’d been missing. From there, I became consumed with questions: Why was I stuck?
Why did the same wounds keep resurfacing? Why couldn’t success quiet the fear?

I didn’t come to this work lightly. I threw myself into study – psychology, neuroscience, CBT, attachment theory, philosophy, breathwork, mindfulness, meditation, yoga – not out of curiosity, but survival. I read like my life depended on it. I tested every idea on myself, tracked patterns, picked apart my behaviours, tried to make sense of the fear that kept following me. Each day became an attempt to break the loop – to understand why I kept repeating the same pain, no matter how hard I tried to outgrow it. And for a while, I thought I’d cracked it.

But trauma doesn’t vanish just because you’ve mapped it. It doesn’t care how many tools you’ve collected.

It waits.

And in 2020, it returned. COVID stripped away our illusions of control, and my coping strategies collapsed. My work stalled, my family suffered, and death and grief came for me again. I realized I couldn’t outrun it anymore.

So, I turned inward, fully.

I trained as a meditation coach and Kriya yogi. I gave myself over completely to a daily practice rooted in breath, stillness, and surrender. Eight hours a day. Every day. I made healing my responsibility.

And then, something shifted.

The panic stopped, the fear lifted. Not for a moment, but completely. In the quiet that came next, something became clear: The pain wasn’t a detour, it was the path.

It held the lessons I’d spent years chasing, and facing it fully was the work.

Flowcraft is the result of that lifelong process. It’s a practice built to help you name the roots of anxiety, overthinking, and emotional overwhelm, and begin to loosen their hold.

Rooted in Yoga and meditation, and grounded in CBT, neuroscience, and trauma work, Flowcraft offers a structured, practical approach to reshaping the patterns that keep you stuck.

This isn’t traditional self-help. It isn’t a system for fixing yourself, and it’s definitely not quick. It’s not a ritual to erase your past, but a way of facing it – steadily, honestly, without flinching, because the patterns don’t change until you stop running from them. Flowcraft is the discipline of staying. With yourself, with your story, and with the discomfort you’ve spent years trying to outrun. Not to transcend it; to understand it.

And from that understanding, build something solid – something that finally holds.