I translate the hard science of happiness into practical advice for bored, stressed, and purpose-hungry millennials—so they can actually like being alive.  

It took me a loooong time to figure out how to say that, let alone to realize that’s what I do for a living now.

In fact, if you had asked me what I “wanted to do with my life” just a few years ago (like, 2015?), I would’ve told you I planned to be the Creative Director of the gigantic, hipster fashion & lifestyle brand I worked for.

>> "Wait, what?"

Yep. I had just spent 12 years mastering the art of pulling myself up by my bootstraps while also climbing a corporate ladder. (Not an easy feat, BTW; requires a lot of “core strength.”)

By age 28, I had a drool-worthy, creative, and steady job—my dream job—managing the styling and visuals for a colossal hipster re­tail brand, leading a huge network of people and directly supervising double-digit millions of dollars in annual volume. And while that kind of success looked sexy on paper, I quickly realized “sexy on paper” wasn’t everything.

I was bouncing back and forth between numbness and anxiety, living in dread of Monday mornings, and experiencing some version of a quarter-life crisis. I was not okay.

>> “Really? Because it sounds like you’re complain-bragging. And ungrateful.”

Okay two things: 1) I love that we’re already close enough for you to call me out on my bullsh*t—yes, do that, and 2) excellent wordsmith-ing there. That said: I’m not trying to complain, brag, or be blind to my privilege, of which I have a-plenty. I just want you to have some background, so you know that I’ve done the whole “be impressive while you’re young” thing . . . and well, it’s not always all it’s cracked up to be.


There was a time when I LOVED my job, but things had changed. As infatuation with my career began to fade into the distance, it was quickly replaced by exhaustion and frustration. Being great at my job meant I earned plenty of external validation and promotions—but it also buried me under mountains of new re­sponsibilities outside my job description and unrealistic expecta­tions from my peers (and, let’s be real—from myself).

I was burnt out and full of questions:

  • What do you do when you discover your dream job is making you miserable?

  • How do people figure out WTF they want to do with their lives?

  • Why are so many of us depressed and anxious?

  • Why are we bored out of our minds but too scared of failure to try anything new?

I was floating outside my body, watching myself slip silently into a lame adult life—and I needed to do something about it, ASAP.

So, I got to work. On myself.

(I know, I know 🙄)

I tried every self-help strategy known to humankind. (I think.) I braved a cloud of toxic morning breath to practice “simhasana” breathing and “ac­cess my inner power.” I bought tickets to career-focused women’s conferences. I journaled. Made a vision board. Meditated. Took my “inner artist” on a date. I wrote a letter to myself, from myself, giving myself permission to be myself. I did a lot more than I care to list and I was still exhausted and unhappy.

More than anything, I was annoyed:

  1. First of all, most of the health and wellness experts telling me to “practice self-care” were clearly also trying to sell me something.

    Ex­cuuuuuuse me, but how will a fair-trade, cruelty-free, organic rosehip and lavender bubble bath help me cope with overwhelming feelings of existential dread or anxiety? Anybody notice that at its worst, self-care is just the self-help industry rebranded and repackaged for mil­lennials? UGH.

  2. Second, where was the hard science in all this Woo Woo?

    The more I read, the more I noticed a pattern: the most popular advice acknowl­edges our pain (or desire to grow) in a way that makes us feel seen, while also baiting us with the promise of “proven” solutions to our problems. But instead of grounding these strategies in science, we’re often left with generic, vaguely spiritual platitudes. When these “strategies” do nothing to help us, we aren’t angry at the source of our advice—we’re disappointed in ourselves.

    Why? Because we were made to believe this “journey to happiness” is complex and elusive. If we failed to “create work-life balance,” or “follow our bliss,” or “prac­tice self-care,” it must be our own damn fault that we’re still unhap­py, right? UGHHHHH.

Pissed off at the huge gap between scientific research and the warm-fuzzy brand of #SelfCare dominating pop culture, I decided to roll up my sleeves and do some research for myself.

You know those scholar­ly medical journals with groundbreaking scientific studies that no one has time to read? I read them. (So many, actually, that when I type a medical question into my browser, Google assumes I want a scholarly article and not WebMD, ha!.) You know the infor­mative but painfully boring books on cognitive therapy and positive psychology? I read them too. Maybe all of them?

Turns out I am an obsessive researcher.

And when books, conferences, and rituals weren’t enough, I decided to study the sci­ence of happiness, digging deep into the scholarly world in a search for real, concrete answers. I earned my Specialization certificate in Applied Positive Psychology from the University of Pennsylvania in early 2019, in a remote program led by the founder of the field, Dr. Martin Seligman, as well as other incredibly talented scientists and researchers. (I full-on fangirled when I found out I’d be taking a class from author and professor, Angela Duckworth. #nerd)

Guess what I discovered after all that reading, research, and trial and error?

My f*ckyeah.

And you know what? It wasn’t because I found some exact recipe for happiness by blending hard science and WooWoo spirituality. The research helped. The mindfulness helped. But it wasn’t what led me to my f*ckyeah.

It’s because I unlearned the bullshit that had tangled my brain into knots and found my way back to that little-kid, first-ever-ice-cream-cone, raw joy.

A year into my self-help quest, the universe handed me an opportunity: stick it out at my fully formed boss-lady career, or quit my job and reinvent my life. SPOILER ALERT: I reinvented my life. Five Stars ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐, thumbs-up 👍, would rec­ommend ✔️.

And now?

My mission in life is to save you years of reading, re­search, trial and error.




I WRITE. I wrote Find Your F*ckyeah: Stop Censoring Who You Are and Discover What You Really Want, a book I tenderly describe as “self-help for people already rolling their eyes.” It hits shelves September 17th, 2019, via Chronicle Books (woo!)—and it’s available for preorder now, with epic bonuses to boot.

I PODCAST. I host the first ever voicemail-style podcast, Call Me When You Get This, and you can listen episodes anywhere you hang your podcast hat.

I NERD. I earned my Specialization Certificate in Positive Psychology from the University of Pennsylvania in early 2019, in a program led by the founder of the field, Dr. Martin E.P. Seligman. I’m constantly reading, learning, and collecting research—like, for example, the 476 unique academic papers, clinical studies, scholarly articles and books I referenced to write Find Your F*ckyeah. That’s correct. 496.

I COACH. I help people grow the seed of their big, crazy idea into actual reality, using strategies rooted in cutting-edge psychology. Here, I’ll show you what I mean.

I SPEAK, TEACH, and HOST. I teach my Get Out of Your Own Way workshops for creatives and new entrepreneurs all over the country.

Oh, Also

  • Preferred pronouns: {she/her}

  • I used to run a lifestyle and travel blog called Local (Tourist), in which I discovered I did not want to run a lifestyle and travel blog. [PSA: Your “passions” do not need to be monetized to be validated. You can just…love stuff.]

  • If I could be an animal, it would be an otter. My partner has informed me that’s not possible, because I’m obviously a squirrel. Dammit.

  • I have a running list of most hated smells: crayons, movie theater popcorn, freshly cut grass, hot tar…I could go on.

  • I saw a previously hidden entrance to one of the Great Pyramids of Giza, in Egypt, with my own eyes. In real life. It was INSANE.

  • I have an obsession with rescuing plants from Ikea. Also, all my plant babies are named after frat guys: Connor, Blaze, Chad, Chaz, Tyler but he goes by “Ty”, there are more, but….you get it.