Healing Myself through Feeding Others

Something really interesting began to happen to me around the time I started going back to church, in January of 2022. I began finding little old ladies to feed in my community.

No, I’m serious. I began to collect them. Everywhere I moved, I collected another little old lady to feed, without fail.

You see, it all started with pickles. I learned how to make pickles from scratch for my very tall and hungry husband because he could eat half of a jar of pickles in a single sitting. In my journey to health, I decided if he was going to eat pickles, he’d eat homemade ones with homemade ingredients so that I knew he wasn’t mainlining Yellow 40.

I then made a jar of pickles for my elderly neighbor in our triplex, and baked her cinnamon rolls for her birthday.

Then there was another lady at church who ALSO got cinnamon rolls for her birthday.

Then my husband and I moved to a condo community where I collected a lovely Catholic woman who lived across the complex. She was disabled and just had knee replacement surgery when I met her, so naturally I offered to bring her a couple of hot meals while she recovered. In talking to her, she’d been living alone a very long time and got so excited about simple things like getting red meat to enjoy, which she generally couldn’t afford on her fixed income. I began bringing her over a hot dinner a couple of days per week.

Around this time, I began to learn how to pressure can.

I wished I’d known about pressure canning YEARS ago. You can’t can cheezits or fruit snacks or french fries or marshmallows. That may seem obvious, but there’s a point to me saying this. You can pretty much only pressure can what exists in nature (minus grains and dairy for the most part. I’m sure there’s cheats, but that’s the general rule).

Pressure canning is the art form of spending four hours in your kitchen over approximately fourteen bowls of ingredients and three pots of different flavored stocks and making endless combinations with them while micromanaging an extremely hot and pressurized container. My sweet husband quipped one time that I looked like I was directing a “food orchestra” with my wild spoon-waving and all of my ingredients chopped up, filling every bowl in the house. And I won’t lie, on pressure canning day, I occasionally get a little stressed. It’s kind of stimulation overload. My husband came in to make himself a cup of coffee and I yelled at him because one more device making noise would make me lose it.

That was a funny day.

Pressure canning is fantastic for buying lots of meat and veggies at once, and then preserving them to be shelf-stable for a couple of years. I have popped open a jar of chicken soup from over a year ago and it still tastes like the afternoon I made it. I am serious. Lots of people have concerns over botulism, but may I remind you, women were pressure canning in the 1800’s. If it seals, it’s generally safe. You can tell by how the lid sounds, If you flick the lid with your fingernail and it’s a light “plink” rather than a heavy “donk”, your jar is safe.

Yes, plinks and donks. I will die on this hill. Canners, back me up. Plinks and donks.

When my husband and I moved down to where we live now, in Olympia, Washington, I was able to return to the church I had originally found God in, given that we’d moved out of the area for a couple of years. This was such a blessing, because, again, I found yet another little old lady to feed, a precious woman to me who invited me into her home for scripture study in a women’s group a couple of years before. This year, however, she and her husband had been going to lots of medical appointments, and I began bringing them various jars of soups and stews to tide them over on busy nights.

My pressure canning has gotten extremely refined. I highly recommend the book The Canning Diva by Dianne Devereaux.

Recently, as I came to a Wednesday night prayer group with my church, I found myself talking about my health journey through food and my keto diet. I found myself counseling a young woman on fasting, and another woman asked me for advice on my keto diet, which I promptly spent hours typing up to send to her. I talk about my brain health-food health connection to anyone who wants to know my story.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I made contact with my neighbor, an absolutely lovely woman about my own age who works at home (and works too much) in a high-stress job. Me being me, I asked her about her diet, given how much I know about the link between mental health and what we eat. I offered to become her personal chef, and she happily and gratefully agreed!

I made my first food delivery to her midweek last week- flank steak and vegetable stir fry with brown rice, salmon, veggies and brown rice/quinoa, some keto chocolate fudge bars with dates, and a batch of egg and bacon muffins. Tomorrow I make her next batch of food- turkey pesto meatballs with spaghetti squash and a chicken verde salsa mexi bowl, with local butcher pork sausage and egg muffins for breakfast and a round of homemade lemon hummus.

This is all stuff that’s easy to make. Cooking is not hard. You just have to get to know your food.

Then today, as I went to the grocery store and was accosted by the Girl Scouts with their poison boxes (which, word on the street is that the Girl Scouts are being sued for heavy metal toxicity in their cookies, which is why I call them poison boxes), I decided to tell them about a ketogenic diet instead. The woman was floored when I told her that in me, it cured nearly everything. I then told her where to buy allulose chocolate (goalz.com, shoutout to the best chocolatiers on the planet) and she said I should become a nutritional life coach.

And now we have arrived here, to the exact moment that I am typing up this blog post.

People, I am telling you, what you eat, and what you don’t eat, will make the difference between you living a happy life and living a miserable one. There is no further black and white way to say this. WE ARE WHAT WE EAT.

Some of us are puddles of Coors Light and a pile of seed-oil fries.

Some of us are endless oceans of pepperoni and cheese.

Some of us are piles of sugar rotting us.

What are you made of?

I decided to become made of nature, and I am not lacking in goodies. My date bars with coconut sugar-sweetened chocolate chips and walnuts can rival any fudge in existence.

The closer we eat to nature, the closer we are to health. And when we cook in nature, and we give that nature away to others, what you are saying to them is, “You deserve to be nourished.”

It feels good to nourish others, as I have learned that all other people are really just a mirror of ourselves. By feeding others, we also make sure we, in turn, are fed, and being fed isn’t always food. Sometimes doing good works is spiritual food.

More on that another day.

Learning that Food is Medicine

Not long after I got out of the psych hospital (with a cocktail of prescribed meds, mind you) I figured out I needed to make a change to my life- or rather, lots of changes. My brain was still a complete carnival of crazy and the prescriptions I was taking didn’t help, they only muted the feelings so that I couldn’t reach them to deal with them.

You have to feel it to heal it, friends.

When you hit the point of a complete nervous breakdown, there are only two options, y’all- surface, or drown. Yes, it’s harder work to kick for the surface with lungs full of carbon dioxide. Of course it is. It’s WAY easier to just succumb to the darkness, I won’t lie to you. It comes down to what you want for yourself though. What’s your legacy? That you gave up and wasted away, like Layne Staley, or that you ditched the substances and started “lifting things instead” like Trent Reznor? The dude is nearly 60 and has arms nearly as big around as my head. He’s still making music that rocks because he cleaned up his life.

(I did mention I’m 40. The musical references should make sense given my age.)

Thanks to an extended camping trip I took with my husband a few months after the hammer episode, I forgot my psych meds at home, and I just decided not to go back on them. They weren’t doing me any favors anyway. *not medical advice. This worked for me, mostly because I hadn’t been on them that long.

Around this time my beloved husband (who I don’t give nearly enough credit to, he is my rock, my salvation, my calm in the storm, and the reason I survived) suggested I take up martial arts. He has a black belt in ITF Taekwondo and is very physically fit. Not surprisingly, my husband is also extremely mentally sound. Healthy inside, healthy outside.

I did some some research into how exercise can really help jumpstart your mental health, and that had been an area I’d been sorely lacking in. I worked desk jobs most of my life, relatable to so many people out there, I know. I also hated running. Exercise, ew, right?

Ah, this is where we learn something, young grasshopper. Exercise is about far more than making your muscles hurt. Exercise builds mental toughness as well as muscle. Can you do one more when your arms are tired? Can you run one more lap? How hard are you willing to push yourself?

Mind over matter, kids. You can choose to be sore, or you can choose to simply hurt. One of those options gives you mobility and range of motion when you’re 70. The other confines you to a chair.

I did Taekwondo for about a year. Around the same time, I started running. I went to the gym. And then, after stumbling into a Christian church locally and beginning the journey back to spiritual health (and apologizing to God for all the messes I created when I was miserable) I finally began looking at what I was eating.

Obesity in this country is at an all time high. It’s insane, and quite frankly, it’s disgusting. I could write a whole other novel on the evils of the food industry and how we’ve been pitched food “products” that don’t actually have any food in them, but this blog post will suffice for now. Let’s just put it this way- mentally healthy people don’t gorge themselves to 300+ pounds. They just don’t. Remember- the medical industry profits off of us being sick, overweight, and depressed. They can’t sell pills to happy, healthy, normal-weight people. If you weigh more than 275 lbs and you’re not a 6’8 Icelandic bodybuilder named Bjorn, you are unhealthy. Period. I don’t care what lies you want to tell yourself, they’re lies.

I began researching the best diets for mental health, and one kept popping up- the Ketogenic Diet. Reading into it, there was a study done on an elderly woman with debilitating schizophrenia, and a keto diet gave her 90% quality of life back. Stanford University did a very good study on keto diets and improving severe mental illness.

I decided that would be the direction my life took me, but failure is part of the process.

Since I’ve always enjoyed cooking, I didn’t have too much trouble with the food prep necessary for a keto diet swap, but given that I still cooked for my extremely hungry carpenter husband, it was very hard at first to stick with it before lapsing back to my old diet of heavy starches and sweets.

I finally kicked the refined carbs for good over a year ago- barring a handful of minor exceptions, which is why the cookbook I have planned for the future will be called “Mostly” keto. For me, the usage of honey, medjool dates, and dried fruit in general is kind of a gray area, and I must occasionally taste jam that I make from scratch when my husband isn’t around to taste it for me. I also enjoy the occasional brown rice and sweet potatoes as treats. If you’re getting to a place with your diet where brown rice is considered a “treat”, well done, you don’t need my advice anymore.

Whether you believe in a higher power or not is up to you, but if there are laws to nature, there has to be a lawmaker, that’s all I’m saying, and I finally hit a place where I went , “Okay, God. I don’t think I can fix me. I think only you can do it.

It is in the fixing that you realize just how real God is. I am a living testimony to it. You don’t have to believe it, but I guarantee you, if you ever get to a low enough place, and ask God you help you… God will send you what you need.

As further proof of a simply kick-ass Creator, there are so many delicious foods made by the planet. You can literally plant a seed in the right part of the world, and you’ll end up with pineapples, which is one of the most delicious things anyone can ever eat. I mean, mind blown, right? Pineapples! Oh, and let me tell you a little secret about pineapples. If you take the outside peels of pineapples and the cores you cut out and boil them in some filtered water for about 10-15 minutes and strain it into a jar for your fridge, that juice apparently has an enzyme named bromelain in it that supports joint health. Um, what? That’s not just trash? No, it’s not. Nature is so beautiful, there’s a way to use nearly everything we pitch into the garbage. It’s why I currently have like twelve baggies full of dried spaghetti squash seeds, because I eat so much of it and I can’t bear to throw the beautiful seeds away.

I will be a crazy lady in my 50’s with a spaghetti squash farm at this rate. Ask me how devastated I am that this is bound to be my fate.

Spoiler alert, absolutely tickled pink about it.

On the subject of “nature provides everything we need” why are we ruining our health ingesting engine grease (seed oils) toxic waste runoff (fluoride) addictive white poison powder (refined sugar) and why do we rub dementia under our arms every single day? (If you do nothing else, please, I implore you, buy aluminum-free deodorant if you want to be cognitively healthy past 60 and stop cooking with foil)

Realizing all of this, I took it a step further. What if I only began eating foods that exist in nature?

This was the beginning of my food journey, and I am happier, healthier, smarter, and more free than I have ever been. This is why I decided to create this blog and help others- because I know most of you have no idea where to start, and don’t have three years to read endless medical journals and balance it with what people like me know doctors lie about. For example, ever notice that doctors will tell you to eat less butter, salt and eggs before they tell you to eat less french fries?

That’s just the tip of the iceberg, people.

The average person wakes up in the morning and stumbles for their coffee pot, ingesting molds that linger on coffee and impact their kidneys. Then the average person will either eat a starchy breakfast pastry or worse, a sweetened one, or they get a McDonalds breakfast meal. The average person has just demolished any chance of gut health for the day, and as I came to find out, gut health is intricately tied to our overall health.

The average person might bring lunch from home (a bright spot of salvation in an otherwise depressing food routine) or maybe eat a salad from the cafeteria and pat themselves on the back for making a “healthy” choice. Then the average person might go home to a home cooked dinner, but might as easily swing through Burger King on the way home.

The average person doesn’t know what a probiotic is, how to count carbs or read labels, or how to recognize that trisodium phosphate (found in some children’s breakfast cereals) is an industrial cleaning agent you can buy at Home Depot. The average person has heard of adaptogen mushrooms, maybe, but looks for them in the produce section.

The average person is in deep trouble.

The Traumatic Brain Injury that saved my life

I ran from my problems for a solid fifteen years after my husband died. Five years after his funeral, I gave birth to a beautiful and perfect baby girl, conceived as a miracle from a short-term relationship. Her dad and I probably should have broken up not long after we got together, but we were both too broken in different ways to love each other properly. Today’s psych lesson: Trauma Bonding. The concept that if you believe yourself to be terribly broken, you will attract to yourself only other broken people, often while not having a great opinion of humanity in general.

I developed a severe drinking problem after her dad and I split up, when she was about a year old. We shared custody while I worked several jobs to try to keep us all afloat. After my dumpster fire of a life situation moved me out of state, things got strained, and my drinking habit got worse. After several years of moving around, trying to work and keep up with child support, and subsequently falling into a fairly abusive relationship that didn’t last very long, (remember, trauma bonding) I found myself jobless and homeless in the autumn of 2017. I had pushed my entire family away in my grief, and what little time and money I had to spend on my child wasn’t enough. Her dad threatened to have my license revoked or have me jailed if I didn’t cough up child support money. Or, he casually suggested, I could just give him full custody, and he’d make the rest go away.

For the record, he’s not the villain in this story. I had been a human dumpster fire for nearly ten straight years. I hated myself. My family was sick of me (or so I felt). I had no one to lean on (barring a single friend who picked up the phone when I called and another friend who took me in. You both know who you are. Props, dudes). So I signed full custody of my daughter to her dad and he promised me a photo once per year on her birthday. Signing those adoption papers for his wife was the hardest piece of paper I ever signed, and yet, I knew it was for the best, because that way she could grow up without me messing up her life, and speaking as the child of divorced parents (there’s a lot of us out there) I felt like it was the first truly noble thing I ever did as an adult.

I managed to claw back to my feet with the help of my two friends, and got another healthcare certification (the letters I got at age 32). I worked in healthcare some more, and learned what risk adjustment was- the process of your health insurance company combing through your medical records and hoping you have more chronic diseases because they get checks from the government annually. I wish I was kidding. Your health insurance company hopes you’re sick. Really think about that one for a while.

After a year of this job, something broke in me. I couldn’t do it anymore. I had a great and well-paying job in health information technology and I threw it into the trash to go work in a bakery for minimum wage. Not long after, I found myself in hard drugs to cope with all the trauma I hadn’t dealt with for roughly eleven years. And there was… a LOT. I had just gotten remarried and I thought I was fine because of the happiness of newlywed joy, but the darkness I had avoided crept back in shortly after our marriage which led to the substance abuse.

Shortly after beginning my spree of drowning myself in hard drugs, an inflammation problem in my feet started up. Since I worked in healthcare so long, I knew that an anti-anxiety medication I had been prescribed was also prescribed for inflammation. Since I was thinking “inflammation” and not “brain” when I took this drug, I took it alongside hard drugs that messed with my dopamine receptors. I had been warned not to mix psych meds with MDMA (the street drug, ecstasy). Let me tell you why this warning exists, and further, maybe don’t do drugs, kids, because this is when my brain metaphorically ripped itself in half. When the neurons in your brain are being competed over by both uppers and downers, that’s when your brain goes to war with itself, and I spent approximately fourteen months completely insane. Most people think of traumatic brain injuries as being a physical injury, like a car wreck. In those cases, you know why you’re suddenly acting weird, but in my case, I actually had no idea. It was a chemical injury, and it didn’t even set in right away, which made figuring out the problem all the harder.

This brain injury actually saved my life.

Holly, how can a traumatic brain injury save someone’s life?

I’ll tell you.

Imagine you have a big shiny balloon full of cake. Why is there cake in a balloon? No idea, but we’re going full speed ahead with the metaphor anyway.

You put that balloon on a shelf because it’s shiny and pretty, and the cake is in good condition when you shoehorned it in there, but you leave that balloon full of cake on the shelf so long… you forget there’s cake in there. You are completely oblivious to the rot inside of that balloon because the outside is still as shiny as the day you shoved cake in it.

In my case, it was wedding cake. I never properly grieved my husband’s death, which led to substances that I only used to distract myself from the pain I never addressed.

Imagine eleven years of not addressing rotting cake in your bedroom. There’s a stench in the room, you are getting stomachaches and headaches, you aren’t sleeping well, and yet you have no idea what’s causing it because you totally forgot about the cake. So you go to the doctor who wants to prescribe you four different drugs and two of them have death listed as a possible side effect. You deteriorate worse and your doctor makes a bonus for selling those pills.

That brain injury was a needle that popped my balloon, which spewed rotten cake all over my bedroom. Rotten cake is splattered on my bed, the ceiling, all over the carpet. There’s rot and stench everywhere. It’s disgusting, and one might think well and hard about just burning the whole house down rather than endeavor to clean that awful mess, because there’s just so much of it.

For months, I was essentially schizophrenic. The two halves of my brain fought each other, night and day. I didn’t sleep well. I stopped eating because “everything is poison.” I was suicidal for those months. I talked to myself, ran around at 3am, and even cut myself at times. My brand new husband who saw me through my drug addictions toughed it out and did his best to support me, but it took months for us to figure out what had actually happened, and even once we knew what the problem was, it was an uphill battle. *This man, y’all. There are not enough steaks or beers to thank him for his perseverance and love, but dadgum, if it takes me a century, I’ll try.

I thought I was getting better, but then I fell off the wagon back into drugs six months later, and then two days after that, after not sleeping OR eating, my husband found me hitting myself on the head with a hammer. To this day, the only explanation for that I have was “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” was playing in my head.

He called 911 and got me an ambulance.

I spent six hours in an ER room crying my guts out. It was the first time I ever properly felt all of the loss I had suffered through the course of my life, and this short post is the truncated version- I’d been through a LOT. I spent a subsequent week in a psych hospital eating and sleeping, before coming home to fix the mess I’d made of my life.

When I came home, I donned a hazmat suit and ordered 42 boxes of Magic Erasers off of Amazon.

It was time to clean up the cake.

***

You know what the best part about traveling through hell is?

Not being there anymore.

True story.

Take it from a former dumpster fire…

Look, I get it. We all make excuses when it comes to our health. “I’ll do it tomorrow” you may lie. “It’s just not that important” you tell yourself weakly. When you hit age 40, however, it starts hurting when you get out of bed, and you’ll wish you hadn’t scrolled away the health of your youth.

I didn’t take care of my physical, emotional or spiritual health for nearly two decades. I turned into a flaming garbage heap of a person because of all the excuses I made when I was younger and trust me, those excuses were ample, so I know more about excuses than most people. I also know what it’s like to live a life extremely sick and have no idea how to heal it.

When I was 23 years old, I got married to the love of my life, and then he died in a motorcycle wreck five weeks later.

Yeah. THAT happened.

Everyone in my life thought I was so strong for simply soldiering on and trying to paint on a brave face day after day. What I didn’t know was that the same toughness that helped me survive that had also made me numb to pain because I always ignored what that pain was trying to tell me, and when your body hurts, there’s a reason for it. Instead, I just bricked my pain away and pretended like it wasn’t there, and doing that made me a very ill person. That sickness manifested outward and harmed those around me. If you suffer from chronic disease, you know it makes everything hurt, and when you hurt on the inside, you often make others hurt, too. Hard truths, but there’s going to be a lot of those coming from me.

When it comes to our spiritual and emotional health- when the egg cracks from the outside, life ends, and when the egg cracks from the inside, life begins. Nothing external can cure you. It starts within you, and you have everything you need inside of you.

Again, I know better than most.

My life went from average, to blissfully happy, to shattered, to elated while still depressed, to drunken, to homeless, to remarried and burying my pain, to utterly broken nearly beyond repair… to finally repairing.

The repairs only came when I began to address what I was putting inside of myself.

I used to be a major comfort eater. I used to be depressed I had no money, so I’d go charge fifty dollars worth of Thai food and say “Okay, I’ll treat myself tonight then cinch up the belt.” And then never cinch up the belt.

It’s a vicious cycle that poor people often find themselves in- we tend to waste more money because we tell ourselves we have no nice things, so we might as well treat ourselves once in a while. Newsflash- those “treats” eat up half your disposable income, especially if you don’t know how to cook, and if you are focused on enjoying your poverty rather than saving to improve your circumstances, you’ll remain poor. It’s a mindset- one I lived in for many years.

Even if you’re not poor, if you don’t know how to cook for yourself, you are poor in health. I guarantee. No one orders a salad EVERY night if they’re ordering, and you have no idea how much hidden sugar is in those salad dressings anyway. Also, here’s a fun fact to make you want to barf: two of the salads from the Cheesecake Factory have over 1,700 calories each. I don’t think I eat that many calories in a given DAY.

If you follow along with me on this journey, I guarantee, I will help you heal from the inside out. I’ll be your friend who holds your hand, looks in your eyes, and says “You deserve to live better than this.” And I hope you’ll nod and agree. A lot of it is food related, but what we “consume” is so much more than that. It’s the media we read, the movies we watch, the horror and atrocities we see on social media, the music we listen to, the vaccines we take. It’s all connected- what goes into you makes a huge difference to your health.

The thing to remember first and foremost- is that you are the one person you can not lie to.

People think that makes sense, but reeeeally think about it.

What lies do you tell yourself?

What lies have you told others that you later believed because you told it so many times?

When you tell your significant other nothing is bothering you, is that true?

Part of what I aim to heal is what makes us tell those lies. Usually it’s a trauma response, or a feeling that you’re just not good enough.

That’s the worst lie you’ll ever tell yourself, that you’re not good enough. That’s the worst lie. You’re magnificent. Yes, you. We’ve just got to uncover you from all of what the world said you were or weren’t, and let the real YOU shine!

After all, if a former human dumpster fire can learn to self-love, anyone can.

Next post- on why I never judge anyone for their history. Ever.

Not you, either.

Nutritional health coaching- how did I get here?

A bit about me… I absolutely insist I spent a former life as the weird lady with a house full of jars in backwater Scotland. You know, the old lady that all the villagers simultaneously feared yet came to with all their health problems. But I digress.

In this life, to be quite blunt, I understand better than  most what doctors do and do not know.  I spent nearly two decades in healthcare. I started with my first aid and lifeguarding certifications at the tender age of 15, then went on to earn my EMT certification at age 19. By age 22, I had graduated a healthcare trade school program. By 30, I got my first set of letters after my name professionally. At age 32, I got the second set of letters after my name professionally, and at age 35, I published my first novel- on how modern healthcare is killing people. And even though I was a living dumpster fire at the time that book was published and many of my previously held medical opinions have now changed, even THEN I knew something was very wrong with our society.

In total, I spent roughly half my adult life auditing medical records for a living, and I can promise you, 99% of medical doctors have no idea how to cure what’s wrong with you. In fact, getting killed by a medical error is the third most likely way to die in this country.

I repeat. Doctors do not know how to cure disease. They know how to prescribe pills, and that’s about it. 

Dis-ease is exactly that- your body not being at ease.  A lot of our physical conditions are caused by spiritual and emotional health problems, and doctors know next to nothing about this. Sadly, most physicians don’t even get  more than a couple hours of training on nutrition. It seems to be all about what pill to fix what ailment, when that pill will cause three other ailments. All you’re doing in modern medicine is robbing Peter to pay Paul, and some people’s bodies, well… the check is coming due all at once.

Doctors are great when you shatter a kneecap or get into a car wreck, but regular visits to doctors will make you sicker. You can take that to the bank. Goldman Sachs once published an article that queried if curing patients was a sustainable business model, which tells you everything you need to know about the medical industry and their shareholder overlords. Go ahead. Google it. Recoil in disgust, then return to me.

I am also in the process of earning my Functional Nutrition Counselor certificate, so I’m not just some crazy lady on the internet.

Well, not just.

Through my life travels, I have delved deeply into the link between what we eat and our quality of life. If you really think about it, this makes sense, however people rarely put two and two together. The most malnourished people you will ever meet in your life are also some of the most overweight. Their body is literally starving for nutrients, yet their body carries so much excess. Part of that weight we carry is why  we are eating. What are you carrying, friends? What are you ready to put down so that you don’t have to lug it around anymore? Have you ever even heard  of generational trauma and how to put down the things we didn’t even know we carry?

Of course, some people have chronic pain due to injuries, and some have autoimmune diseases that eat up their lives. I see you, and I sympathize. Trust me, I’m hurting with you.

There is hope, though. The human body is stellar at healing itself with the proper guidance, and if my instructor Andrea Nakayama (who lives with an autoimmune disorder) has managed to live a healthy life despite Hashimotos, purely through food medicine, I’d say there’s hope for everyone!

Drop me a line and say hi! If you want to know more about me, read on, the blog publishes every Sunday evening. I will be sharing things I’ve learned in my studies about how to transform your health through food, and I will be a CFNC in roughly ten months. Then the real magic happens.

If you REALLY want to know more about me, my life story memoir will be available soon. Stay tuned.