This isn’t the story I usually lead with.
But it’s the one that built everything.
Before I ever became a nurse, I became a patient.
I was young, 18 years old, when my life cracked open.
One moment I was living my life, and the next, I was so sick I could barely stand.
I didn’t know what was happening to my body.
I didn’t know why everything felt wrong. Within 12 hours I went from perfectly fine to barely able to stand.
All I knew was that something inside me was shutting down.
By the time I made it to the ER, I was confused, weak, slipping in and out of myself.
They told me I needed a spinal tap.
I remember lying there, terrified and barely conscious, while the room spun around me.
I remember the coldness of the table.
The heaviness in my chest.
The ache in my spine.
And I remember the nurse.
Not because she comforted me,
Not because she held my hand,
Not because she told me I’d be okay,
But because she… didn’t.
She stood in the corner,
on her phone, silent, detached, almost bored.
No reassurance.
No presence.
No humanity.
In that moment, a moment where I genuinely thought I might die, I realized something:
There is nothing more terrifying than being at your most vulnerable, and feeling completely alone.
I promised myself right then:
“If I survive this, I will never make someone feel the way she made me feel.”
And then… everything got worse.
I contracted meningitis right as the world began to shut down.
When COVID first hit, fear was everywhere, in hallways, in headlines, in the way staff moved, fast and frantic.
I was admitted to the ICU, hooked up to machines, surrounded by the sound of ventilators.
People were dying all around me.
I remember being a teenager, alone in a room full of tragedy and urgency, watching nurses sprint between codes, doctors shouting orders, alarms blaring.
And yet, even in all that chaos, there was one nurse I will never forget.
She walked into my room like a calm entering a storm.
She didn’t treat me like another task or diagnosis.
She saw me.
She talked to me.
She checked on me even when she wasn’t assigned to.
She held space for my fear.
She made me feel human when everything felt terrifying.
In the middle of the ICU, with death on one side and uncertainty on the other, she gave me something the system too often forgets:
Compassion. Presence. Humanity.
She was everything the first nurse wasn’t.
She was everything I knew I wanted to become.
And that is the day I decided I would become a nurse who actually sees people.
Not just their numbers.
Not just their diagnosis.
Not just their chart.
But them, their fears, their story, their symptoms, their truth.
Years later, when I entered nursing… the heartbreak continued.
I saw things I’ll never unsee:
People dismissed because their labs were “fine.”
Patients suffering in silence because appointments were too rushed.
Individuals with chronic symptoms told it was “just anxiety.”
Those without clear answers treated like burdens, not humans.
People crying in hallways after hearing, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
And the worst part?
It wasn’t because healthcare workers don’t care, most care deeply.
It’s because the system isn’t built for the kind of care people actually need.
It’s built for:
Not for:
So many people, men, women, everyone, fall through the cracks.
And every time I saw someone dismissed…
Every time I saw someone cry quietly after being unheard…
Every time I watched a patient walk out with more confusion than answers…
I felt the same ache I felt at 18, lying on that ER table.
“It shouldn’t be this way.”
So, I created Élevé Holistic Health & Wellness.
Élevé means to rise, to lift, to elevate.
It represents everything I needed when I was the patient:
And that is what I give to every person who walks through my (virtual) doors.
What I do now is simple but deeply needed.
At Élevé, I support real people with real lives, real stressors, and real symptoms:
I blend:
This is slow medicine.
This is human medicine.
This is the medicine I needed, and the medicine I now offer.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know something:
Your experience is real.
Your symptoms are real.
Your exhaustion is real.
Your frustration is valid.
Your story matters here.
You don’t have to prove you’re sick enough.
You don’t have to fight to be believed.
You don’t have to navigate your health alone.
This is your space.
Your clarity.
Your rising.
Welcome to Élevé.
I’m honoured you’re here. Let’s start this journey together.
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