With the grace and mobility of a shiny brown beanbag, I watched as the sea lion arf-arffed her way closer to the cool waves. Then a smaller, rounder beanbag appeared beside her. Unbeknownst to me, I witnessed this grunting sea lion give birth to a baby right before my eyes. Thus began my magical first day in La Jolla, summer 2015.
The first morning I woke up in La Jolla, I felt mostly excited but also a bit anxious. I had no ties to San Diego and didn’t know a soul. I was there for a clinical rotation as a part of graduate school. What would I do with an entirely open day? After finding the most delicious brunch spot with Wiley, my trusty pup, we found ourselves watching a sea lion give birth. That moment felt like a sign from the universe—I was moving in the right direction.
Whenever I move to a new city, one of the first things I do—after finding groceries and a latte spot—is hunt for a running club. Continuing with this magical day in San Diego, I immediately clicked with the leader of the running club. She and her boyfriend became my weekend pals all summer. Wiley, running, and those two friendships were all I needed for that summer. I felt proud of myself for starting with a blank slate and creating a nice little life for myself in San Diego.
Before heading into the chaos of the hospital each day, I laced up just before dawn and ran along the sandy beach, Kygo pumping me up. Those sunrise runs from the dock to Rock Point and back became my ritual. With every stride, I processed the past weekend or planned sessions for patients. What mattered most always surfaced on those runs: curiosity, connection, and a deep urge to help others.
That urge—the instinct to help—has been my North Star. It first led me to healthcare, to a career as an occupational therapist, where I stood beside people in moments of both struggle and possibility, helping them reclaim pieces of their identity and daily life. I found fulfillment in small, hard-won victories—like watching someone relearn how to stand.
That same North Star now guides my work as an educational consultant. I see in young people the same questions I’ve carried: Where do I fit? How do I want to spend my time? What fills me up? When working with a student, I urge them to unplug, slow down, and ask: What are your values? What will help you thrive? My role isn’t simply to build a college list—it’s to keep their internal compass pointed toward authenticity, even when outside noise—rankings, peer chatter, parental pressure—threatens to drown it out.
Sometimes, I advocate for a student’s voice when a family member tries to rewrite an essay to sound “more impressive.” Other times, I help a student challenge the belief that their self-worth is measured by admission outcomes. Those moments bring me closest to my purpose: protecting their sense of self, gently asking, “What’s your North Star here?” and supporting them as they navigate toward their guiding star.
Movement, time outside, and connection are my personal wellsprings. They remind me that our deepest guideposts aren’t test scores or acceptances, but the values that light us up—even, especially when the path ahead is uncertain. Just as I felt proud for creating that magical first day in La Jolla, I want my students to know how to care for themselves and craft a meaningful life.
