When I launched Joy Life Counseling, I was operating with equal parts faith and grit. I didn’t have investors or a big safety net. I had a vision, a deep sense of calling and the funds from selling my late father’s home. That was the only capital I had to start building what is now a thriving group practice.
Today, Joy Life Counseling is home to four incredible therapists. But it didn’t start here. I began alone, fresh out of graduate school, without many examples of people who looked like me opening private practices—especially straight out of school.
When I first opened the doors of Joy Life Counseling in December 2019, I had no idea that only a few months later, the world would change. Like many, I entered that new year with hope, expectation and vision. I had taken a huge leap of faith. I was a new business owner. I was building something that, for me, felt sacred—a space where healing could happen for people who looked like me. A space I didn’t often see growing up.
Then came the pandemic.
“Turn your pain into purpose” is a statement I had heard used many times over the years, especially in relation to navigating life after it had been disrupted by a riveting experience. While I had faced and triumphed through a great many challenges during my lifetime, nothing prepared me for the one that was waiting in the balance. I had never truly considered the magnitude of what turning pain into purpose could feel like—or the agony of the process—until it happened to me
If you had a chance to read my first article in the first issue of this amazing magazine, you already know how much I love diving into the intersection of music and mental health. Music has healing properties. It has this amazing way of lifting us up, grounding us or even pushing us forward when we need it. It’s the universal language by which we all communicate and has this uncanny ability to meet us exactly where we are.
What if fear isn’t holding you back – but holding the key?
For me, fear begins in my chest as a quiet heat. Then it spreads to my face. My arms. My toes. It’s a full-body alarm that freezes me and forces me to pay attention
