Being queer or trans in this world can feel like doing a full-time job without pay. There are stereotypes to dodge, explanations to repeat, and too many spaces where you have to shrink, sterilize and sanitize yourself just to get by. Therapy should not be another one of those spaces.

In my room, you don’t have to start at square one. Your queerness, transness, and gender expression are not just accepted, they are celebrated. I know how powerful it can be to sit across from someone who simply gets it. My own life has been shaped by thriving in queer and trans communities, where I’ve witnessed both the deep resilience and the very real struggles that come with living authentically.

Alongside my counseling training, I’ve spent time working in sexual health clinics where I’ve supported folks navigating hormones, HIV care, and harm reduction. These aren’t abstract topics to me. They’ve been part of my everyday conversations with clients and community. That work has given me comfort and fluency in holding space for people making decisions around their bodies, identities, and health. If these themes show up in therapy, you won’t need to educate me since I already know the terrain, and I know how much courage it takes to walk it.

Whether you are questioning identity, navigating transition, exploring intimacy, or just needing somewhere to drop the armor, I will meet you with curiosity, compassion, and, when the moment is right, a little humor to remind you that joy is part of healing too. This is a space where pronouns are respected, where your body and choices are honored, and where all versions of you are welcome. Loud, quiet, complicated, fierce, or anything in between.

Living far from family or feeling estranged from them can carry a unique kind of loneliness. For many who are immigrants, children of immigrants, or part of a diaspora, family is not only personal but cultural. It’s not just about missing birthdays or phone calls, it can feel like carrying around a quiet gap in your chest that no one else can see. Family often comes layered with tradition, love, and expectation, and when those ties are strained or severed, the pain can feel like breaking an unwritten cultural contract. 

I know this personally. As a queer South Asian, I have had to navigate what it means to live in between worlds. There is the grief of distance, the frustration of not being understood, and the quiet moments of guilt that sneak in when you start to thrive without the people who were supposed to cheer you on. Therapy became the space where I could name all of that without being told to “just call your family more” (if only it were that simple).

In our work together, I will not ask you to pick between honoring your roots and living authentically. Instead, we can hold space for the contradictions. I offer space to explore these losses, reimagine connection, and honor both the grief and resilience that come with living between cultures. The longing and the relief, the grief and the freedom. Chosen family, cultural identity, and your own voice all get a seat at the table. And if part of you still secretly hopes that one day a relative will finally “get it”, we can hold that too, with compassion and maybe a little side-eye together.

Cinderella got her glass slipper, her prince, and her perfect ending. But what happens when the shoe does not fit, when the story everyone else seems to be living does not feel like yours? For many people navigating non-monogamy, intimacy, and desire, it can feel like you are standing outside the fairy tale, wondering why love looks so different for you.

Non-monogamy often gets painted as chaos, when really, it is about creating relationships that work for you. I also know it is not always easy. The path can bring up jealousy, fear of rejection, or that familiar voice that says your desires are “too much” or “not enough.” If you are struggling, it does not mean you are failing. These feelings are deeply human, and you deserve compassion as you navigate them. Shame can feel heaviest when we are most vulnerable, but it begins to loosen its grip when it is spoken out loud in a space where you don’t have to hide.

It was through my own experiences of navigating polyamory and queer community that I began to feel the profound relief of not having to translate myself. I was raised within diasporic norms that often left little room for emotional nuance or deviation from tradition. For a long time, I stitched together fragments of identity without models, language, or cultural permission. I know the loneliness of wondering if there is space for someone like me to exist, let alone thrive. And I also know the transformation that happens when your complexity is not only accepted but honored. That is the experience I want to offer you here.

Kink can be another layer of this work. Whether it is a source of joy, a way of reclaiming past experiences, or a practice of deeper connection, I understand how vulnerable it can feel to bring your desires into the open. Many people have been told to bury their kink interests out of fear or shame, and naming them can feel like a risk. I welcome these conversations without judgment and with deep respect for the role kink can play in healing and self-expression. Nothing is too messy, too complicated, or too taboo to bring into the room.

In our work together, we will slow things down and listen closely to your emotions. Jealousy, fear, shame, and desire are not flaws to eliminate but signals pointing to something important. Together we can explore what these feelings are trying to tell you, articulate your needs with clarity, and create space for intimacy that feels authentic and alive. My role is not to hand you a checklist of rules, but to walk alongside you as you unlearn scripts that no longer serve you and write new ones that do.

After all, not everyone gets a Cinderella story where the shoe magically fits and the ending is tied up in a neat bow. For most of us, the shoes pinch, the script feels wrong, and the “happily ever after” is not handed over. But that does not mean your story is broken. It means you get to create one that actually fits.

A lot of people seek out therapy not because they lack friends or family, but because they do not have a space where they can be fully honest. You might have a wide circle and still feel isolated, wondering if anyone could really handle your deepest truths. Loneliness can show up in many forms: social anxiety that keeps you on the sidelines, the quiet ache of being trans in a world that misunderstands, the exhaustion of always being busy but never feeling truly seen, or the particular silence of men who are told to keep it all inside. However it arrives, the loneliness is real.

Often, attachment wounds sit at the core. Maybe someone important let you down early on, or you learned that love came with conditions. Sometimes trauma taught you that closeness was not safe, or that connection could disappear without warning. Those lessons stay in the body, echoing across relationships and leaving us both craving intimacy and fearing it at the same time.

Neurodiversity also plays an important role in how loneliness shows up. For many neurodivergent folks, the world can feel like it was built with an instruction manual they never received. Social norms, unspoken rules, and constant demands to “mask” can leave someone exhausted and isolated, even when they desperately want connection. Loneliness here is not about being unworthy of love but it’s about living in a society that often misunderstands or overlooks different ways of thinking, feeling, and relating. Making space for these differences is key to finding relationships where you can belong without performance.

I know the ache of wanting to be close while bracing for rejection. My own work in therapy showed me that loneliness is not proof of being unlovable, it is a signal of how deeply human we are. We all want to be held, known, and cared for. Sometimes what we need most is a steady, non-judgmental presence to help us relearn what safe connection can feel like.

Together, we can explore how your patterns were shaped, how trauma and attachment continue to influence them, how neurodiversity may play a role, and what it means to let others in on your own terms. Think of me as both an anchor and a co-pilot on your journey. And yes, I will gently remind you that sending a 3 AM “u up?” text is rarely the solution, no matter how strong the loneliness feels.

I believe therapy is less about “fixing” and more about being real together. Healing happens when we can bring our full selves into the room. The heavy, the playful, and the complicated full and authentic selves, and have those parts met with compassion instead of judgment. At its heart, I see therapy as a process of remembering our strengths. A strength-honouring lens is trusting that even survival strategies that no longer serve you once carried wisdom. This will help in loosening the grip of old patterns that do not serve us, and creating new ways of relating to ourselves and others. By slowing down and being curious together, we can uncover the resilience and creativity already present in you.

My approach is grounded in person-centered values and shaped by modalities like psychodynamic therapy, gestalt, emotionally focused therapy, and somatic practices. Somatic work, in particular, invites us to listen to the body’s signals. The tight chest, the restless legs, the breath that won’t come easy are used as important parts of the story. Our bodies often carry truths that words alone cannot capture.

I also believe healing grows out of collaboration and humility. I bring my training, you bring your lived experience and I am committed to learning from and using both to your advantage. That means respecting limits, staying curious, and welcoming feedback so our work stays aligned with what feels supportive to you.