About

I can still hear the gravel crunching under my boots, the weight of my rucksack pressing into my shoulders as I stood in formation, heart pounding.

We were only a few weeks into basic training, and I was still figuring out where I fit in. The goal was simple: blend in. Do my part. Don’t stand out too much.

Then, out of nowhere, my drill sergeant called my name.

“March the platoon back.”

I froze.

Forty soldiers, all waiting. All looking at me.

I had no idea what I was doing. I wasn’t a leader. I had never seen myself as one. I had two left feet, an intense fear of public speaking, and no business being up front. But in the military, hesitation isn’t an option. You don’t get to raise your hand and say, “Actually, sir, I’d rather not.”

So I swallowed my panic, stepped forward, and did my best. It was messy. My voice shook. I stumbled through the cadence. But we made it back.

Relief hit me like a wave. It was over.

Until the next day, when I was called up again. And the next. And the next. Until it became clear—I hadn’t just been picked at random. I was the leader.

And I hated it.

Not because I didn’t want to do well, but because I was sure it was a mistake. Every time I stood in front of my platoon, I waited for my drill sergeant to realize I wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t strong enough. That someone else deserved this role more than me.

That moment never came.

Instead, I finished basic training still leading, still standing at the front. And even then, I told myself I had just gotten lucky. That somehow, I had slipped through the cracks, fooling everyone around me into believing I was more capable than I really was.

That feeling—of being the wrong person for the job, of waiting to be “found out”—didn’t stay behind in the Army. It followed me into my career, into promotions, into every leadership role I was given. It didn’t matter how many times I was chosen. I always thought, “They must have made a mistake.”

Sound familiar?

That’s the lie of imposter syndrome.

It convinces you that the evidence doesn’t count. That every person who has ever seen something in you is wrong. That you, somehow, are the one exception to the rule.

But what if they weren’t wrong?

What if the mistake wasn’t them choosing you—but you refusing to believe it?

That’s why I do what I do.

Because I see so many women—brilliant, capable, hardworking women—who feel the same way. Women building businesses, raising families, and chasing dreams, all while carrying this nagging feeling that they don’t quite belong at the table.

I help them break that cycle.

I help them see what’s already true—that they are enough, that they are capable, and that they don’t need anyone else’s permission to own their success.

And if that doubt is still whispering in your ear, telling you you’re not ready, not qualified, not enough—I want you to hear this loud and clear:

You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t meant to be.

Let’s prove that voice wrong together.