Hi, I am Angela.
I’m here to help you move from self-abandonment to self-leadership—so your family can function without you carrying the invisible weight of everything.
Many of us learned to trade parts of ourselves for family harmony—without ever consenting to the cost.
We did it to feel safer.
To keep things steady.
To create a sense of stability for the people we love.
And at some point, it worked—at least on the surface. Life became more functional. More organized. More “together.”
But what I see again and again is this: people reach the life they were aiming for and realize they’re still the one holding everything at their own expense.
It doesn’t have to be this way. There is another path—one that doesn’t require you to disappear in order for your family to thrive. Finding my way back to myself changed not just my relationships, but my entire sense of what’s possible.
This story didn’t unfold all at once. So let’s start at the beginning.
I’m not like most coaches you know.
This work didn’t come from a business plan—it came from my life. From years of parenting, partnering, and practicing therapy while quietly absorbing the mental and emotional weight of making everything run.
There was no dramatic pivot or overnight shift. Just a long stretch of doing what needed to be done, followed by the dawning realization that sustainability requires more than goodwill and effort—it requires structure, shared language, and inner work.
The story looks linear when summarized. It wasn’t. It was layered, human, and shaped by seasons that don’t show up on a résumé.
For a long time, I thought the version of me that disappeared was simply the cost of making a family work.
I learned early how to abandon myself in the name of cohesiveness, functionality, and security. I became skilled at smoothing chaos, anticipating needs, and holding everything together—quietly. From the outside, my family of origin looked “together.” Inside, it was loud, unpredictable, and emotionally unsafe.
My parents were immigrants—refugees—doing their best to survive and provide. They played very traditional roles. My dad was dominant and decisive. My mom was submissive, deferential, and rarely made decisions for herself. Everything flowed through him.
I internalized that system deeply.
And I vowed I would never recreate it.
I wanted something different. I wanted an egalitarian partnership. I wanted shared decision-making, mutual respect, and emotional safety. I married a genuinely kind man—someone who did not subscribe to rigid gender roles or patriarchal dominance. At the time, we were evangelical missionaries, committed to service and family, even as we interpreted partnership differently than many around us.
(For context: I no longer identify with the evangelical church. Today, I consider myself a progressive Christian.)
On paper, I had what I thought I was working toward.
I married a man who openly valued my work, my voice, and my autonomy—someone who promised to build a life that considered both of us, not just one. In many ways, it felt like we had broken patterns that had shaped generations before us. I was living inside a marriage my ancestors could only have imagined: rooted in love, mutual respect, and real choice.
Then we had children.
What followed wasn’t a dramatic collapse, but a slow unraveling. The ideals we believed in didn’t disappear—but the system we were living inside quietly shifted. Caregiving intensified. Invisible labor multiplied. Responsibility consolidated without being named.
I still had options. I still had freedom, at least in theory. I was in a partnership built on compatibility and care.
And yet—something was off.
What I couldn’t name at the time was that the very structure meant to support us was asking me to carry more than I ever consented to. The generational story had changed on the surface, but the cost was still being paid somewhere.
The Invisible Cost of “Making It Work”
Like many couples, we practiced a silent divide-and-conquer approach to family life. We both worked. We both contributed. We were busy, capable, and committed.
But I was carrying most of the mental load—the invisible labor of tracking, anticipating, planning, remembering, worrying, and managing the emotional ecosystem of our family.
At the time, I didn’t have language for why I felt so depleted, resentful, and unsatisfied—especially because my partner was helpful, willing, and kind. I questioned myself constantly.
Why wasn’t I happier?
Why did I feel so alone?
Why did everything feel so heavy?
We had conversations about the mental load early on—around year two of our marriage (we’ve been married since 2008). I knew something wasn’t fair. I knew I felt pressure to hold it all.
But those conversations went nowhere.
Not because we didn’t care—but because we didn’t have structure, shared language, or a framework for real ownership.
Everything Changed (And Fell Apart) at the Same Time
In my late 30s, several truths collided all at once.
I learned I had ADHD—through social media, not graduate school. Suddenly, my chronic overwhelm, lack of bandwidth, difficulty sustaining friendships, and disinterest in career expansion made sense. I wasn’t lazy or broken. My nervous system was exhausted.
I also learned about my queerness—again, through social media—finally finding language for parts of myself I had muted for decades.
Then COVID happened.
And my third baby arrived as a complete surprise.
At the time, I was a part-time therapist working about 15 hours a week. Shortly after, I transitioned into full-time clinical work. My husband quit his nonprofit job and became the primary homeschooling parent, while also working part-time as a property manager.
Our entire system flipped overnight.
And the cracks we’d been managing quietly became impossible to ignore.
When “Help” Still Isn’t Enough
Even with the shift in roles, I was still holding most of the mental load. I tried to transfer responsibilities the only way I knew how—by handing off tasks instead of domains.
I built my own spreadsheet. I didn’t know about Fair Play yet. Things improved—but not sustainably. I was still the project manager, the tracker, the decider.
We weren’t doing well. I seriously considered separation more than once—but couldn’t articulate why. From the outside, our marriage looked functional. Inside, I felt unseen, overextended, and quietly disappearing.
This is the part so many people don’t talk about:
You can be partnered with a good person
and still be profoundly lonely.
The Missing Piece: Structure + Inner Work
The real shift came when two things finally met each other:
External structure
and
internal systems work
We discovered Fair Play—and for the first time, talked about full ownership of domains, not “helping” or task-sharing. The conversations were surprisingly smooth—not because Fair Play is magical, but because we had already been doing deep inner work.
We’ve been in weekly Internal Family Systems (IFS) couples therapy for over four years. That work changed everything.
It helped us see how our protective patterns—not our personalities—were running the show. How my overfunctioning was tied to survival. How his stepping back wasn’t a moral failure, but an adaptation. How resentment, avoidance, control, and burnout were all intelligent responses to an unspoken system no one consented to.
Fair Play gave us the map.
IFS gave us the capacity.
Together, they allowed us to build something sustainable—for the first time.
Why I Do This Work
I do this work because I lived it.
Because I know what it’s like to abandon yourself in the name of family harmony.
Because I know how confusing it is to feel unhappy in a “good” marriage.
Because I know the grief of realizing you’ve been surviving instead of living.
My work sits at the intersection of:
mental load and invisible labor
neurodivergence and nervous systems
family-of-origin patterns and legacy burdens
internal parts work and relational repair
structure, fairness, and self-leadership
I don’t believe relationships fail because people don’t care enough.
I believe they fail because we were never taught how to build systems that honor both individuals—and the inner worlds they bring with them.
You don’t need to sacrifice yourself to make a family function.
You don’t need to carry it all to be worthy of love.
And you’re not broken for wanting more.
I’m here to help you build a partnership where no one disappears.
I’m no longer building my family life around urgency and endurance.
For a long time, things were “working.” The family functioned. Responsibilities were handled. We got through each day. But it required constant effort from me—staying on, staying ahead, and holding more than my share.
Nothing was falling apart. It just wasn’t sustainable.
So we chose to slow down and redesign how our family works. To account for real capacity, real limits, and real human needs. To move from vigilance to shared responsibility.
So we began approaching our family life with a different intention.
One that centers babies AND parents.
Capacity and care.
I want room for hobbies and interests that don’t serve anyone else.
I want relationships that feel deep, steady, and nourishing.
I want my health to be protected, not postponed (hello, perimenopause!)
And I want to show up for my elders without burning myself out.
So we began naming what had been implicit, loosening the habits of silent divide-and-conquer, and turning our attention inward as much as outward—so our family life could reflect our values, not just our coping strategies.
And it worked.
My family now supports my life rather than dictating it.
I know it is possible for you too.
THEN (around 2021)
Operating in survival mode
Overfunctioning as a default
Saying yes because things needed to keep working
Making decisions from urgency, not clarity
Calendars packed because responsibility lived with me
Measuring success by endurance
Believing capacity was something to push through
Carrying work, family, and emotional labor simultaneously
Asking myself:
“How do I keep all of this from falling apart?”
“What else do I need to hold?”
NOW (2026)
Grounded, resourced, and intentional
Designing work around real human capacity
Building systems that account for caregiving and nervous systems
Steady growth without constant self-override
Clear boundaries around time, energy, and availability
Letting structure—not vigilance—do the work
Honoring seasons of life instead of fighting them
Making space for rest, repair, and presence
Asking myself:
“What kind of life am I actually supporting?”
“What is enough for this season?”
A Different Kind of “Better”
You already know how to push.
You’ve learned how to carry responsibility, produce results, and keep things moving—even when it costs you.
And you’ve likely experienced what most people would call success. You know how to show up, follow through, and make things work.
What you’re questioning now isn’t whether you’re capable.
It’s whether doing more is the only path forward.
You’re looking for a way to build what’s next without relying on urgency, pressure, or self-override. You’re craving steadiness instead of strain. Clarity instead of constant cognitive noise.
Not a fantasy version of ease—but a real one.
One that reduces mental load, honors your capacity, and leaves room for the life you’re actually trying to live alongside your work.
If this resonates, I’d love to support you in creating something that feels both meaningful and sustainable.