I was born and raised in a hyper-religious environment in Kenya, which gave me a global perspective that shapes my worldview today—and a great sense of humor, courtesy of my religious PTSD.

At nineteen, I packed up and moved to the U.S. for college, earning a degree in special education while simultaneously going from intern to director at a local non-profit in Memphis. I led programs, trained volunteers, and worked closely with families navigating disabilities. By the time I graduated as valedictorian and student speaker, I was fully immersed in advocacy work. I then transitioned into the classroom as a special education teacher, helping neurodivergent and disabled students thrive, achieving some of the highest test scores in the district and recognizing my deep love for accessibility. Around this time, I also started therapy and was diagnosed with anxiety and PTSD, which completely reshaped how I understood myself and my journey.

A few years in, I started questioning… well, everything. My queerness, my identity, my entire existence. So I did what any reasonable person in a self-discovery spiral would do—I sold everything I owned and moved to New York. There, I threw myself into learning, unlearning, and figuring myself out, which only intensified during the COVID lockdown (because what else was there to do besides spiral and bake bread?). That’s when I had another lightbulb moment—I also had ADHD! (Shoutout to everyone else who realized this mid-pandemic.) These discoveries completely changed how I saw myself and the world.

Then came corporate America, where I quickly realized just how little people understand about neurodiversity and disability inclusion. I co-founded and co-led a workplace ERG focused on accessibility and neurodiversity, spending two years dismantling barriers and advocating for folks at the intersections of marginalized identities. It became very clear that we need more spaces where neurodivergent and disabled people—especially those from other underrepresented communities—don’t just survive, but thrive.

But corporate life wasn’t built for brains like mine, and I found myself in full-blown neurodivergent burnout. After four years of deep deconstruction, I started imagining a life that actually felt free—one that made me feel fully alive. Having always been a world traveler (15 countries and counting!), I decided to embrace my love for adventure and move into a converted camper van. The transition was, uh… chaotic. I lost my job, my health insurance, and access to mental health care all in one go. What followed was a barely-holding-it-together, how-the-heck-do-I-survive, wait-I’m-actually-trans, oh-crap-I’m-also-autistic kind of year.

Eventually, I made the decision to move to California (and officially drove my van coast to coast!) where I could finally access healthcare and take the time I needed to rest and heal. Now, after that much-needed reset, I’m focused on sharing my experiences, advocating for accessibility, and capturing the stories of the incredible people I meet along the way.

Follow along for deep conversations, van life chaos, and the occasional existential crisis.