The Wilderness I came from
In 2019 I started my own private practice as a provisionally-licensed therapist in Arizona. I built it from nothing. The VA referred to me, and the referrals kept coming. There was a waiting list. The feedback I got most often was that people felt heard — that my listening was active and honest and real.
Then COVID happened. My supervisor was older and the technology was hard for her, so I handled the electronic side of things — with her knowledge, with her permission, with her wet signature on every official document. I did everything I was asked to do.
Until one day she didn't answer her phone, and I learned she had passed away. The Arizona Board of Behavioral Health wanted to verify something with her by phone. I did the right thing. I told them what had happened. The Executive Director filed a complaint against me that same day.
What followed was a year-long investigation in which I — still seeing my clients, still meeting every standard with a new supervisor, still earning glowing evaluations — was treated as if my integrity were a question mark rather than a fact. I was offered a consent agreement that asked me to start my supervised hours over from zero and admit to things I had not done. I would not sign it. They revoked my license.
I want to tell you what that felt like, because this work is about feelings and what they carry. That loss did not feel like a professional setback. It felt like the ground had been pulled out from under someone who had done everything right — and found out that doing everything right was not enough. It felt like worthlessness dressed up as due process. I did not have language for it then. What I know now is that it landed the way it did because it arrived on top of something that was already breaking.
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What was already breaking.
For years before any of this, I had been living inside a feeling I could not name. I was in a marriage I had been in since I was nineteen — nearly thirty years — and somewhere in those years, without fully realizing it, I had stopped believing I was worth loving on my own terms. I had been pouring everything outward — my care, my devotion, my full self — and waiting. Waiting to have it returned in a way that would finally make me feel like enough. I did not know then that what I was waiting for could not come from outside me. I only knew that it wasn't coming. And the longer it didn't come, the smaller I became inside that silence.
The disrespect I experienced in that marriage did not arrive all at once. It accumulated. And what humiliation does, when it accumulates slowly enough, is convince you that it is yours to carry — that something in you invited it, or deserved it, or could fix it if you just loved better, gave more, waited longer. I dwelled in that place for years. I stood under someone else's measure of my worth and called it love.
When the marriage ended and my license was gone at the same time, I was not just without income or professional identity. I was without the two things I had been using to tell myself I mattered. And what was left, for a while, was nothing I knew how to hold.
I was hospitalized after attempting to take my life.
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The voice.
After the hospitalization, I heard something inside me say: if you don't care whether you live, then take this as an opportunity to live the way you actually want to.
It didn't argue me out of anything. It dared me to be audacious about how I lived now.
I want to tell you what that moment felt like too — because it was not the clean, cinematic turning point it might sound like. It was grief and relief and anger arriving all at once. It was disorienting, because if the love and value I had been waiting for was already inside me, I now had to figure out what that actually meant. How to access it. How to feel it without someone else confirming it first. How to give it to myself when I had spent decades giving it outward and calling that devotion.
That disorientation is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of the work. And it is exactly where most women I have walked alongside actually live — not in the darkness, but in the in-between. Knowing something has shifted and not yet knowing what to do with it.
I bought a one-way ticket to Costa Rica. I tried to write a program from there, and nothing came together. I continued trying to salvage what I now understood could not be saved. I came close, again, to ending things. And the voice came back. So I left.
I took a teaching job in Thailand. I ended the thirty-year marriage. I rented my own place — the first time in my adult life I had lived alone. And in 2025, in Thailand, the WieldHERness began to write itself.
This guidebook was not a curriculum I assembled in my head. It was the trail map I drew while I was finding my way out. The Compass — Notice, Stay, Empower, Wield — is how I learned to navigate every feeling that came up while everything I had known was falling apart. The word innerstand, the language of well and wild, the idea of HER as the complete emotional self — these were not theories. They were how I survived. And how I finally came home to myself.
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Why I am a Navigator, not a therapist.
There is something I learned in clinical work that I want to be honest about. People — especially women — sometimes get caught looking outside themselves for someone to validate them. They look to therapists, to partners, to bosses, to the next book. They wait for someone to tell them they have permission to feel what they feel. And in that waiting, they can stay stuck for years. I watched it. I watched some people remain in difficult situations not because they couldn't see clearly, but because being heard required staying that way. Being heard was the only thing they had figured out how to receive.
That broke my heart. And it made me certain that what most women actually need is not another expert who hands them an answer. It is the practice of hearing themselves — of trusting what they already know, of giving themselves the validation they have been waiting for someone else to offer.
That is what a Navigator does. A Navigator does not tell you what to feel or what to do. A Navigator helps you slow down, reflects what you are saying so you can hear it more clearly, and then lets you wield what you find. The expertise belongs to you. That is not a marketing slogan. It is the corrective to what I watched the system do, and what I felt the system do to me.
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What I bring to this work.
A Master's in Social Work and a Master's in Human Services. Years of clinical experience in private practice, including specialized work with veterans through the VA. A reputation, throughout that work, for active listening, real empathy, and genuine presence — those were the words people used most when describing what it felt like to work with me. And a lived journey through the exact wilderness this guidebook is about. I am not teaching you something I read about. I am offering you the practice that brought me home to myself.
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What I do not do, so we are clear.
The WieldHERness is coaching and reflective practice — not psychotherapy. I am not currently licensed to provide mental-health treatment in any jurisdiction. This program is not a substitute for therapy, medication management, or any form of clinical care. If you are in crisis, in an unsafe situation, or in active treatment for a mental-health condition, this program is meant to walk alongside that care — not to replace it. I will tell you that openly throughout the program, and we will agree on what to do if anything comes up that calls for clinical support.
This boundary is not a disclaimer. It is part of the work. The Navigator role only works because it has limits.
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Where this is going.
The WieldHERness is the beginning of something larger I am building. The 12-week coaching program is the first form of it. Over the next two years I am developing Navigator Training and Certification — for women who want to facilitate this work for other women — and in-person retreats globally, in places like Costa Rica, Thailand, and Bali, for participants who want to walk the Compass in community, in a single immersive container.
If you are stepping into the program now, you are stepping in at the originator-led stage. You are not a number in a cohort. You are part of the early circle of women who are shaping how this work moves forward.
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An invitation, not a pitch.
I am not going to try to convince you of anything. If you have read this far, something in you is already paying attention. That is HER. That is the part of you that has been waiting to be heard.
If the WieldHERness feels like it might be your trail too, I would be honored to walk it with you.
— D. WieldHERness Navigator.
