Promises Made, Promises Kept.
A quiet presence. A hospital stay.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve considered myself an introverted and reserved person—someone who avoids big risks and keeps much of life private. I’m not always the easiest person to get to know, but coaching clients was never a problem.
In early August 2023, I wrecked my car and spent eleven days in the psychiatric wing of a hospital in Connecticut. I couldn’t make phone calls for three days. I felt so alone, so trapped by my circumstances, that I honestly didn’t know who to call—or who to trust anymore. One of the nurses taking my initial bloodwork was shaking as he inserted the needle into my arm. His fear of me instilled a deeper fear in me, too.
Soon after, I was handed medications in paper cups, never really informed about what I was being given. Or if I was, I have no memory of it. One caused such severe side effects that I nearly passed out during a group meeting and had to be attended to. I remember being ordered to lie down while my body overheated and my heart raced so fast, I was convinced I was going to die. I assumed it was serotonin syndrome. A female medic from the emergency department came up to look at me—never saying a word. I eventually fell asleep, waking later in a pool of sweat, confused and shaken.
I laid there on a yoga mat on the floor, thinking this was some kind of sick joke—writhing in pain, scared that Connecticut would be the state I’d die in. I was afraid to shower. I’d been molested in a shower before, where there were no locks on the doors. How could I trust it was safe to shower in a hospital where policy required the doors to remain open?
I wrote a note to my “adopted” family back in Ohio, apologizing in case they never saw me again. Reports of the crash had already been sent to their phones, so there probably wasn’t much they could do. My friends didn’t know where I was, and honestly, I wasn’t even sure which hospital I was in either. I was incredibly sorry and regretful for my actions—so much so, I barely knew what to say.
The nurses allowed me to choose my meals, but I was afraid to eat for a while. The food orders were always wrong, and I said nothing, fearing my meals might’ve been tampered with or that I’d get in trouble for complaining. I still remember the faces of the social workers who interviewed me—crying. Those images have never really left my mind, even two years later.
Staff seemed to know something I didn’t. A fit male police officer once waved a wand over me to check for metal devices and began crying too, leaving me alone in a room with a camera for what felt like several hours. Someone dropped off a turkey sandwich, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. I was scared to drink anything that wasn’t delivered in a sealed can. One night, after a male nurse came to check whether my bed had been “locked down” to the floor, I made a promise to myself—if I made it out of there alive, I knew what I intended to do. In all honesty, I was terrified of being raped. I’d been molested in my sleep before. Why did the bed need to be locked down? Who might come into my room in the middle of the night—and what would they do? I was very ill.
An Opportunity Ruined by Mental Illness. An Inability to Trust.
My time at Educated Canines Assisting with Disabilities (ECAD) was cut short following a car crash that nearly destroyed my life. I truly believed I had zero chance of recovery. My thinking became so black and white that I was convinced my reputation in the industry was permanently ruined—that I’d never train dogs again. I believed I was permanently disfigured and unlovable because of a dog bite injury. I thought I was being stalked or followed, though I didn’t know why. A part of me wanted to stay in Connecticut, but I knew I couldn’t anymore. I was barely functional, and returning to work in that state would’ve been a disservice to both the dogs and the company.
What initially attracted me to ECAD was the fact that I’d met Luis Carlos Montalvan and his service dog, Tuesday (trained by ECAD), while at The Ohio State University back in 2015. I thought it was fate—a full-circle moment—that led me to a role at ECAD. It seemed like the right place to land, especially where I wouldn't risk being bitten by Goldens and Labs.
A Promise to Give Back.
Recently, I made the decision to release information publicly about my charitable contributions over the years. I wanted to maintain complete transparency—both as a business owner and as a person. I’m someone who enjoys helping others. It’s what we do as dog trainers every day. So it made sense that I should also give back to organizations whose missions I believe in.
During my recovery, content created by various companies gave me hope through the nightmares and sleepless nights. I knew the money I donated would go toward training more dogs and helping more people while I stepped away to reevaluate whether I could ever train again. I figured those organizations could put the funds to better use than I could at that time.
During my time at ECAD, I earned close to $9,000. Around Thanksgiving 2024, I delivered on my personal promise and donated $5,000 back to the company. It just felt like the right thing to do.
Today, people across the country ask why I’ve donated to certain charities. The answer isn’t complicated:
I wanted to.
Some donations were prompted simply by a dream. I often asked myself why I was doing it, and sometimes, I couldn’t fully explain it. I felt overwhelmed by having money and unsure what to do with it. My relationship with money over the years has brought a lot of shame and guilt. I lived paycheck to paycheck for a long time and made plenty of bad financial decisions. Long-term planning was never my strong suit. At one point, I truly believed I wasn’t going to live much longer, so I figured—if I had money to give, why not use it for something good?
A part of me felt I didn’t deserve the settlement. Seeing large amounts in my bank account often triggered panic, and I was already struggling with emotional regulation and decision-making.
A Vision for the Future
Recently, someone asked me what my ten-year plan is. Stay tuned…