I discovered performing at four years old, when my parents—likely hoping for childcare and a moment of reprieve—enrolled their lively firstborn in a local dance studio. I trained in ballet, tap, and jazz, and by twelve, I was competing at the national level, earning gold and platinum awards. My first job was as a ballroom dance assistant for a cotillion teacher in my hometown, Los Angeles. Years later, I returned to ballroom—this time as a teacher, helping adults reconnect to rhythm and presence.

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My acting journey began at ten, when I played a comedic saloon “darling” in Wagon Wheels West, a wild, rip-roaring musical. But it was Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing that opened my heart to the depth and nuance of storytelling. That role led me to pursue formal training, eventually earning my B.A. in Theatre from the University of Southern California, where I graduated Cum Laude. From there, I stepped into the world of on-screen and immersive performance—appearing in commercials, independent films, and inventive live productions.

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In 2013, I joined The Open Fist Theatre Company in Los Angeles, where I’m still a member. While performing has remained my compass, I found equal joy in the world-building that surrounds the stage—scenic painting, house management, and what I lovingly dubbed “facilities beautification,” after renovating our well-loved patron bathroom.

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Over time, I began teaching acting as well—and found in it a new kind of creative intimacy. Teaching became less about “instruction” and more about invitation: inviting people to step into their bodies, trust their instincts, and rediscover the power of presence. I guide students through foundational technique, scene work, monologue practice, repetition, and emotional honesty—but more than that, I teach them to stay curious. To risk. To reach.

I’ve taught students of all levels and ages, from beginners dipping a toe into self-expression to experienced actors ready to deepen their craft. What I bring to the room is both rigor and warmth—a grounded understanding of presence, and a deep reverence for what emerges when people feel truly seen.

Beyond all the roles and rhythms, profound poetry and spirit of our humanity will always live in the subtleties.

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The way a hip settles in for a good talkin’-to.
The torque of a wrist reaching for one more swig.
The salivation before biting into a strawberry after a long day on the road.
The shared hush of sighs when two people realize—maybe for the first time—they were always meant to meet.

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That’s why I act.
That’s why I teach.
Because to me, storytelling is not about pretending. It’s about remembering.