The intention for sharing this story is for you to feel me. Yes, I have hundreds of thousands of dollars invested in trainings, but in my opinion that is not what makes me a good therapist. What makes me a good therapist is authenticity. And that I have in spades.

I grew up in the glitzy heart of Las Vegas, the daughter of a mafia father tied to the casinos and a Philadelphia heiress. Despite the outward allure, my home lacked the warmth of love. In a household where money and image were paramount, I felt lost and disconnected. By the age of seven, I was already battling depression. By eleven, I was acting out, and by thirteen, I was sent to boarding school. There, I found solace in drugs, sex, and an obsession with controlling my body. This pattern of self-destruction continued well into my early thirties.

Though my parents had money and I possessed a trust fund, wealth proved to be a deceptive privilege, masking deeper issues. My problems were often quickly solved with money, but my inner turmoil remained unresolved. Despite earning a degree, my life lacked direction and purpose. I attempted to work, but without the need for financial stability, there was no real incentive.

At the age of 31, everything changed. My father called to deliver a stark message: "Tara, the money is gone. Don't ever ask me for anything again." This moment marked a pivotal turning point in my life. Suddenly, I had to work, and more importantly, I had to find my inner strength and capacity to survive.

In 2008, I started working as a residential technician at The Canyon, a treatment center for co-occurring disorders, a fortunate opportunity that seemed made for me by forces outside of me. It was here that my initiation from being a dilettante to someone with a clearer purpose began.

My story is not really a Trust Fund story. It is a story about being born into a life with no anchors. Wealth without warmth. Chaos without anyone to make sense of it. Disconnection so complete that building a self felt impossible, and necessary, and ongoing.

I built myself. I am still building. I test what works and what does not. Trial and error define my path. I learn what is needed and I bring that into the room with the people I sit with, not from a book, although I love books and learning, but from the inside of a life that required me to figure it out.

I do not know everything. I have no lived experience of parenting, marriage, or divorce. But I know grief. I know what it is to feel broken and keep going. I know what it is to have no ground and have to build one anyway.

That is what I guide toward. Finding what is missing. Filling in the blanks. Moving forward from where you actually are.

This is not just my job. This is how I live. I walk my talk.