Maggie’s Roots began with a quiet heartbreak. The kind that echoes through the soul long after the world moves on. It began with a baby girl—our daughter, Magdalena May—who slipped from this world before she ever took a breath in it.

She was tiny, delicate, and deeply loved. We call her Maggie.

When we lost her, my world stopped. Grief blanketed everything. At first, I told myself what every medical textbook and well-meaning colleague would echo: “These things happen. There’s nothing you could’ve done.” But those words felt hollow. I couldn’t shake the knowing in my bones—this wasn’t just bad luck or biology. There was something more, something deeper, that God was trying to tell me.

I was sick. Not in a way that showed up on a lab result or physical exam, but deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. I was exhausted all the time. Stressed beyond measure. Prone to frequent colds and flus, emotional outbursts, and mental fog. But every time I turned to the system I’d trained in—conventional medicine—I was told I was fine. “Perfectly healthy,” they said. The numbers didn’t lie. But my body did.

I felt like I was losing my mind. I was a doctor, after all—I should have had the answers. But instead, I was met with silence. I began to realize how many people out there must feel the same: unheard, unseen, sick—but not “sick enough” for someone to take them seriously. It was maddening. It was terrifying. And it was incredibly lonely.

Still, I couldn’t shake the conviction that healing was possible.

Around that same time, one of my children was struggling with severe eczema and food allergies. At only three months old, I was told to just slather steroid creams on his delicate skin. But something in me resisted. That couldn’t be the answer. There had to be something deeper—something causing his immune system to be so inflamed. I was already exploring alternative approaches for my kids, but after losing Maggie, my heart cracked open even wider. Her loss became the catalyst. The straw that broke the camel’s back.

I knew I had to find the root cause—not just for me, not just for my children, but for every person sitting in the quiet agony of not knowing why they don’t feel well.

I dove headfirst into every corner of the healing world I could find. I experimented. I studied. I sought mentors. Some things helped a little—but most only scratched the surface. I was still chasing symptoms, not uncovering causes. Still, something deeper whispered to me: You were made to heal. Your body was designed by God. This isn’t the end of your story.

And if we were designed by God, surely He also designed a path back to wholeness. We had just lost the map.

Years passed. I kept searching. The world around me—our environment, our food, our stress levels—kept piling toxins on top of our already burdened bodies. And still, I pressed on. Finally, through what I can only describe as divine orchestration, I found her. A healer. A former nurse. A woman who had come to the same conclusion I had—forty years ago.

She used nutrition—not the trendy kind, not the surface-level supplements—but true, cellular nutrition. She worked with herbs, with real food, and with a system of care I had never encountered before. It wasn't a quick-fix. It wasn’t trendy. It was rooted, steady, and shockingly effective.

I began her program, desperate but cautiously hopeful.

Within four months, my entire life changed.

Gone was the fatigue. Gone was the brain fog. Gone were the lingering infections, the aches, the emotional chaos. Gone was the version of me that thought healing was something reserved for the lucky few. I felt stronger, more joyful, and more alive than I ever had. Not just physically—but spiritually, emotionally, and mentally. I finally felt home in my body.

I remember the day I sat across from her during one of our early sessions, listening to her speak. I went home that night, turned to my husband with tears streaming down my face, and whispered, “This is what I’m meant to do.”

Every twist and turn, every late-night worry over my children’s health, every moment of anguish after losing Maggie—it all led to that moment. To that doorstep. To that healer. To the calling I could no longer ignore.

I began training under her the very next chance I got.

And from that calling, Maggie’s Roots was born.

It’s named after the little girl who never opened her eyes—but opened mine. It’s her legacy. Her sacrifice cracked me wide open and let the light in. She showed me what I couldn’t see before: that healing isn’t only possible, it’s sacred. That we were never meant to live sick, exhausted, and resigned. That the body knows how to come home to itself—we just have to give it the right support.

Maggie saved me. And in a very real way, she saved our family. Her roots are in everything we do now.

So I invite you—if you’re tired, if you feel unheard, if you know something’s not right but can’t find the answers—you’re not alone. You’re not broken. And you’re not crazy.

There is a path to healing.

Let Maggie’s story be the beginning of yours.